When I was a kid, I would always get obsessed with the idea that I was the main character.
You know, the hero of my own story, destined for greatness, as if the universe itself had written a plotline just for me. That's what I told myself when I was slightly over a metre tall, running around in a cape I fashioned from a bed sheet, pretending to slay invisible monsters.
Looking back, it was definitely youthful indiscretion. Might I add, pretty cringe.
But at that time, I lived for those moments. I was convinced that all the trials and tribulations — like getting lost at the grocery store or failing the easiest math test — were just the prelude to something bigger. It was all part of a grand narrative, some cosmic script only I was privy to.
I believed my world wasn't confined to the mundane; that it was layered with possibilities. The squeak of my sneakers on the pavement? Not just a sound, but a clue. The flickering streetlight? A signal from another dimension. The shadow in the corner of my room? Probably a minion of the villain I was destined to defeat.
I would close my eyes and imagine the universe watching, the stars waiting for me to rise, to grow, to become something beyond the ordinary.
Of course, time marched on. I outgrew the cape, traded in make-believe battles for actual trials in my life — ones given out to everyone else too, and eventually abandoned the idea that I was destined for anything other than reality.
It's funny, though. I always wondered if there's a part of that old belief still buried deep down, under all the dense layers of grown-up indifference. I'd think that, perhaps there'd be some truth to it — not in a literal sense, of course, but in the idea that we all carry our own narratives, that our lives are, in some way, stories.
But those stories don't always turn out the way we thought they would, do they?
As I grew older, I lost that sense of youthful, naive magic. I didn't become a hero. No grand adventure found me. Instead, life became… life. It's a funny thing to realise when you're 25 and the most thrilling part of your day is deciding what to eat for dinner.
But at that time, I lived for those moments. I was convinced that all the trials and tribulations—like getting lost at the grocery store or forgetting my homework—were just the prelude to something bigger. It was all part of a grand narrative, some cosmic script only I was privy to.
My world wasn't confined to the mundane; it was layered with possibilities. The squeak of my sneakers on the pavement? Not just a sound, but a clue. The flickering streetlight? A signal from another dimension. The shadow in the corner of my room? Probably a minion of the villain I was destined to defeat.
I would close my eyes and imagine the universe watching, the stars waiting for me to rise, to grow, to become something beyond the ordinary.
Of course, time marched on. I outgrew the cape, traded in make-believe battles for actual school tests, and eventually abandoned the idea that I was destined for anything other than reality.
It's funny, though. I wonder if there's a part of that old belief still buried deep down, under all the layers of grown-up indifference. Maybe there's some truth to it—not in a literal sense, of course, but in the idea that we all carry our own narratives, that our lives are, in some way, stories.
But those stories don't always turn out the way we thought they would, do they?
As I grew older, I lost that sense of magic. I didn't become a hero. No grand adventure found me. Instead, life became… life. It's a funny thing to realize when you're twenty-five and the most thrilling part of your day is deciding what to eat for dinner.
And now, here I am, 25 years old, sitting in a dimly lit apartment, barely holding on to any shred of purpose. The hero's journey that was supposed to unfold? Never happened. Instead, it felt like I fell off the map somewhere between adolescence and adulthood, lost in a sea of monotony.
The idea of destiny faded as quickly as my childhood imagination. No quests, no villains, no invisible monsters to slay — just the regular grind of existing, day in and day out.
But lately, there's been something gnawing at me, like the universe wasn't quite finished with that story I had abandoned. It's subtle, but I feel it sometimes. A chill that runs down my spine for no apparent reason. Objects moving slightly out of place, like someone else had been in the room while I wasn't looking. At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me, remnants of an overactive imagination from childhood resurfacing in moments of isolation.
But then there was the knock on the door.
Late at night. Too late for visitors.
I froze, staring at the door like it might suddenly reveal the answer to every unanswered question I never bothered to ask. I didn't move. Didn't even breathe. Whoever it was knocked again, louder this time, like they knew I was on the other side, listening. The hairs on my neck stood up.
A ridiculous thought crossed my mind — what if this is it? What if, after all these years of waiting, my story was finally about to begin?
For a second, I was that kid again, the main character, with a bed sheet cape and invisible sword. But that was insane, right?
Another knock.
I hesitated, then slowly approached the door. I reached for the handle, but before I could turn it, the knocking stopped. Silence flooded the room.
I cracked the door open, peeking into the hallway. Nothing. No one. Just the usual dim lighting and an empty corridor. I exhaled a shaky breath, laughing at myself. Of course, it was nothing.
I turned to shut the door, but something caught my eye — a small envelope, resting on the floor. My name was scrawled on the front in a messy, hurried script.
The universe was knocking again.
My hand trembled as I reached down and picked up the envelope. It was heavy—heavier than paper should be. I stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at it, my mind racing. Who left this here? What's inside? I glanced up and down the hallway again, but there was no sign of anyone. Just that eerie, still silence.
Closing the door behind me, I stepped back into my apartment, clutching the envelope. I sat down at the kitchen table, the flickering overhead light casting long shadows across the room. For a second, I thought about just tossing it in the trash. Better to leave it unopened, keep the mystery alive, than face the possibility that it was something mundane—a bill, a prank, a flyer for some local restaurant.
But I couldn't do that, could I? Not after everything. Not after that knocking.
I slid my finger under the seal and ripped it open.
Inside was a key.
A small, old-fashioned brass key. It looked ancient, its surface worn down from use. I turned it over in my hand, trying to make sense of it. There was nothing else in the envelope. No note. No explanation. Just this key.
What was it for?
I stood up, suddenly restless, pacing around the room, the key clutched in my hand. My mind was spinning with possibilities, each one crazier than the last. Part of me wanted to believe this was the beginning—the moment my life would take a turn toward something extraordinary. But another part of me knew better. This was probably some elaborate hoax or just another mundane mystery that would end up disappointing me like everything else.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that the universe had knocked on my door for a reason. That the key wasn't just an object but a symbol, a message. The story was starting to write itself again, wasn't it?
I slipped the key into my pocket and tried to go about the rest of my evening, but I couldn't focus on anything else. My thoughts kept circling back to that little piece of brass, its weight heavy in my pocket. Where did it fit? What door was it meant to unlock?
The answer came sooner than I expected.
Late that night, as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the knocking returned. This time, it was more insistent. Three quick, sharp raps. Then silence.
I sat up, heart pounding, adrenaline surging through my veins. Was this really happening? I grabbed the key from my pocket and crept toward the door. My hand hovered over the handle, my breath shaky.
I swung the door open.
The hallway was dark, much darker than before, the lights flickering as if they were struggling to stay on. There, just a few feet away, was a door I had never seen before. It wasn't possible. My building didn't have any doors like this — old, wooden, with iron hinges and a lock that looked like it hadn't been used in decades.
But there it was.
The key in my hand hummed with a strange, almost electric warmth, as if it recognized the door. Without thinking, I walked over to it, my feet moving on their own.
I knelt down, heart hammering in my chest, and slid the key into the lock. It fit perfectly.
I turned it, the click echoing through the silent hallway like a gunshot.
The door creaked open. A cold gust of wind rushed out, sending a shiver through me. On the other side was nothing but darkness. A pitch-black void, deep and endless.
For a moment, I hesitated. My rational mind screamed at me to close the door and walk away, to forget this ever happened.
But then I remembered that kid — the one in the cape, the one who believed the world was full of magic and adventure. Maybe, just maybe, that kid had been right all along.
I stepped through the door and into the dark.