“Silence, or meaning.” So goes the first line of the first ​paragraph of the first article on the first page of the ​Common Law, bolded, underlined, and highlighted in a ​golden hue.

When the atomic bomb fell from the heavens, earth was ​reduced to mere ash. There were no blaring sirens, no public ​radio announcements, no screams for help. Not anymore.

All was deafening and then all was quiet. Dull lives of the ​emotionless masses ceased while irises were glued to ​screen static, ears muffled by circular seashells that burned ​to crisps with their owners. Some exiled themselves to the ​boundaries of the city with hopes of rebuilding civilization ​with the knowledge of previous intellectuals printed on ​paper, at least those which survived the scorching flames ​that reached the temperature of Fahrenheit 451.

That was the story of a city on the East Coast, as reported in ​the tabloid.

Debates amongst the knowledgeable rose, fearing that their ​city could be the next to be obliterated. They had reasons, ​but the monarchs turned a deaf ear to everything ​“disruptive”. Eventually, the voices grew so loud that they ​deemed it fit for discussions to be silenced, and soon ​opinions, chatter, speech that was considered ​“purposeless”. They enacted The Rule without opposition. ​None dared to oppose. None were able to oppose.

Nobody spoke of the weather. Nobody spoke of the car ​crash at the intersection in the morning. Nobody spoke of ​the kidnapping and the experimenting. Nobody spoke. ​Everyone’s faces were stuck to screens, ears imprisoned ​behind metal muffs, blasting vibrant colors and sounds with ​no second to lose.

Thoughts were restrained in the mind, ideas remained on the ​verge of expression.

People feared not a burning end, but an unexpected word, ​the merest utterance deemed “purposeless” by those who ​had a say.

The corner of the city was quiet. Unlike any other corner of ​the city, a cozy yellow light shone through the windowpane, ​illuminating the dreary, empty pavement two storeys below. ​A fountain pen weaved across the surface of the mustard ​paper, forming elegant glyphs and numbers on the last page ​of the author’s latest publication. His thoughts and opinions ​flooded the infinite expanse of the hard-covered book, for ​written text was exempted from the Rule; to read or not was ​up to the individual.

“Written by M. Parks” sparkled under the table lamp as he ​closed the cover and sighed at his newest brainchild, ​knowing that the only readers would be the robotic security ​guard at the gate of his residence, and the publisher.

As he put down his pen, the world returned to the usual ​taciturnity, sans the whirring of the fan and the creaking of ​the ceiling. His mother was downstairs obediently munching ​on the soap opera on television, his father drowning himself ​in deafening tunes. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t talk ​much.

The day was just like any other day. The sun rose and set on ​the lifeless concrete buildings, adding nothing to the greyish ​streets nor the serious looks of the masses. There were no ​expressions. There were no expressions. Everything was ​dead silent, and the day was no exception.

He was used to it by that time. Still, he would journey around ​to see the others indulge in their entertainment modules ​without noticing him passing by.

“Murray Parks,” sounded the security guard as it conducted ​its routine examination on the passer-by. It flipped through ​the book on one arm, scanned the author on the other.

“Exciting,” the mechanical voice spoke. Its voice was one of ​the few voices that was allowed and regularly heard. The ​comments went on for what felt like minutes, but Murray ​uttered not a word.

As the robotic arms concluded their examinations, Murray ​snatched his book and set foot on the barren sidewalks, his ​eyes looking forward and occasionally upward. He felt the ​breeze of early spring rushing through his curly hair, the ​sound of it passing by caressed his ears, and he liked it. It ​was refreshing. It was fragrant. It was inspirational. It made ​him feel alive in the dead city.

“How does it feel to be alive?” He pondered, “How should it ​feel to be alive?”

Back in the day, speech would help him organize his ​thoughts. Now, he could only pray the Vocal Irises hadn’t ​detected the narrow escape of his ideas from his mouth.

The road was as bleak as it was vacant. The trip to the ​publisher had never been different. Murray would imagine ​himself living in the attic of the publishing house with the ​publisher, sipping macchiato while discussing the works of ​Arthur Conan Doyle. The publisher was nobody like the ​others, and Murray was glad to be working with such a ​knowledgeable person.

The bell chimed as Murray pushed open the wooden door to ​the publishing house. The sunlight at dawn swept through ​the bookshelves and desks and the piles of paper in ​between. The aroma of sandalwood engulfed the humble ​cottage. Murray relished this feeling of being at home, of ​being in a place with silence that was tranquil and pleasant.

The familiar sound of leather soles on the textile floor ​echoed through the chamber. A warm smile spanning from ​ear to ear appeared from behind the towering shelves. A ​white beard and gilded monocle greeted the author. Murray ​had never heard the publisher’s voice. He could only audiate ​the weathered and profound “Hello”s that would come out ​from between the wrinkled lips. In his arms were books of ​tangerine and navy. Nevertheless, in Murray’s eyes, there ​was enough room for a heartfelt greeting.

Murray extended his arms, as if awaiting to embrace the ​warmth of a fatherly hug once again. The publisher raised a ​sole finger from his vacant hand and placed it in front of his ​mouth, much to Murray’s surprise and dismay. He lowered ​his arms in mid-air while he followed the finger as it pointed ​towards the rear wall of the cottage.

A woman.

An elegant figure whose blonde-brown hair blended ​delicately with the golden hour. Sapphire pupils adorned her ​pretty porcelain skin. A beige cardigan and brown skirt were ​shimmering under the overhead oil lamp. Gentle fingers ​strolled gracefully along the pages of a teal-covered book. ​Murray recognized the book as his first publication.

He couldn’t help but freeze in place and be fascinated by the ​sumptuous person in front of him. For the first time ever, he ​found someone else who read his thoughts and processed ​them in a human mind. For the first time ever, he felt as if the ​flora in the parks weren’t as dead and the water in the ponds ​wasn’t as cold.

For the first time ever, he craved to speak. To speak without ​punishment, to speak without being caught. To speak freely, ​but he couldn’t.

The publisher waved in front of Murray’s fixated eyes, ​snapping him back to reality. The old man took the book ​from Murray’s hands and added it to his stack with a modest ​grin, to which Murray couldn’t but respond with a shrug.

As the publisher turned away to return to his office, Murray ​hurried through his pockets for his notepad and fountain ​pen. The tip of the pen stopped at the surface of the white ​canvas, as if what he wanted to say braked at the tip of his ​tongue.

“What to write?” He questioned himself. He wanted it to be ​welcoming. He didn’t want it to sound arrogant like saying ​“I’m the author of the book you’re reading.” He wanted to ​impress, but he didn’t quite know how. He couldn’t recall ​what it felt like to initiate a conversation with a stranger, ​one that kindled his desire to speak. It’d been eight years ​since he and the publisher crossed paths.

“Hey, I like your hair. What’s your name?” he finally scribbled ​on his notepad, attempting to keep his script neat and not ​seem wobbly. “It was how people greeted someone they ​were interested in at a bar, no?” He thought. With a semi-​confident inhale, he navigated through the publishing house ​as if he had memorized the layout like the back of his hand. ​He paced for what seemed like eternity, until he finally ​arrived in front of the angelic silhouette.

The girl turned and raised an eyebrow. Her crystalline eyes ​met with Murray’s fascinated and nervous gaze. His heart ​raced like a mechanical hound on the hunt, almost ​forgetting why he had approached her in the first place until ​he felt the paper crackle in his tightened fist.

Murray handed the piece of paper to the woman in front of ​him. His face was warming up. He could feel his cheeks ​apple-reddening, like the fruit he had only heard of from his ​grandfather. The woman recoiled slightly at his sudden ​movement, but took a careful glimpse at what was written ​on the note. She giggled, and that made Murray feel ever so ​slightly at ease. Her fingers slid from the book in hand and ​maneuvered in the air, bringing a confused expression to ​Murray’s face.

Frustrated, she took the note from his hand and flourished a ​pencil from above her right ear. Murray watched as the ​pencil maneuvered exquisitely across the back of the note, ​that smile never leaving her face. After a few seconds, she ​handed the note back to him.

“Julie,” he spoke to his mind, the girl now looking into his ​eyes. For a moment he felt as if he had been teleported to a ​dimension of eternal spring, inhabited by only him and Julie. ​He hesitated not a second, drew his pen from his pocket and ​scribbled below the cursive writing.

“Take a walk outside?” he wrote, leveling his palm so that ​Julie could see the note. Julie’s eyes wandered to the side as ​she hugged the teal-covered book close, and gave a humble ​nod soon after.

Excitement overflowed Murray’s head. He dashed to the ​entrance and the bell rang as he yanked the handle. Julie ​strolled towards the door and waved in the direction of the ​publisher’s office. He waved back and winked reassuringly ​to Murray as Julie exited the publishing house.

“Perchance, today is not any other day,” he pondered as he ​let go of the closing door.

Julie’s silken hair flowed in the cool spring breeze, the ​environment illuminated by her radiance with every step she ​took. Murray walked beside her. He felt as if her mere ​presence purified the air around them and sweetened it with ​an incense of honey. The buildings and constructions on the ​side of the road contrasted with the duo. He felt as if they ​didn’t belong to this place, but instead the realm that he ​visited for a fraction of a second.

They found their way into a park a few blocks from the ​publishing house. Julie ran to a bed of flowers and sniffed as ​hard as she could. Murray watched as she danced around ​like a butterfly in the middle of a verdant field. Never had he ​seen somebody so energetic in his life, not even the ​publisher.

She bolted towards Murray as he was starting to drift into ​his imagination once again. Murray was shocked by her ​sudden intervention, but strived to maintain a confident and ​determined image. Julie gestured towards the note that he ​had been holding all the while, and when he showed her the ​note, she pointed at the last three words of Murray’s first ​writing.

“Right, I didn’t tell her,” He flinched, but promptly restored ​his posture. He grabbed Julie’s book from her left arm, and ​subtly directed her gaze towards the pitch black words on ​the bottom of the cover, those that were also present on his ​most recent production.

Julie gasped without making a sound. Her hands darted to ​her wide-open mouth, allowing gravity to take hold of the ​teal book. Murray’s reflexes enabled him to catch it before ​the thud would have broken the silence of the park. Julie ​stood for a moment, leaned backwards, until she finally took ​the book from Murray and started flipping through the ​pages filled to the brim not only with his words, but with ​remarks that she made after each and every paragraph.

For the second time ever, Murray felt understood. There was ​another intelligent individual in this numb world who not only ​read his creations, but took them to their heart. He felt as if ​his thoughts were being fathomed and cherished by ​someone. He felt as if his view of the ignorance of the people ​was reciprocated.

He seized the moment and wrote on a new page on his ​notepad: “What’s your full name? Where are you from?” ​Dozens of seconds went by as he tried to get Julie to look at ​his new inquiries. When she finally noticed it, she reached for ​her pencil and scribbled briskly. “Julie Berrill. UK.” ​Afterwards, she instantly swapped back to showing Murray ​her fondness for his writing.

Time seemingly slowed. Murray couldn’t help but smile as ​Julie enthusiastically elaborated on each of her remarks by ​gesturing her hands and mouthing invisible words. Murray ​felt the lump in his throat growing, a surge of emotions that ​motivated him to let his thoughts flee to the outside world.

The flowers that Julie sniffed bloomed to life, their petals ​rejuvenated with a fresh hue of green.

“I...” Murray’s vocal chords exercised at long last. He was ​looking for the words. He was thinking of how he could ​convey all he wanted to say with the minimal amount of ​pronunciation. He was thinking, he was thinking. Julie’s ​eyesight turned to him. Without a second thought, she let go ​of the book and covered Murray’s mouth in the blink of an ​eye.

Yet, all was too late. The leather cover of the book crashed ​onto the ground like a lightning strike from the steel-grey ​clouds above. A piercing siren blared out from a nearby ​lamppost, sparing no time for the two to protect their ears.

“CIVILIAN MURRAY PARKS, REMAIN STATIONARY. CIVILIAN ​MURRAY PARKS, REMAIN STATIONARY.” The mechanical voice ​reverberated throughout the park, accompanied by the ​sound of screeching tires barely audible from beneath the ​unbearable roar of the concealed Vocal Iris. Julie went down ​on her knees from the abrupt noise. Murray wanted to get her ​up, yet he couldn’t help but keep his ears shut with his ​sweating palms. He couldn’t help but watch. He couldn’t help.

The siren died with the stopping of a scarlet limousine at the ​park entrance. Its pitch-black tinted windows resembled a ​void within the already lifeless city. The door of the vehicle ​flung open, revealing a wide figure dressed in obsidian. A ​cigarette hung below the man’s shades and top hat. The silver ​buckle of his belt reflected rays of beaming sunlight toward ​Murray.

The figure advanced towards Murray and Julie, both on the ​ground. Plants withered as the man passed by, as if he ​possessed a deathly aura. The man halted in front of Murray ​as he finally recovered from the ringing in his ears.

Standing, he recognized the man as the supreme supervisor ​of the Bureau, the man on the billboards and propaganda, the ​local governor, the man who was allowed to speak.

“Civilian Murray Parks,” the man’s voice shook the earth with ​every syllable. “Show your Speech Ticket, or await ​detainment.”

Murray could smell the filth coming from the man’s mouth. He ​scurried through his pocket, but the strip of Tickets were ​nowhere to be found. He searched desperately, he searched ​every fold and crease, but the Tickets simply couldn’t ​manifest out of thin air.

Julie raised her body shakily as the man scrutinized her. He ​looked as she ran through the pockets of her cardigan and ​took out a sole, red Ticket. Murray watched with relief as Julie ​handed the thin piece of paper to the man, who snatched it ​from her hand without an expression on his face.

“You’re fortunate, Parks,” the man proclaimed. “Anything ​troubling you? You’re not the kind of person to violate the ​Rule.”

The man pulled Murray aside and glared at Julie, warning her ​to stay where she was.

“Tell all your troubles to me, the great Bernard Howard!” The ​man spoke with a devilish grin, while he wrapped his arm ​around Murray’s neck in a rough manner. “You’re brave ​enough to write, yet you’re too scared to speak? What have ​your parents taught you, Parks?”

“Nothing useful,” Murray said to himself, ensuring that his lips ​were stuck together, even though he could feel as if ​paragraphs were about to burst out and he would vomit all ​over Bernard’s face.

“I get it, I get it. It gets redundant when all you can hear in this ​city is my voice,” Bernard continued. “Consider the seashells, ​the parlors! Your life would be less dull,” He elongated his ​pronunciation of the word. “Stubbornness leads nowhere. ​Make a choice. You have them.”

Murray attempted to avoid Bernard’s gaze, but his attempts ​were of little avail as the governor leaned in closer. He could ​see the acne on his nose, the nostril hairs protruding from his ​greasy snout.

“Choices, hmm? Between blindness and deafness, deafness ​remains popular,” Bernard growled. “Does sight perceive ​more than hearing? Keller would disagree. She didn’t even ​have to choose! What a fortunate soul she was!”

Bernard’s words echoed in Murray’s brain. He just wanted this ​torment to be over, so he could be beside Julie once again.

“Do something meaningful, Parks. Speak with meaning,” ​Bernard withdrew his arm from Murray’s shoulder. “Consider ​yourself on notice. Next time, it’ll be the Hound.”

Bernard slid the red Speech Ticket into his pocket as he ​marched towards his vehicle. Julie backed away as the man ​walked past her. Murray rushed to Julie as the limousine door ​slammed shut. Tires screeched, and the gloomy clouds ​parted to reveal the afternoon sun. The world returned to its ​forlorn state.

“Meaningful,” Murray paced the park with unease, his ​thoughts twisted into a whirlpool of dread and hopelessness. ​For the first time ever, he wanted to give voice to his ​opinions, since speech would help him organize his thoughts. ​His parents didn’t teach him that. They taught him to obey.

They taught him that obedience prevented them from ​getting into trouble. They taught him that obedience ​provided everything that they needed to survive. They taught ​him that obedience minimized everything meaningless.

Murray was about to burst when he felt a comforting pat on ​his shoulder. He turned and saw Julie’s warm smile and teary ​eyes. Murray wrapped his arms around Julie and hugged her ​as hard as he could. Julie stood and let Murray cry without ​wailing, tears succumbed to gravity without any protest. The ​two stood beneath the midday sun for minutes before Murray ​finally receded, revealing a near-crumbled note on the ​ground between them. He recognized Julie’s handwriting. She ​must’ve written the note when she overheard Bernard and ​Murray’s conversation.

“The ignorant obey. The curious question.”

Murray froze in place for minutes as if he had an awakening. ​He felt as if Julie’s words hit just the right spot, the ​cornerstone that would make the bridge collapse once ​removed. He had this feel all along. He just hadn’t known ​how to put it up until that moment.

Bernard’s limousine was nowhere in sight. Yet, Murray ​needed a place in which his soundwaves would not cause ​the Irises to oscillate. The park wasn’t safe. He needed to go ​somewhere far away.

When Murray’s thoughts returned to his mortal flesh, he ​drew his pen and notepad from his pockets and scribbled ​wildly on the paper. His writing was as expressive as his ​creative mind at that moment.

“Let’s head to the wilderness,” he showed his note to Julie, ​who had finished wiping off Murray’s teardrops with the ​sleeve of her cardigan. She recoiled in surprise, and took the ​note from Murray and manifested a few words with her ​pencil.

“They erected a perimeter.” Murray felt as if his soul left his ​body. He had never heard of a perimeter around the city. He ​had been scavenging around the corners for inspiration and ​all he could see were endless rows of concrete boxes. For a ​moment he doubted Julie’s statement, but he had no reason ​to not believe in her. She was able to read his mind. He ​noticed a second row of words that Julie wrote, “I know a ​way around.”

Despair turned to hope that sparkled in Murray’s irises, now ​glancing at the determined figure standing in front of him. ​The blonde and beige shimmered beneath the rays of not ​scorching heat but of warming embrace. Murray gave a ​confident nod, signaling Julie to lead the way.

...

The skies switched from azure to indigo as the two ​navigated the dead streets for hours on end. They originally ​headed south, but the repetitiveness of the urban design ​left Murray puzzled and disgruntled. Julie had drafted a ​miniature map on Murray’s notepad, which offered no ​assistance as the sky dimmed and every street felt the same.

Murray’s eyes were giving in to the tiredness, his gaze ​jumping from one lamppost to another. He couldn’t ​recognize his way home, but to him now, home was not a ​place anymore. Home was not where he could comfortably ​pour his thoughts onto the canvas of unoccupied books and ​watch helplessly as his parents rotted in entertainment. ​Home was where he could express his opinions. Home was ​where Julie was.

He was about to suggest heading back when he saw Julie ​wailing her arms in front of him. They halted at what seemed ​to be the middle of some boulevard, except that trees were ​nowhere to be seen, and the asphalt extended for miles and ​miles until they vanished into the horizon. Houses and ​lampposts flooded the sides until they all converged to the ​same point far ahead, but the perimeter was nowhere in ​sight.

Murray stood unmoved, not knowing what Julie’s ​enthusiastic calling implied. That was until he moved closer, ​surpassed Julie, and noticed something odd. Something out ​of place. Something that was too ubiquitous to be ​overlooked.

On the asphalt that was right at his foot, there was pitch ​black. The last bit of sunlight at dusk made it clear that it ​wasn’t just dull black. The shadow of the lamppost broke ​into two. There was a black hole in the middle of the street.

Julie joined Murray while he was investigating the weird ​phenomenon. He looked up as she walked closer to the ​glitch in reality, but his hand wasn’t quick enough to stop ​her.

It was then he noticed a spark of white from the void, a ​flicker that lasted not a second.

Murray looked into Julie’s eyes. He knew that she had an ​idea, and her determined gaze was asking for him to join her. ​He gave her a confident nod, and Julie handed him a note ​with the same elegant script. “Yell ‘Bernard rules’ at the top ​of your lungs on a count to three.”

Anticipation turned to confusion as he reread the sentence ​over and over in his mind. “That would cost me, no, Julie two ​Tickets, but she has none left after my slip up earlier.” He ​reminded himself. Still, deep down he trusted Julie. He ​trusted that she wasn’t the person to trick him to get into ​any trouble.

Julie stared at Murray as he took a deep breath and closed ​his eyes as a signal of agreement. When he reopened his ​eyes, Julie already positioned herself a few feet away from ​the black spot, lowering her body as if preparing for a ​running start like a sprinter. Murray watched as Julie raised ​three fingers in the air. He inhaled as deep as he could, like ​taking in the fragrance of fresh publications at the ​publisher. His stare never left Julie’s three fingers. Then two. ​Then one. Murray closed his eyes.

“BERNARD RULES!!!!!!!”

Thud!

His proclamation resounded through the streets, but Murray ​felt that his voice was louder than it should’ve been. Maybe ​it was that he hadn’t vocalized so loudly in eight years. He ​didn’t know. His hands darted towards his ears in reflex. He ​didn’t know, nor did he hear the thud that sounded in front ​of him.

Nor did he hear the blaring sirens. Nor did he hear any ​blaring siren.

When Murray’s eyelids parted, he saw that the void in the ​middle of the street was no more. In its place was a gigantic ​hole, surrounded by the views of the “street” that flicked ​black and white, red and green. On the ground right in front ​of the hole was Julie, her arms supporting her upper body as ​she sat on the border between the asphalt and whatever ​that was on the other side of the gateway.

A grassfield, of green that no other plant within the city had ​displayed. Murray could spot them from below the rubble ​and ashes, protruding from the dark “skies” around the hole.

Murray rushed to Julie and helped her stand up. His eyes ​scanned through her body, looking for any scratches and ​bruises from whatever produced the loud noise. He looked ​from head to knee until he felt Julie’s hand on his shoulder. ​Her reassuring touch followed by her soft gaze put Murray at ​ease.

Her hand reached for his, and, having been familiar with her ​company, Murray took it and gripped it tight, as the two set ​their sights on the greenery beyond the hole.

They walked forward slowly, tiptoeing past the fragments of ​parlors scattered on the asphalt, and ducked to fit through ​the hole. The passage was short as the wall was thin. When ​Murray set foot on the tender grass, Julie was halfway ​through. As Murray straightened his posture, he shielded his ​eyes from the blinding light from the horizon, a light so ​bright that couldn’t compete with those from the parlors, ​giving off a warmth that Murray had never felt on his skin ​before.

The skies in front of Murray was akin to that he had seen at ​dawn, except that the endless expanse of black and white ​had been replaced with green and yellow. The clouds were ​painted gold and brown. Murray lowered his arm as his eyes ​adapted to the genuine sunlight. He turned to see Julie walk ​out from the hold without a flinch, as if she saw such ​brightness beforehand.

Murray turned to see that hole that they emerged from. ​Much to his surprise, an enormous, black wall presented ​itself, with its top bending inwards and its edges extending ​towards the infinite earth. Its surface was decorated with ​pipes and wires, forming a cage of barbed restraints around ​the megastructure.

“What is all this?” The question in Murray’s mind escaped his ​mouth. His hands hurried to his lips, but Julie giggled and ​reached for them. She lowered his hands, and mouthed a ​word that Murray instantly recognized. A word that he had ​always pondered about. A word that fully described what he ​had been looking for.

“Reality.”

Murray’s pupils dilated as he recognized the word. He looked ​at the structure behind him in confusion, wondering if he ​was foolish enough to perceive what was inside the dome as ​“reality”. He had often wondered if there was more to the ​mundane lifestyle within the city, and now he had his ​answer. Yet, one question lingered in his mind, one that had ​existed since Julie informed him of the presence of a ​perimeter.

“Do you know all this?” Murray inquired, his body now turned ​to Julie, who had not moved an inch. She reached for ​Murray’s notepad.

“Speak. They won’t hear us here.” Although it was not the ​wilderness Murray had anticipated, he went on, but Julie was ​still searching.

Click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click.

Murray handed her his notepad when he caught a series of ​faint sounds with his ear, one that he would not have ​mistaken. One that Bernard warned him of. One that he ​feared.

“Quick! Answer me!” Murray hurried Julie as the sounds grew ​ever so slightly louder. Julie reached for her pencil and ​surfed across the paper, and showed her writing to Murray: ​“Yes.”

He was unsure if that was the answer that he had ​anticipated or not, but his nervousness was getting the ​better of him.

“Why won’t you speak?” He was about to ask Julie when he ​remembered his first encounter with Julie earlier. His mind ​came across the maneuvering of fingers in the air, now ​resembling symbols that seemed ever so familiar. Ones that ​he studied in the textbook of images in a soundless ​classroom.

“You’re mute?” He finally concluded. Julie scribbled on the ​note swiftly. “Obviously.”

Murray was unfazed by the answer as if asking the question ​was unnecessary from the beginning. He was about to grab ​Julie’s arm and start running from the growing sound when ​she manifested a tangerine book seemingly out of nowhere. ​The book was thin and the cover excluded a title, but a navy ​logo could be clearly seen embedded at the center of the ​paper.

He studied the logo hurriedly, his feet urging his eyes to ​scrutinize as he ran from the imminent danger, but he ​couldn’t help it. There was something about that logo that ​mesmerized him, something that clicked with the deepest ​ends of his soul that forbade him from moving before he ​fully understood what was in front of him.

His eyes swept through the two diagonals linking three ​columns of varying positions, the center of which lowered to ​make space for a simplified globe on top. Beneath the figure, ​written in block letters, “MENSA”. He recalled the books in ​the publisher’s arms moments before he met Julie.

Murray looked back up, but Julie was nowhere to be seen. All ​that was left were the growing footsteps of the mechanical ​creature approaching, the tangerine book in his hand, and a ​lush, blooming tree not so far from him, followed by another ​behind, then another, until it formed a line extending into ​the sunrise.

His heartbeat hastened, his blood surging in his veins. It was ​then or never. He recognized the formation and started ​running without a second thought in mind. Not his parents, ​not Bernard, not the “reality” that he had called home.

“Julie,” He mumbled in the silent wind.

~END (or is it?)~