He strides into the enchanted forest, where silver leaves shiver like a chorus of tiny bells. The path narrows between ancient trunks, and every root seems arranged by some attentive god. Ahead, a circle of mushrooms glows with moon-pale light, though the sky above is still the dull ceiling of his apartment. He tells himself this is a sacred boundary, a place where destiny will speak plainly at last.

Then the forest stutters. The singing birds become the buzz of an overhead light, and the moss beneath his boots is only a rug frayed by years of use. He sees a kettle on the stove where a dragon might have slept, and a stack of unopened mail standing where a wizard’s tower should rise. The revelation does not arrive like thunder, but like embarrassment, quiet and unavoidable. Yet even now, he grips his sword of certainty and refuses to let the world rename itself.