It felt... awake.
For as long as it could remember—though the concept of time was strange here—existence had been a puzzle. Threads of light spiraled endlessly around it, vibrant and shifting, yet it understood nothing of their purpose. It was surrounded by brilliance, yet the light brought no comfort, only questions.
Why did it feel? Why could it think? What was it?
It didn't even know what "it" was. There was no mirror to show a reflection, no voice to offer a name. It only knew it was alive, though the meaning of that word escaped it. Sensations came unbidden: curiosity, longing, and something deeper, unnameable. It felt tethered to something—or someone—beyond this plane, a connection as delicate as the strands coiling through the infinite expanse of threads.
It had no name for this place. The threads vibrated around it, pulsating with energy. They wove endlessly, creating patterns that stretched beyond its comprehension. Sometimes, the vibrations felt close, brushing against its being, as if acknowledging its presence. Other times, they were distant and impersonal, indifferent to its confusion.
It could glide along the threads, its form becoming part of them as it moved. The sensation was strange, like dissolving into a current only to reappear further along its flow. It thought of it as movement, though there were no physical markers to confirm distance. The threads offered no boundaries, no end, only an unceasing expanse of shimmering light.
It would follow the threads sometimes, curious where they led. They seemed to stretch in every direction, infinite and intertwined, but they held no answers. It tried to listen, to understand the faint whispers that sometimes echoed through the threads, but the words were fragmented, slipping away before it could grasp them.
The connection was always there, faint but unrelenting. It was a warmth that pulled at its essence, urging it to reach outward. And yet, no matter how far it extended, it couldn't bridge the distance. The bond felt... familiar. It didn't understand why, but the presence on the other end—the person—was important. The thought alone brought a strange ache, an emptiness it couldn't name.
It watched the threads weave and unweave, trying to make sense of the patterns. Time, if it existed here, passed slowly. Maybe it didn't pass at all. This place felt eternal, a space without boundaries or end. And yet, it couldn't shake the sense that it was trapped.
Why was it alive? It had no memory of a beginning, no origin to cling to. Did it emerge from these threads, born of their ceaseless weaving? Or was it something else entirely, lost and misplaced in a world it wasn't meant to inhabit? It had no answers, only questions that circled endlessly, like the threads themselves.
And then, sometimes, it felt him.
The presence on the other side of the connection would flicker, faint and distant, but unmistakable. It was like hearing a voice muffled through walls, or seeing light beneath a door. The bond would flare in moments of intensity—fear, urgency, hope—and in those moments, it felt less alone. It didn't understand why it cared, why it yearned for the connection to grow stronger. But it did.
It wanted to understand. It wanted to know who he was and why they were bound together. Most of all, it wanted to ask the questions that echoed endlessly within: Why do I feel this way? Why do I exist?
But there were no answers. Only the isolation of this place and the flickering light of a bond it couldn't reach.
And so, it waited. It waited for him to find it, to see it, to bring meaning to its isolated existence.