---
Rane opened his eyes, and nothing felt real.
The air was still. The room looked like his, but quieter.
The desk was heavy with manuscripts. Books lined the shelves — his books, with his name in seven languages.
The carpet swallowed his footsteps like it didn't want him to move.
He stood up slowly. The mirror in the corner caught his face — young, too young.
Mid-thirties. Sharp. Tired.
His phone buzzed.
" Mr. Rane? The signing's in fifteen. We need you downstairs "
He didn't know the voice. He didn't remember agreeing to a signing.
But his body stood.
His hands moved.
His mouth smiled.
----
' Your novel changed the way I see myself " said a girl in tears.
He nodded.
" That's what stories are for "
But he didn't feel present. He felt like a shadow walking through light.
---
That night, he lay awake in a hotel bed far too soft.
A talk show replayed on TV.
" Do you believe in fate? "
" I believe in choice "
" So you have no regrets? "
" None "
He watched himself say it.
He watched his smile.
" What am I? " he whispered into the empty room.
---
Then the mirror moved.
Not the glass — the world behind it.
A shape. An outline. A man.
Older. Slower. Gentler.
" I'm you ' said the man in the mirror, " if you'd never left the lake "
---
Rane stared.
" So… you're the version that didn't chase all this? '
" I stayed. I woke up every day by the water. I fixed boats. I spoke little. I lived small "
" And you're happy? "
The old man thought for a moment.
" I think I am. But I'm forgotten "
" And I'm remembered "Rane said, ' but I don't remember myself "
---
The mirror fogged. The old man faded.
Rane blinked and found himself..
elsewhere.
----
A cabin.
Wooden walls. A cold wind from the cracks.
A desk. A window. A lake outside.
A fireplace that glowed like memory.
He knew this place.
Not because he had been here —
but because he had written it.
This was the setting of a novel he never finished.
The home of a character named "Rane."
---
On a dusty shelf, a book waited.
No title on the spine. No author.
Inside the cover, a handwritten note:
For the versions of me I never became
---
A creak behind him.
He turned.
The old man was there, sitting in a wooden chair, smiling gently.
" You came "
" What is this? " Rane asked.
The old man looked at him, kind but firm.
" A question "
" One you've been avoiding "
" One you must live, not answer "
---
The light dimmed.
The room fell into quiet.
And somewhere, far beyond story or dream, a single thought echoed:
" What I'm I? "