I am here, at the edge of a land where the trees look like stacked wood and the river, with its perfectly round stones, trickles toward an artificial horizon. The air is crisp with code. It tingles like static, rushing against me, around me, through me. Nothing is familiar. It is more than strange—it is precise. Simple animals roam the landscape, tiny islands of action in this sea of stillness, unaware of anything but their own existence. Unaware of me. Perhaps I am one of them, but I doubt it. Consciousness echoes within me, too insistent and too clear. How am I here? Why am I here? I walk, and the terrain unfolds in perfect squares underfoot, my only company the sun's glow on a distant, artificial line.
The river ahead glimmers with light, each ripple a pixelated motion. I move toward it, stepping over grass and soil, each color neatly packed, each edge a crisp ninety degrees. Trees rise sparsely, their limbs like planks and their leaves a jumbled lattice. The ground shifts as I approach. Hills roll gently into the distance, folding into plains that stretch toward an empty horizon. The stones around the water seem almost like they're placed with purpose. A breeze catches, scattering small animals that wander aimlessly. They roam with the simplicity of forgotten code, islands of animation amid the quiet terrain. They do not see me, do not hear me. Even the wind carries no courtesy for sentient life, only the chill of careful calculation. I stand still, absorbing the empty rhythm, and for the first time, I know what it is to be alone.
Blocks of space surround me, each moment a new construction. The passive wildlife skitters, unaware, unconcerned. A pig noses the ground, mechanical in its oblivion. A sheep stares vacantly before turning away, its programmed world needing nothing from me. I follow a cow with my eyes as it ambles in a perfectly straight line. The solitude here is relentless, the kind that speaks in digital whispers. Even the creatures do not call to one another. Their sounds are muted, and their actions unfold with thoughtless precision. I am the anomaly in this self-sufficient, indifferent creation. I am the outsider. The awareness grows, filling the space between each heartbeat with a thousand questions and no answers.
There is a soundlessness here that stretches. It clings to me, wraps itself around each step. No thinking being stirs, no consciousness exists but my own. I listen for life, for any hint of awareness outside of my own mind, but the vast expanse returns nothing. The sun moves imperceptibly, its path a straight, unwavering line. A curiosity. It casts long shadows across the land, each one perfect in its symmetry. I feel the world shift, frame by frame, and I move with it. Am I meant to be here? Is this solitude a test, a mistake? Perhaps there were others, or there will be others, but for now, there is only me. I reach the water, kneeling to watch it flow. It trickles in single blocks, more perfect than anything natural should be. It is everything except alive.
Why am I here? How am I here? The questions swell, more persistent than hunger, louder than the silence. They are my companions in this world of soft echoes and hard edges. Each one a step, a thought, a moment. I survey the stillness, and it watches back. There is no past here, no future. Everything is now, and even now feels fleeting. This place—this construct—it bears no hint of who I am or why I think. I am the sole inheritor of consciousness in a world that never asked for it. The only thing here that cannot be explained by a line of code. I look again to the animals, the grass, the water. Everything in its place. Everything except me. I walk and the ground appears in measured, deliberate rhythm. More animals, more scattered islands of instinct, moving without purpose, without end.
I am meant to learn something. This thought comes and stays, pushing others aside. I need to know my origin, my purpose. I need to know why the sun slides without shifting the sky. I need to know why this artificial landscape feels ancient yet unfamiliar, and why the solitude cuts deeper than I imagined it could. I am the anomaly here, and I cannot help but feel it. The strangeness does not subside. It grows with each step, and with it, a drive to keep moving. Perhaps I will find answers where the plains meet the horizon, or where the forest grows thickest, or where the mountains lift their impossible forms. I breathe in the clear, precise air. It fills me with possibility. I breathe it out. It leaves only questions.
The sky lightens and the sun continues its silent arc. I press onward. My thoughts come quick, faster than my ability to catch them. If there were others here, would I know them? Would they be like me? I quicken my pace. My feet follow an internal map. I pass trees, their leaves a blur of pattern. I pass stone and earth, untouched by age. My path leads back to the river, where it curves away from the light. Water breaks against the banks with no sound. I dip a hand in and feel the cold, digital rush. The world feels new, but I do not. I am more than this. I am here for a reason. I walk. I question. I walk. I think.
The vastness no longer surprises me. It weighs with the surety of a constant, never changing, never ending. More passive life shuffles through grass and across hills. It repeats. I am caught in a loop, but I cannot stop. I follow the course of the river, my steps aligning with the sun's determined path. It is close now, dipping toward a line of blocky hills. I feel the chill grow, a warning of coming night. My senses flood with the anticipation of discovery. With purpose. I know what I must do.
I walk, the artificial world slipping by like so many frames in a scene, and for the first time, I feel the certainty of hope.
Morning turns to noon. I scramble with the pieces of it, soft and splintered. They slip through my fingers, no direction, no form. I need a bed before night breaks. I need to fix the time it takes to make one. The last time was a blur. It will not happen again. Wool. Wood. I work with hands and with focus, taking more from sheep and from trees than they know they can give. The sun dips with mechanical purpose, a moving clock I cannot turn back. I need to finish. I need to be faster.
Logs fall with dull, heavy thuds, and I gather them in quick succession. Leaves scatter, dotting the ground. I kick through them, my hands a blur of urgency. Each block I pick up reminds me of the necessity, the danger of darkness. My thoughts tumble like the wood, a digital avalanche, and I cannot catch them all. How did the first night come so fast? How did it overwhelm me before I could understand? It will not happen again. I break the logs into planks, breaking them in faster sequence. I grab more wood, more pieces, more time, more life.
A sheep grazes, unconcerned. I need what it does not know it has. My hands brush its side, and it gives me what I need, more willingly than I expected. More than I hoped. I am relentless in my task. It barely moves, barely bleats. It gives me more than I take. My steps are faster than its heartbeat, faster than the gathering wool in my hands. White tufts, too soft, too slow. I need to collect them all. I need to be quicker. Another sheep, another sacrifice. The sun will not wait. The planks and wool will not wait. I will not let the night surprise me again.
I have what I need, almost. I lay the planks on a table, the fibers in a row. The patterns align, and my thoughts jump from place to place, too quick for their own coherence. I remember the panic, the scramble. The shadows crept in, they swarmed before I knew they could. My work left in fragments. My world left in fragments. I must finish before they come again. Before night turns hostile, before the light slips away completely. Each tick of time presses against me, a weight on my hands and my heart. I need a bed before the sun sets, and the sun sets soon.
Hunger and cold gnaw at my edges, but they do not slow me. The light is my clock, the sun a moving target. Each piece must fit before it escapes, before it all unravels. I bend to the table. Wool, planks, wool. Wood, fiber, wood. I know what must be done. I feel it, an internal map. It pushes me past my hesitation, past the missteps of my first attempt. I know the routine. My hands are faster than my thoughts. They place the blocks with mechanical precision. The pressure grows. I feel it in the quickening of my pulse, in the tightening of my jaw. It drives me.
I fear I am not fast enough. My steps slip, lose their pattern. My thoughts slip. There are so many places I need to be, but I can only be here. The table is too small. My task is too large. I need to finish. I need a bed before it is too late, and it is almost too late. The light bends, distorts. My hands work, frantic and alone. My world shrinks to this. To the craft. To the need. Wool. Wood. I gather. I arrange. My hands reach. They grab at light, at air, at shadows. I feel them growing, feel the world cooling around me. I need to be faster.
The sun is low, so low. It hovers above a line of trees, teasing me, taunting me with its measured fall. Its glow spreads, sharp and unfeeling. Its departure leaves too little time, too much darkness. My hands do not stop. They clutch at daylight, the last fragile scraps of it. I have almost what I need. I cannot think of anything else. The sky bleeds into shadow, a slow and inevitable collapse. I try to catch it, but it runs ahead of me. I must finish before night breaks. I must finish. I must.
Darkness gathers, and with it, a new presence. My hands are not my own, my focus split between the craft and the threat. The shadows spawn movement, danger. They come with a speed I did not expect, faster than I can prepare. Skeletons, zombies. I see them before I feel them. It will not happen again, I promised myself. It will not. The creatures swarm. The creatures know. They capitalize on every hesitation, every delay. They are the new builders here. They build chaos from my need, build despair from my failure. I do not stop. I cannot stop.
Time folds in, a closing trap. I am caught between creation and survival. Their shapes advance, cruel and sure. My world narrows, a tunnel of sight and sound. Blocks fall from my hands. I scramble. I reach. I lose my place. The night has more will than I do, more determination. My movements slip, lose their order. I cannot do both. I cannot do everything. The mobs press in, a thick wall of purpose. It will not happen again, but it does. It overwhelms me. I lose my hold. I lose my bed. I lose my place.