IX. The Outsider

​

A sound stirs me. Heavy boots cross the threshold of the old ranger station. Normally, lost in the depths of meditation, I wouldn’t have noticed. But the slow, deliberate steps echo through the wooden floor, gravel crunching beneath each measured stride.

 

Something compels me to look. I open my eyes.

 

Before me stands a man I do not recognize. His face is lined, weathered by years on the road, the kind of face that belongs to someone who has traveled far and seen much.

​

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice barely more than a breath.

The man smiles, though it holds no joy—only weariness. “An outsider,” he says simply.

​

He doesn’t move closer, nor does he avert his gaze. He simply studies me with an expression I can’t quite decipher—neither fear nor reverence, but something quieter. Understanding, perhaps.

“They say you don’t move. That you don’t speak,” he says. “But here you are. Speaking to me.”

 

I consider this. “Maybe it’s because you’re the first one to enter without expectation.”

​

His expression flickers—something shifts, almost imperceptibly. A hesitation. A recognition.

​

He exhales slowly and lowers himself onto a nearby bench, his movements heavy. “Expectation ruins most things,” he says. “People come looking for miracles. Answers. They don’t know what to do when all they find is a man sitting still.”

​

His words settle deep. For the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like a spectacle. I feel… seen.

​

“Why did you come?” I ask.

​

He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “To see if you were real.”

​

A pause. “And?”

​

“I haven’t decided yet.”

​

The silence stretches between us, thick and weighty. Then, he speaks again, his voice carrying the weight of history.

​

“Long before this place existed, humanity thrived on a vibrant planet teeming with life. But prosperity sowed the seeds of its own undoing. Greed drove people to exploit Earth’s resources without restraint. Forests razed, oceans polluted, the air thickened with toxins.”

​

Next, he speaks of mass migration, unending wars, and pandemics—a planet unraveling. The powerful sought to preserve their legacy, creating artificial intelligences in biospheres designed to replicate idealized human societies.

​

“They tried to preserve their culture, creating AI to carry it forward. But no matter how advanced, AI can only mimic what it's given.”

​

His words settle heavily in my chest. “And you? Where do you fit into all this?”

​

The outsider studies me. “I was born outside the pods. Only a few of us remain.”

​

“Why come here?”

​

“Some say the pods should be left alone. Others believe they should be shut down.”

​

A quiet unease stirs in my chest. “Why?”

​

The outsider’s gaze darkens. “Because they’re not real.”

​

I let out a small laugh, though it feels thin. “New Hinton is real. I’m real.”

​

He watches me and a moment passes. His eyes glancing at the floor.

​

“Let me ask you a simple question,” pausing to look up, “When was the last time you ate?”

​

I open my mouth, but hesitate. I can picture food—plates of steaming meals, the smell of coffee—but the memory is detached. Fuzzy.

​

“When was the last time you drank water? Felt physically tired?”

The memories aren’t there. Or rather, they exist, but they don’t feel like mine.

​

My fingers curl slightly. “This is ridiculous.”

​

The outsider waits. “When was the last time you bled?”

​

My mind flashes to a wound—a cut on my hand. I lift it, turning it over. The cut is still there. Unhealed. Unchanging.

 

It’s a reminder of a hunch I’ve held for too long.

 

A chill  spreads through me. I look up at the outsider, my voice barely a whisper. “What… what am I?”

 

His expression remains unreadable. But his voice carries no cruelty, no triumph—only quiet sincerity.

 

“Something the world left behind.”

 

My world tilts. And for the first time, I feel truly, terrifyingly alone.

​

A strange numbness settles over me, like a slow-moving fog creeping into every corner of my mind. My hand is still raised, palm up, fingers slightly curled, as I stare at the wound that isn’t healing.

 

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

 

The outsider says nothing. He just watches, waiting.

 

The cut on my hand—I remember how I got it. I remember the sting, the sight of torn skin. But I don’t remember the pain lingering. I don’t remember cleaning it, or worrying about infection. I don’t remember it changing at all. It’s as if time forgot it.

 

No, that’s wrong. It’s as if I was never meant to change.

 

I lower my hand slowly, resting it on my knee. My fingers twitch slightly, as if unsure what to do. My mind races, searching for something—anything—to disprove what’s unfolding before me.

 

“This isn’t possible,” I say, though the words sound hollow, distant.

 

The outsider leans forward. “I know.” His voice is calm, measured. There’s no mockery in it, no condescension. Just patience.

 

I shake my head, gripping onto the familiar rhythm of denial. “I remember my life.” I force the words out, needing them to be true. “My parents. My childhood. My home. I remember playing in the streets, getting in trouble, growing up.” I look up at him, my breath uneven. “How do you explain that?”

 

The outsider holds my gaze. “Do you?”

 

A beat of silence.

 

I blink.

 

“What?”

 

He tilts his head slightly. “Do you actually remember?”

 

“Of course, I do—”

 

But even as I say it, something inside me unravels. The memories—I can see them, clear and sharp. I can picture my mother’s hands as she folded laundry, the smell of my father’s cologne, the laughter of children playing in the park.

 

But I can’t place myself in them.

 

They feel real, but they don’t feel like mine.

 

Like images painted on a canvas, complete but unmoving.

 

I suck in a breath, my chest tightening.

 

The outsider speaks again, his voice gentle. “You know what memories are. You understand what childhood should feel like. But can you actually remember growing up?”

 

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

 

The silence between us stretches, heavy and suffocating.

 

I reach for another certainty, something solid. “The town,” I say quickly. “New Hinton. It’s real. The people. My neighbors. My friends. You can’t tell me they don’t exist.”

 

The outsider nods slightly, as if acknowledging the argument. “Tell me something,” he says. “Do you ever see them age?”

 

My stomach drops.

 

I start to respond, but the words never form. I try to recall my parents’ faces—surely, they’ve grown older. The shopkeepers, the teachers, the people I’ve passed on the streets for years—surely, they’ve changed, even if only a little.

 

But the truth slams into me like a wave crashing against rock.

 

They haven’t.

 

No one has.

 

The woman who runs the bookstore—her hair has always been the same length. The man who delivers the mail—his posture has never slouched with age. The children playing in the square—they never seem to grow taller.

 

And the restaurants…

 

The realization spreads like ice through my veins.

 

“No one eats,” I whisper.

 

The diners, the cafes, the bakeries lining the streets—places filled with the hum of conversation, the clinking of plates and cups. But I’ve never actually seen anyone take a bite of food. Never seen someone chew, swallow, push away an empty plate.

 

It was background noise. An illusion. A part of the scenery.

 

I close my eyes, my body rigid.

 

He watches me carefully, then continues. “You are not flesh. Not blood. Not human. You were created, placed here, made to exist—but not to live.”

 

I shake my head, pressing my hands to my temples. “That’s not—” I stop myself, because I don’t know what I was about to say. I don’t have the words.

 

The outsider’s voice is steady, grounding. “You were made by a system built to preserve humanity’s legacy. Not by choice, not by malice—just by function. You were never meant to question it. But now you are.”

 

I force myself to look at him.

 

His face is lined with exhaustion, but his eyes are sharp, piercing through the fog in my mind.

 

He knew. From the moment he saw me, he knew.

 

I can feel something inside me slipping, something vast and terrifying.

 

I tighten my fingers into fists, trying to hold onto anything that still feels solid. “So, what next?”

 

The outsider is quiet for a long moment. Then he speaks, and his words settle over me like a weight too heavy to lift.

 

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

 

And in that moment, I realize—

 

I don’t have an answer.

 

Not yet.

​

Continue to Part X: The Secret Knowledge

​

​

​