Final Step
The morning sun gleamed through the window curtains, chasing away the remnants of night. Outside, birds had already begun their morning muse, their songs carried further by the soft wind. The air was still crisp, yet inside, the warmth of home was undeniable. The familiar scent of breakfast curled through the air, wrapping around the room like an unspoken invitation.
Soren stirred from his bed, shifting in the same clothes he had gone to sleep in the night before. He stretched, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders, when something caught his eye.
A spinning top.
It rested on the desk, still in motion, balanced with unnatural perfection.
Had it always been there? Or was he noticing it for the first time?
Next to it lay a notebook. The pages were splayed open, filled with desperate scribbles—his own handwriting, frantic and uneven. At the very bottom of the page, three words stood out.
"Good luck."
Soren's gaze flickered across the mess of ink, searching for meaning. Certain phrases jumped out at him, their letters jagged, hurried, as if written in desperation.
"Trust the steps. One at a time. Draw over completed. 'Ember' to forget after each step."
His brows furrowed.
What does that even mean?
There was no denying the handwriting was his—far too messy to belong to anyone else. But he couldn't recall writing this. Not even a faint memory of it.
I don't remember.
That thought sent a dull shiver down his spine, but it didn't linger. Instead, his eyes landed on another line.
"Carry me with you like an ember."
Soren let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Didn't think I'd ever be a poet," he muttered under his breath, smirking slightly at his own words—his own handwriting.
Then, his gaze was drawn to something else.
A single instruction.
"Step 1 - Turn on the gas stove. 'Ember'."
His smirk faded.
Without hesitation, he grabbed the pen and scratched thick, dark lines over the instruction, erasing it from sight. The words were still there, beneath the ink, but unreadable now.
Soren slipped the notebook into his pocket and made his way downstairs.
The kitchen was bathed in golden morning light. The scent of butter and warm bread thickened in the air, sweet and comforting. His mother stood near the counter, her smile soft, eyes squinting slightly in the way they always did when she was happy.
"Darling, what do you want this fine morning?"
Soren barely glanced at her. His steps carried him to the stove, where the stainless steel surface gleamed under the light. His fingers brushed against the knob, and then—
Click.
A soft hiss filled the air.
The gas was on.
"Ember," he whispered.
Cold wrapped around his chest.
It was hollow, like the feeling of walking through a house that had once been full of laughter but had long since been abandoned. The walls, the warmth, the very world around him—gone.
For a moment, he stood in nothingness.
But just as quickly, the warmth flooded back. The golden glow returned, the scent of breakfast still thick in the air.
Soren turned away from the stove, facing his mother once more.
"Did you say something, Mom?" His voice was steady, as if nothing had happened.
Her smile hadn't faded, her expression unchanged.
"What do you want for breakfast, darling?"
Soren blinked.
Everything was fine.
Of course it was.
The breakfast was the usual, warm and comforting. His father engaged in small talk, his deep voice steady—like a guardian of the house, unwavering, ever-present. His mother placed a plate of pancakes in front of him, drenched in maple syrup, the sweetness thick in the air.
Soren's mouth watered at the sight.
For a brief moment, he was content.
By the time he left the table, his stomach was full, but a quiet pull guided him forward.
Something warm pressed against his leg as he walked—the notebook in his pocket.
It was heavier than before. Not physically, but in a way that wasn't supposed to be noticeable.
On the staircase, he flipped it open. The same chaotic scribbles. The same desperate handwriting. The same words.
He scoffed under his breath. "Pfft, what am I? A poet?"
But then, something new.
The first step had been crossed out.
Unreadable.
The realization was oddly casual. He had already begun. He was already moving forward.
"Well, seems like I've started already. So whatever."
His eyes drifted down to the next instruction.
Soren's eyes drifted down to the next instruction.
"Step 2 - Breaker box - Kitchen OFF. Break kitchen wires."
He let out a quiet snort, tapping the pen against the page before striking a thick line over the words.
"Am I a miscreant?" he mused.
Still, he didn't hesitate.
His feet carried him toward the corridor, where the metal panel rested against the wall, half-hidden in the dim light. His fingers moved automatically, flipping the switches one by one.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The kitchen appliances powered down. The hum of the refrigerator fell silent. The microwave's clock blinked off.
For the briefest moment, the lights flickered.
A shiver ran down his spine.
Then—
A shadow. A towering presence looming behind him.
Soren froze.
A deep voice—firm, expectant, demanding an answer.
"Boy, what are you up to?"
Soren's father.
For a split second, an apple was stuck in his throat. His body tensed—not in fear, but in something deeper, heavier.
Then, he composed himself.
He turned to face his father, his expression unreadable. His voice, as still as ever.
"I made some notes and wanted to calculate if we could save on electricity. You did say, 'Money doesn't grow on trees.'"
His father's brows furrowed slightly, lips parting as if to say something—then, after a beat, he simply nodded.
"Well, that I did."
The warmth settled over the moment, smoothing out any ripples before they could form.
Soren walked past him, heading back into the kitchen, his posture calm—too calm.
The kitchen was still filled with the comforting aroma of pancakes and coffee, yet his hands moved automatically.
A subtle glance over his shoulder. His father wasn't looking.
His fingers brushed against the drawer handle, pulling it open with practiced ease. Inside—a pair of scissors.
He picked them up.
For some reason, they felt heavy.
Soren moved to the corner of the kitchen where the power cables stretched behind the stove. He crouched, pressing the metal against the wires.
The first cut was easy. The plastic covering peeled apart like paper.
But the next part?
Not as simple.
His fingers trembled slightly as the blades pressed against the copper and metal mix. The strands didn't break cleanly—they resisted, bending, twisting, refusing to give way.
A dull pressure built in his chest.
He was fighting something.
Not physically.
Something else.
Still, he got it done.
The wires lay there, severed just enough, their insides barely visible beneath the torn plastic.
Soren exhaled slowly. He placed the scissors back in the drawer, making sure they were exactly where they had been.
Then, standing steadily, he closed his eyes.
The weight in his chest tightened, like something unseen was coiling around his ribs.
His lips parted.
A whisper, barely audible—yet it cut through reality itself.
"Ember."
The world fell dark.
Not like before.
Not like nightfall, not like a room with the lights switched off.
This darkness breathed.
It pressed against his skin, seeping into his lungs, curling through his fingers.
Soren stood in absolute nothingness.
Something shifted.
Three figures lurked just beyond the kitchen corner, their silhouettes blacker than the void itself.
Watching.
Waiting.
Ready to strike him down.
He opened his eyes slowly.
His thoughts were empty.
Just like every other day.
His gaze drifted. His mind wandered.
He stood there, in the kitchen, unsure of what he was supposed to do.
But it didn't matter.
The warmth had already returned.
The illusion was whole again.
Morning played out as usual—just perfect. Mother and Father smiled, and Auren even invited Soren to play outside.
Soren declined.
The invitation was genuine, heartfelt—the kind that would have made his younger self overjoyed. And yet, even as the yearning for closeness twisted in his chest, he turned it down.
Something lingered in the back of his mind.
Something unfinished.
The whole family sat together.
Auren spoke animatedly, excitement woven into every word as he told their parents how much he had improved in swordsmanship. Their eyes gleamed with joy, pride.
Soren listened in silence.
He had always been good at everything he tried. But he never lingered long enough to be great at anything.
The moment would have felt bittersweet, but—
Something was pulling him away.
Standing in the kitchen, Soren felt it.
A heavy weight.
Like a burden, pressing down against his leg.
His fingers brushed against his pocket, tapping the solid shape of a notebook, the pen still clinging to its front cover.
His breath hitched.
Why did it feel so familiar?
With quiet curiosity, he pulled it out—and once again, the revelations unfolded before him.
The cogs were already in motion.
And only one thing remained.
His eyes locked onto the words.
"Step 3 - Breaker box - ON. Go outside."
Soren stared at them.
The words felt off, strange, almost meaningless.
But before he could linger on them too long—
Auren's voice cut through the moment.
"Sorr, it's your birthday tomorrow."
Soren froze.
"You never asked for much, so I don't know if I got the right thing."
Auren chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, his tone genuine—uncertain, yet hopeful.
"I just… wanted to give you something you'd remember."
A pause.
A small, rare hesitation from his perfect older brother.
Then, softer—
"I hope you'll like it, Sorr."
His mother chimed in, her voice light, warm, full of certainty.
"Yeah, I hope you invited all your friends over for a big party!"
Her words were meant to assure him—to paint the image of a perfect birthday, filled with laughter and joy.
To Soren, they stung.
Who was I supposed to invite? The imaginary friends? What if they actually showed up?
A response left his lips before he could think.
"I think… I just want a small party. Just us."
For the first time, his mother faltered.
"I… I see," she murmured, as if she had already planned something much bigger. "Well, then… that's how it is."
The warmth in the room pressed down on him.
Soren stood up.
Without another word, he left the dining table and walked toward the corridor.
His hand trembled as he reached for the breaker box.
It felt like he was shattering something.
Something precious.
Something his whole soul yearned for.
But his fingers moved anyway.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The switches flipped back on, one by one.
And then, he stepped outside.
Barefoot, Soren walked onto the front lawn and sat down. He stared at the beautiful home, bathed in golden light. Through one of the front windows, he could see them.
Auren.
Mother.
Father.
Sitting at the dining table, laughing, warm, together.
The midday summer heat was mild, comforting. The smell of flowers filled the air.
For just a moment, everything was perfect.
Then—
A blue flash flickered from inside the house.
A fraction of a second later, red flames followed.
A fiery orb of wrath engulfed the walls, the windows, the roof.
His family sat at the dinner table, completely still. Frozen in place, untouched by the flames.
Soren's mind buckled as a flood of memories rushed back.
Every truth that had been erased.Every false moment he had lived.This world.This illusion.
A deafening crack echoed through the air.
Like the world itself had shattered.
The golden light fractured.
And then—darkness.
When his vision returned, he was no longer on the lawn.
No longer in that house.
He stood in cold silence, his body heavy, his breath unsteady.
And before him—
The one who had trapped him in this lie.