His eyes opened inside the cylinder, lids dragging as though weighted.

  The glass distorted his own reflection... half a face, half erased. He closed them again, and the dream returned: choking on shadows, lungs clawing for air that never came.Something pressed against the walls of the house. The beams groaned, wood fibers straining. He jerked upright, sweat slick across his chest though the air cut cold. The hearth was dead, ash clinging to stone, the faint sour tang of smoke still hanging.From the corner, the old man stirred. His gaze was already fixed, unblinking, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment. The boy’s throat rasped.

  “You felt it too.” His whisper broke halfway.The old man rose, deliberate, his palm dragging across the table for balance. His knuckles whitened against the wood. “It is not a dream,” he said. “The monster has found its way here.”The boy’s gut clenched. He turned toward the door. The dark there seemed thicker, pressed into shape. A scrape carried through the silence... stone scored by claws. He flinched. “What monster?” His voice cracked, thin against the sound.The old man stepped closer, his face drawn in the dim glow. “The one that feeds on memory.

  It comes when the mind begins to doubt itself.”The boy swallowed, throat raw. He wanted to laugh, dismiss it, but the scrape grew louder. Slow. Deliberate. As if whatever waited knew he was listening.The old man lowered himself into the chair again, shoulders bent, hands folded tight. The boy leaned forward, restless, eyes sharp with hunger. “You spoke of *****,” he pressed. “You mentioned him again and again, but never told me who he was.”The old man shook his head, each motion heavy. “Not yet. My memory… it feels carried for decades.

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  Let me breathe before I open that wound.”The boy shifted, jaw tight. He wanted to argue, but the words stuck. The lamps flickered. Shadows thickened. The walls seemed to draw closer. He rose, uneasy, and padded toward the living room.The door loomed, frame trembling as though touched by a draft. A chill seeped across the floorboards, biting at his ankles. He froze, breath clouding faintly.Behind him, the old man stirred again.

  Chair legs scraped against wood. He stood, gaze locked on the door. Not surprised. Resigned. As if he had seen this exact moment before.He crossed the room, steps steady despite the cold. He stopped beside the boy, eyes sharp, voice low. “What do you remember,” he asked, “from before you came to this house?”The boy laughed, quick, nervous. “What kind of question is that? Of course I remember.” But the words faltered.

  His mind reached back... and found nothing. Blank corridors. Empty rooms. His chest tightened. He turned, voice breaking. “Wait… who are you? I can’t remember your name!”His breath came fast, shallow. His hands trembled. He pressed them against his face, as though forcing memory back into place.The old man’s expression hardened. He leaned close, words heavy. “Listen to me. This realm is not real. None of this exists.

  I will send you to a place where you will be safe. When you are ready for answers, find me.”The boy staggered back. No anchor. No name. No past. Conspiracies bloomed: Was this man deceiving him? Was he alive at all, or trapped in some cruel trick? The house in the middle of nowhere, the endless stories... it all felt like a trap.“What are you hiding from me?” His voice cracked, breath ragged. “Why don’t I even know my own name? Do I even have one?”His skin drained of color, veins stark. The room groaned. Walls split, shards peeling away like glass.He stumbled back.

  The old man reached for him, arms outstretched. The boy recoiled, teeth bared, and bit down on the man’s hand. Iron filled his mouth.The old man cursed, voice raw. He pulled free, clutching his hand. His eyes burned with something between fury and sorrow. “Remember this name well,” he rasped. “It will be the key to everything.”His body dissolved, scattering into dust that drifted upward and vanished.The boy screamed. Blackness swallowed the sound.He woke with a jolt. Cold glass pressed against his skin. He was inside the cylinder, walls humming faintly.

  His body felt incomplete... half suspended in nothing, the rest anchored to the machine.The room around him was sterile, metallic, currents humming unseen. Shadows moved beyond the glass.A figure approached, blurred by distortion. It raised a hand, palm against the surface. The boy felt vibration through the glass, faint warmth against the cold.“I will get you out of this,” the stranger said. The voice steady, almost gentle. “I promise.”The boy tried to speak.

  No sound came. His throat burned. He pressed his hand against the glass, mirroring the gesture.

  “???????? ??? ???????... ?????? ???? ?? ???????? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ?? ?????????...”

  “Monsters are mirrors... showing only the darkness we refuse to see in ourselves...”

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