Chapter 15: Whispers of a New Foundation

It was twilight in Shimoor. Purples and deep blues painted the sky, stretching long shadows across the ground. It was still late morning for me—my body on the clock of a different world—so sleep was out of the question. But traveling in the dark didn’t appeal either. A chill in the air hinted at a deeper cold at night, and I wasn’t in the mood to stumble through unfamiliar paths with only an oil lamp.

I sat down, hugged my knees to my chest, rested my forehead on them, and let out a deep breath. From the moment I crossed over, there’d been this emptiness inside me, like I’d lost something essential. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Not really. I felt a strange disconnect. Untethered.

I let my mind drift and didn’t grab onto any one thought. Just let them slide in and out, hoping something would click. I wanted to be here. I chose to travel in Shimoor. I’d spent a year planning for this moment. So why the hell did I feel so... unsettled? So adrift?

Bit by bit, like a predator circling for the kill, I zeroed in on the issue. For the past year, I had an obvious goal—something concrete I aimed at with laser focus. Every move I made was in service of it: buying, selling, crisscrossing the Americas in planes, gathering ability points. My days had structure, purpose, and momentum.

And now... it was gone.

I made it. I crossed over. Mission accomplished. But instead of feeling proud or excited, I felt hollow. That goal was behind me, and the one in front of me, to travel and see this world, felt vague and abstract. It wasn’t something I needed to chase. There was no pressure, urgency, or even active striving. And somehow, that made it feel less tangible, less important. It felt like I was drifting without a compass or a land in sight.

And the worst part? I didn’t even know how to get a new goal. No one ever teaches you how to do that. Goals were just supposed to... appear, right? Like a spark in your chest. You wake up one morning and know what you’re meant to do. At least, that’s how it always worked for me. I wanted to be a doctor, so I chased the dream. I liked Sophie from the first time I got to know her, so I courted her. The goal was there, in front of me, and I chased it.

To distract myself from the mind-spiral building inside of me, I lit an oil lamp. The warm, flickering light cast dancing shadows against the ruin’s walls. I pulled out a songbook, cradled the guitar in my lap, and forced my fingers to work. I learned one song. Then another. Then another. The chords drowned out the noise in my head. My voice shook the dust off old memories. I played until the middle of the night, learning five songs. My fingers ached. My throat was raw. But finally, finally, I felt tired enough to sleep.

Lying in my sleeping bag, staring up at the canopy above as the oil lamp guttered, a thought crept into my mind. Maybe I didn’t need a big goal. Not right now. Maybe what I needed was something small. Something manageable. A direction, not a destination. A little thing to strive for. That would be enough. At least to start.

So what do I want?

I want to feel human again. I want to stop drowning in grief and memories that feel more alive than I do. I want to look at the future like I did when I was a kid—bright-eyed and excited, convinced that anything is possible—not through this dark haze of loss and pain that clings to everything I do.

I didn’t know if that counted as a goal. But it felt like a good start.

In the morning, I examined the Map. This world had one giant continent with a small grouping of islands near the southern tip and another much smaller continent far away in the east. Maybe there was more, but it didn't show on the Map. There were very few Gates—only seven on this continent and another on the small one. On Earth, there were over a hundred.

The mana levels here are higher. Shouldn't there be more?

I was in the southeastern part of the continent, close to the center. Towns and cities were scattered in every direction. Some of them had symbols with a crown in a circle.

Capitals?

Without a scale, I couldn't judge the distance. Despite my efforts, I couldn't access Earth's Map to compare size and estimate distances. When I touched the Gate, I could access the World Information about Earth, but not the Map. My compass worked as expected, or so I thought. I headed north; it was a good direction as any.

I was in a forest with towering trees and sparse underbrush, making walking a breeze. It was beautiful. The trees were as immense as redwoods, with big, dense leaves that filtered the sunlight into a soft, golden glow. Everything was green and vibrant, the kind of green that seemed to pulse with life and energy. The leaves above formed a thick canopy, creating a natural umbrella that shielded me from the occasional rain.

When it did rain, the drops were gentle and melodious, tapping lightly on the leaves overhead. The only water that reached me was the occasional drop that fell from the leaves, landing softly on my skin. Thin rivulets of water flowed down the trunks, shimmering in the dappled light, but the ground remained surprisingly dry. Soft moss and fallen leaves carpeted the forest floor, creating a plush, springy path.

It was peaceful. Tranquil. The melodious chirping of birds filled the air, each song weaving into a harmonious symphony. I could hear the gentle buzz of insects going about their day, a constant hum that added to the serenity of the forest. The fresh smell of wet soil and rain mingled with the earthy scent of the trees, creating an intoxicating aroma that filled my lungs with every breath. It was a fresh scent that spoke of life, growth, and nature in its purest form.

From a distance, I occasionally spotted animals moving between the trees. Their movements were quick and elusive, giving me only fleeting glimpses. Whether they were herbivores or predators, I couldn't tell, but their presence added to the sense of mystery and wonder that enveloped the forest. Birds with vibrant plumage flitted from branch to branch.

As I walked, my mind stilled, and I experienced the present moments to their fullest. I didn’t know if it came from the decision I’d made the night before or from my surroundings, and honestly, I didn’t care. I cherished the feeling and let myself sink into it, embracing it fully. Light filtered through the canopy above, casting shifting patterns on the forest floor—a quiet dance of shadows and sun that pulled me in. Now and then, a ray of sunlight broke through the leaves, bathing the forest in a soft, golden glow, bringing the vivid greens to life and catching the colors of fleeting birds as they darted between branches.

I took my time, savoring every moment, sight, and sound: the rustle of leaves, a bird taking flight, a flower I stopped to smell. The forest was alive, a vibrant, breathing entity that welcomed me into its embrace. It felt like a sanctuary where time stood still, and the world's worries melted away.

After walking for several hours, I took a quick lunch break and rested before continuing my journey. When the sun began to set, I found a suitable spot to make camp.

Looking at the Map, my location seemed unchanged.

The following day, I had breakfast and kept walking. About an hour after my lunch break, the forest thinned out, and I stepped into a wide, open valley. Mountains flanked both sides, with even more rising in the distance, hazy against the horizon. A river snaked into the valley from the forest to the east of me, weaving back and forth for a mile before disappearing behind a mountain. Off to the west, a large herd grazed. I stood there for a while, taking it all in. The scene was peaceful and calm in a rare and precious way. I felt myself expand, like my ability to encompass the world, to embrace it, grew. After a while, I checked my compass and continued.

At some point during the trek, I started talking to Sophie. First in my head. Then out loud. It wasn't planned. The words just slipped out, one after another, like they’d been waiting in my chest, and finally, the dam broke.

The valley was empty and quiet, except for the crunch of my boots and the occasional chirp from a bird I couldn't name. I walked with the pack digging into my shoulders and the sun making me squint. In my mind, I told her again that I loved her, missed her, and wished she were taking this journey with me.

Suddenly, without conscious thought, her name slipped out loud. “Sophie.”

It hung in the air for a second, and I almost laughed at myself. But instead, I kept going.

“I never told you how I felt back then.” My voice cracked a little, but I didn’t stop. “You had enough to deal with. You didn’t need my baggage on top of everything.”

I didn’t know if I was talking to her memory, her ghost, or just the part of myself that still clung to her. But once I started, it poured out. The grief that had begun long before she died. Helplessness. Anger. The guilt that sat in my chest like a stone.

“I hated seeing you in pain,” I whispered, stepping over a root. “Every hospital visit felt like getting stabbed. And when you decided to stop the treatment, to stop fighting, I stopped hoping. And that felt like I was killing you.”

By then, my voice had gone hoarse. I stopped walking and stared off into the distance, eyes burning. “I was relieved when you said no more treatments. That’s the part I can’t shake. I was relieved. Because it meant you’d suffer less. And I’ve hated myself for that ever since. How could I feel relieved that you gave up the chance to get better? How could I feel relieved knowing I would lose you soon? How could I betray you like that?”

Tears streamed down my face as I kept talking.

I made camp that night without really thinking about it. My body moved on autopilot: I set up the tent, lit the lamp, laid out my sleeping bag, and kept talking.

She didn’t answer, but that didn’t stop me. I talked and talked, voice low, just above a whisper. I told her things I hadn’t even admitted to myself. The memories poured out in bits and pieces, shaped by guilt, love, and the unbearable silence she left behind.

Eventually, I lay down, still murmuring into the dark. And at some point—mid-sentence—I finally fell asleep.

The following day, I kept walking and talking. But this time, my thoughts didn’t spiral into grief or guilt. I remembered the good things. The quiet, unexpected moments that made up a life. Our life.

It started with a memory. Our first meeting. I’d pegged her as a stuck-up rich girl before she even said a word. Then she tore into me with that sharp wit and easy confidence and made me eat my assumptions for lunch. I smiled to myself, shaking my head. “You really loved putting me in my place, didn’t you?”

The sun was already climbing, casting long shadows behind the hills. A breeze skimmed across the valley, catching strands of grass that waved in lazy arcs. I imagined her walking beside me, eyes squinting in the light, pointing out every oddly shaped rock like it was a treasure.

I remembered our first date: a cheap bottle of wine, a clumsy gesture, and her dress soaked in red. But instead of getting flustered or upset, she just laughed and said, “Well, I guess this is a red dress now.” There was no panic or drama—just her rolling with it like it was all part of the plan.

I let the memory sit for a moment before speaking. “You were always good at turning disasters into jokes. It made everything feel lighter.”

Further ahead, the valley opened wide. I paused at the crest of a hill and gazed across the expanse. The wind was steady now. It wasn’t cold but strong enough to keep the heat from settling in. It reminded me of that road trip we took on a whim, with no map or phone signal, just a full tank, and an empty highway. We got hopelessly lost and found a hidden lake that didn’t exist on any app or guidebook. Well, honestly, it was more of a swimming hole. “Lake” was too generous a description for its size. But we called it a lake. We swam until our skin wrinkled, then lay back on sun-warmed rocks and talked about our future together.

“I was so tired after working and studying half the night, but I never wanted that day to end,” I murmured.

Other memories surfaced, skipping through time. One was the concert she surprised me with on my birthday. I was sure it had been sold out for ages. But she pulled out the tickets with her smug grin and watched my jaw drop. We danced like lunatics that night and screamed lyrics until our throats gave out. I didn’t talk about that one, just let it warm my chest for a while. Then I remembered both of us whispering the following day because we’d lost our voices, and laughed.

The memory of our first home brought a different ache. That tiny apartment with the leaky faucet and paper-thin walls. I remembered how we used to argue over who would call the landlord, and how we eventually gave up and fixed things ourselves, laughing the whole time.

“It was a dump,” I said out loud, smiling. “But it was our dump. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a home again.”

I kept walking, the terrain flatter now, and let the silence stretch, but it wasn’t empty. Not anymore.

“I loved the quiet mornings with you,” I said after a while. “You’d read the paper. I’d pretend to read mine while really just watching you. That was peace, right there.”

Tears welled up again, but I didn’t wipe them away. I let them roll. Let them be part of the moment.

There were things I’d never told her, not when it mattered. So I told her now. How much I admired her strength. How, even when her body was falling apart, she stayed strong, for me. How her courage held me up when I was breaking inside.

“You never gave up,” I whispered. “Even when I did.”

The gratitude came in waves. I thanked her for choosing me, trusting me with her love, and seeing something in me that I couldn’t see myself. Then, I thought about the deeper things—the broken parts of me that only she ever saw or understood.

“You helped me believe my past didn’t ruin me. That I wasn’t just some foster kid with a pile of trauma and a fake smile. You made me feel whole.”

My throat tightened at the memory of those nights. How I would wake up shaking, soaked in sweat, and how she’d hold me. “You made me feel safe,” I whispered. “You made me believe in people again. Or at least, believe in you.”

The valley stretched out endlessly, and as I walked, I felt her with me—not as a ghost, not even as a memory, but her presence. For the first time in a long while, I was in harmony with the world.

I knew she was listening.

That night, sitting by my campfire, I was utterly at peace. I even had a smile on my face. I didn’t laugh because of incredulity, disbelief, shock, freak out, or hysterics. It had been a long time since I had really smiled and meant it. With a deep breath, I released some of the heaviness, grief, and sorrow that weighed me down for so long. Every step I took relieved me of a small piece of that burden and allowed me to stand tall. And this time, it wasn’t the mana pushing pain deposits to the surface and making me release them. No. I was doing it. Consciously. Step by step, I was letting go.

I wasn't well yet, but I had started my journey to recovery. It felt good.

I gazed into the flames, their warm glow flickering and dancing, reflecting the emotions coursing through me. I felt Sophie's presence in the gentle rustling of the leaves and the whispers of the wind. It was as if she was here, sharing this quiet moment with me.

“Thank you, baby, for all the joy you brought into my life, the laughter and the tears, the ordinary days and the extraordinary ones.”

We used to stay up late and talk about everything—books, ideas that kept us awake, and the fears we were too embarrassed to say aloud in daylight. Those quiet, late-night conversations had been my lifeline, especially when things got dark. I told her that. I reminded her how just hearing her voice could pull me back from the edge. I talked about our travels, the little adventures that turned into lifelong memories, and how she had a way of making even the most ordinary trip feel magical.

“Do you remember Washington?” I asked, chuckling softly. “That crazy downpour? We should’ve run for cover.”

Her laugh echoed in my head, just as it had that day.

“You said, ‘If we’re getting wet anyway, might as well make it fun.’ And then you dragged me into the middle of the street.”

I could still feel the chilly rain soaking through my clothes, the slap of water under our feet, and her hand in mine as we spun like kids with no one watching. We danced there, drenched and breathless, laughing so hard I forgot about everything else.

That was her gift—turning a storm into a celebration. And even now, years later, soaked in grief instead of rain, I could still feel the warmth of that night.

Sitting there, I felt a profound gratitude for our time together. I acknowledged the pain of her loss, but I also embraced the beauty of the memories we created. Her love had woven a tapestry of strength and resilience within me. Her faith in me had given me the courage to face my past and begin the process of healing.

When I finally fell asleep, I felt lighter than I had in months. The stars above shone brighter, and the night air was full of promise. The road ahead was still long, but I was hopeful. I accepted I would always grieve her loss in a small corner of my mind, even years in the future. But I could also find my way back to joy and peace. As I drifted to sleep, a smile lingered on my lips, and I felt a warmth in my heart that assured me I was not alone.

In the morning, I sat drinking coffee and enjoying the quiet when it really hit me: I was in another world.

Holy shit!

I’M IN ANOTHER WORLD!

I left Earth!

No more chasing my career or worrying about mortgage or credit card payments.

I facepalmed.

Oh, shit!!

I remembered what I had forgotten. When I emptied my account, I neglected to settle my credit card debt. It was a hefty bill with all the flights, hotels, and car rental charges. A strong sense of guilt washed over me. I even considered returning and handling it. I sat there for a minute, weighing the idea like a responsible adult: Fix it. Make it right.

But I shook my head and told myself not to be an idiot. That part of my life was over.

Sending my mental apology to the person who would have to handle that mess, I continued my trek.

In the afternoon of the next day, a wide river came into view, previously hidden by the gentle slopes of the valley. It flowed north, at least the stretch I could see from where I stood, so I adjusted course and made my way toward it. Traveling by water would be faster than walking.

By evening, I reached the riverbank. The current was steady but not aggressive, and the cool air rising off the water was a welcome change. As I dropped my pack and started pulling out my fire-starting kit, movement across the water caught my eye.

A few animals came to drink—long-necked, deer-like creatures with shaggy coats and tall, twitching ears. Then I noticed others, farther off. Sleek, low-slung shapes with sharp movements and too many teeth. Predators. Maybe feline. One of them looked straight at me, its eyes catching the last light of the day before it turned and padded away.

That was enough of a warning.

I grabbed the bundle of kindling and dried grass I’d collected along the way, built up a small fire, and got it going with a steady flame. No tent tonight. A clearing nearby gave me just enough space to level the camper, and I unlatched the supports, adjusting the legs until it sat even.

No sense in advertising myself as a juicy steak in an easily accessible sleeping bag.

The following day, I took out the inflatable kayak and filled it with the leg pump. I planned to travel by river for now. It seemed to flow northwest, so I’d still be heading in roughly the same direction. At first, I started paddling, but after five minutes, I stopped. I was moving too fast.

What I wanted was to linger. To look and experience.

I let the current carry me, only steering the kayak toward the center now and then with a light push of the paddle. The surrounding view was breathtaking: vast skies, endless grasslands rolling out to meet distant mountains, and the shimmering river cutting a path through it all.

After a few hours, the river narrowed and picked up speed, forcing me to use my paddle more and more to avoid the banks. The once steady flow turned restless, swirling faster with each bend. I had to work harder to keep the kayak centered, fighting the pull as the water began to dictate the pace. The speed just kept getting faster, and I got worried.

Despite my attempts to paddle toward the bank, the current kept pushing me in the same direction, stronger and more insistent. The roar came next—a deep, steady growl that grew louder with every meter. My stomach flipped.

The river curved sharply, and suddenly, all I could see ahead was the open sky.

The current surged beneath me, and I shot off the waterfall like a bullet.

The bow of my kayak tilted forward, and I fell fast. I had no time to think, barely enough time to take a deep breath. I braced myself and gritted my teeth as the fall stretched long enough for second thoughts to creep in, and I hit the water.

The kayak bounced off the bottom, the impact jarring but softened by the inflatable hull. My body absorbed the shock with a heavy slam, but nothing snapped or twisted. The air whooshed from my lungs, but I was still in one piece.

Releasing the buckle, I kicked out and surfaced, gasping, sputtering, and blinking hard against the water in my eyes.

Thankfully, it wasn’t deep—maybe ten feet. I swam to the nearby shore and hauled myself out, soaked and heaving, arms shaking from the adrenaline. I sat there for a few minutes, breathing deeply, my heart thudding like crazy. It was scary, yeah, but not really dangerous. And I survived.

When I looked out over the water, the kayak floated in the lake’s center like nothing had happened. I couldn’t see any holes or tears. It rocked gently on the surface like it hadn’t just launched off a cliff.

As I caught my breath, I finally noticed where I was.

A grotto.

The lake was nestled in a bowl of stone, high cliffs enclosing it on nearly every side. A narrow shore wrapped around the edge, just wide enough for walking in some places. Trees leaned in from the shore and the tops of the cliffs above, their branches reaching down like fingers toward the water. The sun filtered in from a break above, painting soft gold across the surface, reflecting off the cliffs.

On my far right, a passage was visible. It was narrow and dark, half covered by overhanging rock and creeping vines. Still breathing hard, I stared at it for a moment.

I hope I can walk out on foot; I'm not sure I'm ready to paddle again.

The adrenaline crash hit me. I waited it out, letting the shakes run their course. My heart was still hammering, but it gradually slowed down. After a while, I stood, waded back into the water, and swam out to retrieve the kayak.

My paddle was nowhere to be seen. I circled the area, scanned the shoreline, and even checked under the kayak in case it had gotten wedged beneath—but nothing. It should have floated up, but it was gone.

With a sigh, I drifted for a moment and looked around.

That’s when I noticed how breathtaking this place really was.

The water was crystal clear, so clear I could see all the way to the bottom—smooth stones, swaying plants, and darting fish that didn’t seem to care I’d just cannonballed into their domain. Soft and dappled sunlight filtered through the branches overhead, giving the entire grotto a dreamy, almost surreal quality. The cliffs surrounding the lake were like layers of sedimentary art with bands of yellow, orange, red, and deep brown.

Even the waterfall’s roar was softer here, dulled by the surrounding walls, until it faded into background noise—a low, distant hum instead of a thunderclap.

I decided to spend a few days here; it was a slice of tranquil heaven.

Once I located a wider part of the shore, I set up one of my fancier tents, arranged a table and a fancy camping armchair with a leg rest, and indulged in Alfredo prawn pasta with a bottle of Brunello wine. It was that kind of ambiance.

I stayed in the grotto for more than a week.

While swimming the following day, I had a realization. It hit me so suddenly—and was so unlike me—that, for a moment, I completely forgot I was swimming and started to sink. I kicked back to the surface, coughing a little, and laughed out loud.

I loved to swim. Always had. But in foster care, they didn’t exactly take us on beach-side vacations. Swimming was something I did only occasionally in my life. And yet, here I was, floating in crystal-clear water in the middle of a secret grotto, and for the first time, my reality landed—I could do whatever I wanted.

I could indulge in all the things I enjoyed and never had the chance to do or never did enough of. Yeah, I was 38. But I was only 38. I had half a lifetime ahead of me. Half a lifetime to experience things, have fun and feel joy just for the sake of it. There was no point in looking back at everything I hadn’t done. It was already behind me. What mattered now was what lay ahead and all the things I would do.

Following that realization, I leaned into it. I swam until I ached, floated under the sun, and let myself just be. I indulged in delicious food and savored wine and beer without guilt. I caught and grilled fresh fish over the fire, read two books purely for pleasure, played my guitar, and had a great time overall. It wasn’t about achieving anything. It was about living.

Behind the waterfall, I discovered a cave with stone ledges perfect for sitting and dipping my feet in the water. The light filtering through the waterfall made the walls shimmer, and the gentle splash of the cascade was the only sound. It was like nature had built a sanctuary just for me.

On my third day, I found my paddle stuck in a tree. I laughed so hard I scared off some birds.

On my ninth day, I floated in the cave, entirely in the present moment.

That’s when I realized how much had changed. My perspective had undergone a complete transformation. Even during the intense months of preparation for my travels, I hadn’t been genuinely excited about what was to come. There were brief moments—when something jarred or shocked me—that pulled my attention into the present, but my focus always drifted back to the past—the regrets, the losses, the things I couldn’t fix or change.

Now, for the first time, I was actually here. No ghosts dragging me backward. No should-haves whispering in my ear. I was one hundred percent in the here and now, and for once, I was excited about the future.

I felt peaceful, calm, whole, and alive—really, truly alive—in a way I had never felt before. It was more than happiness. The sensation went deeper than that. It was a joy and liberation so profound that it felt like my soul had stretched out and exhaled.

I tried to capture the feeling, name it, describe it, even just in my head. But there were no words. It was beyond language. It was something that could only be felt.

Something clenched and unclenched in me.

There was a moment when my entire body let go and relaxed. It was physical and mental, and I experienced it in my whole body—head to toes. It was like releasing a breath I hadn’t known I was holding for years. A powerful surge of energy moved through me, making me shake momentarily. It was strange. Unusual. Different.

And good. So, so good.

I immersed myself in the feeling as I leisurely floated in the water. The cool water enveloped me, gentle ripples caressed my skin, and the echoing drips from the cave ceiling created a soothing symphony. Every sense came alive—the scent of mineral-rich water, the distant chirping of birds outside, and the soft, steady hum of the waterfall.

When I went to sleep that night, I knew something had fundamentally changed inside me. My dreams were vivid and peaceful, filled with color and sensations that felt more real than waking life. As I drifted off, I felt a warmth in my chest, a quiet glow that spread through my body. This wasn’t just a fleeting feeling. It was a transformation in the core of my being.

I woke the following day with a sense of purpose and clarity I had never known before. The world looked different. Brighter. More vibrant. Alive with possibility in a way that felt new. The shadows of my past weren’t gone—but they no longer trailed my every step or breathed down my neck. They lingered, still present, but quieter now, tucked somewhere along the edges of my mind rather than wrapped around my thoughts.

In their place, something else was growing. A steady, quiet confidence, fragile but real. Not loud. Not bold. Just there. Solid. I felt an eagerness to move forward, to see what lay ahead. Not because I was running from anything, but because, for once, I genuinely wanted to see what came next.

For the first time, I felt like I was living, not just existing. The journey before me was no longer about escape. It was about discovery and joy.