Stage Marks
The field never ended.
He'd been walking for what felt like hours, but the grass never changed height, the wind never changed direction, and the clouds moved just enough to suggest time was passing—without ever confirming it.
The more he noticed, the more he couldn't un-notice.
The trees on the hilltop were too evenly spaced.
The stones underfoot were clean, without moss, as if they'd been placed, not worn.
There were no bugs. No birds.No sound but the wind.
The world felt like a set that had been dressed just enough to be convincing from a distance.
He stopped walking.
Turned in a slow circle.
"Is this real?" he asked aloud.
Nothing answered.
The grass didn't bend. The wind didn't shift. The world didn't flinch.
He sat down.
Stared at his hands.
They looked real.
Fingers. Nails. The small scar near his knuckle.
But now even that felt suspicious.
Where did this scar come from?
He couldn't remember getting it.
He couldn't remember being hurt.
He tried to recall something basic.
A birthday.
A room from childhood.
The smell of something comforting.
Nothing.
Maybe this world wasn't real.
Maybe he wasn't.
That thought landed hard.
"Am I a person?" he whispered.
The question echoed somewhere deeper than the air.
What if he was just a character?
What if someone else had written him into a story and forgotten to give him an ending?
Or a name?
Or a face?
What if he had never existed outside of these pages, these rooms, these fields?
He stood again.
Spun around. Fast.
Yelled into the open air:
"Who's watching me?!"
His voice cracked halfway through the last word.
Nothing.
Not even a rustle.
But then he saw it.
Just ahead, barely visible in the grass:
A line.
A white line, like chalk.
A stage mark.
He approached it.
Knelt.
It was exactly the kind used in theatre—to mark where to stand. To hit your mark. To say your line.
Is this a scene?
Am I supposed to say something?
He looked up, scanning the field.
It still looked empty.
But suddenly, everything felt like it was waiting.
His heartbeat slowed.
Not from calm.
From doubt.
He stepped past the line.
The wind stopped.
The clouds paused.
And somewhere, far beyond where he could see, a page turned.