🦉WIse OWL CHRONICLES🦉

There’s a moment where I think I know who I am. I feel the soft warmth of sun on my skin, smell the salt of the sea in the distance. I can feel the wind, and I think, I think I might love the ocean. I love the sea.I’m about to go for a swim, feeling the warm sand as I run to the ocean.

But then—everything stops.

A shift, a ripple. The sun cools, the salt air fades. I blink, and suddenly the world is wrong. I’m not by the sea anymore. My boots scrape against uneven cobblestones, cold and slick with rain. A storm churns in the sky, and I clutch a sword I didn’t know I was holding.

There’s a weight on my back now, something pulling at my shoulders. A heavy cloak? Armor? I reach up to feel it, and my hands are shaking. But not from fear. From… anger? Yes, I’m angry. But why?

I don’t know.

I don’t know anything, not really. Not my name, not my past. It’s all a blur, shifting like fog, vanishing when I try to grasp it. I think I was a sailor once. I try to focus, to grab hold of something familiar, something solid to hold on to in the flood of everything changing around me. My hand tightens around the hilt of the sword.

Sword. Yes. I’m a warrior.

 Then there’s another ripple. I’m not holding a sword anymore. It’s a pen. I’m sitting at a desk now, an ink blotter in front of me. Papers scattered everywhere. I feel tired, my hands cramped from writing. Writing? No, that’s not right either!

Frustration claws at my chest, tightening until I can hardly breathe. I stand, knocking over the chair behind me, and it falls with a heavy thud. My heart races.

This isn’t me. This isn’t right. I know it’s not. But how can I know what’s right when nothing stays the same?

I move toward the window, hoping for some clue, something familiar to remind me who I’m supposed to be. But the view outside is no longer stormy skies or sunlit beaches. It’s a crowded city street now, filled with the sounds of car horns and rushing people. The window reflects someone back at me—a stranger in the glass.

Dark hair. Brown eyes. Or were they green before? I don’t remember. I don’t remember what my face is supposed to look like. My throat tightens, panic creeping in. I slam my fists against the glass, wishing it would shatter, that I can break through to something, anything that feels real.

But nothing shatters.

Nothing ever does.

I turn back toward the room. The papers are gone. The desk is gone. I’m standing in the middle of a field now, vast and empty, stretching out in every direction. I can hear the wind, but there are no trees, no mountains, no sea. Just… emptiness. My legs feel weak, and I sink to the ground.

Who am I supposed to be? What do I even like? The question echoes in my head, hollow and unanswered. Maybe I liked writing. Or maybe I liked fighting. But I’m not sure anymore, not sure of anything except this endless shifting, this constant rewriting of myself.

Am I supposed to be brave? Gentle? Cruel? I don’t know.

I just want it to stop.

I feel the ripple again, the telltale sign of the world about to shift once more. My heart clenches. No. Please. Not again. Let me stay here. Let me stay somewhere.

But it’s too late.

The field is fading, the wind dying away. I don’t know what’s coming next. I never will. Maybe it’ll be a forest, or a castle, or some small town I’ve never seen. Maybe I’ll be a scholar, or a thief, or a queen. But none of it will be real, not really.

Because I’m not real, am I?

I’m just a story someone keeps rewriting. And I don’t even know my own name. 

And the worst part—the part that gnaws at me—is that I’m not sure anyone else even remembers. Does anyone know who I used to be? Does anyone miss who I used to be?

Or am I always alone in this? Forgotten every time the world changes.

I feel the ripple coming again, stronger this time. I close my eyes and brace for the inevitable. The ground beneath my feet crumbles into nothingness, and I’m falling.

I open my eyes to a bright, open sky.

I’m back on the cliffside. The ocean is below me, vast and endless, just like before. The sun is warm on my skin again, the breeze gentle. It’s beautiful. But I don’t feel the joy I felt earlier.

I feel empty.

Because I know, deep down, that it won’t last.

Nothing ever does.