WiseTL

"People love telling stories. It keeps them safe. Makes them feel like they understand the things lurking in the dark, the places no one should go, the voices that whisper when no one’s speaking."

"Most of them are just stories. Most of them."

From the roaring mountain that speaks once a century to the canyon that doesn’t just echo your voice, the world of [Flipping Fate] is shaped by myths—some old, some forgotten, and some waiting to be proven true. Whether spoken in reverence, warning, or the kind of casual arrogance that gets people killed, these legends are not just stories.

They are promises.

And the ones who listen too closely never come back the same.

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A Collection Of Stories.

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What The World Leaves Behind

At first, I thought it was just memory filling in the gaps—because there were gaps, so many now. Things slipping through my fingers like sand, moments I should have remembered but didn't.

In my dreams, I was always sitting across from them.

Drinking in every word like it was something precious.

I would wake up feeling empty, like I had spilled something in the night—something I couldn't get back.

The worst part was the way I felt grateful.

Stopped going to the café. Took a different route home. Turned my phone off for hours at a time, even though I couldn't explain why.

At the train station, leaning casually against a pillar.

Outside my apartment building, just watching.

My legs itched to move, like my body was trying to bridge the distance on its own.

Like I was a puppet, and something had its fingers tangled in the strings.

I ran inside instead, slammed the door, locked it.

But even in the silence of my apartment, I swore I could still feel them.

Their presence, pressed against the edges of my mind.

"How are you feeling today?"

Because when I dreamed, I was not alone.

I dreamed of their voice—no, my voice.

Repeating words I didn't remember saying.

Things buried so deep in me that I had never spoken them aloud.

And they whispered them back to me.

Like they had peeled back my skin and plucked them from my ribs like strings on an instrument.

And then, one night, I heard my own voice laughing.

I wasn't the one in control anymore.

One moment, I was sitting on the couch, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, trying not to sleep.

My body moved before I could stop it.

And the second I saw them—everything felt lighter.

The fear, the tension, the hollow ache that had settled in me like a second skin—it evaporated.

Just close enough that the air between us felt thin.

I knew I should have slammed the door.

"You don't have to fight it anymore."

Like a spool of thread being gently, carefully pulled apart.

That for a second, I felt my own mind start to slip through my fingers.

I think I loved them, too.

I Think They Love Me. [2]