You stepped outside the store, the bag rustling faintly in your hand. The night air was sharp, the pavement still warm from the day’s heat. You didn’t think much of the silence—just another late walk home after a forgettable errand. A car passed behind you, headlights sweeping across the asphalt like fleeting ghosts. You blinked once, the light stinging your eyes.

Then nothing.

No wind. No cars. No streetlights. No city.

The silence wasn’t just silence anymore. It was hollow. Wrong.

Your eyes opened again.

The bag in your hand was gone.

The ground beneath you was stone—worn and cracked, uneven. People bustled around you in garments that looked like something out of a history book. Cloaks, belts, satchels. Steel glinted at their sides. No cars. No lights. No phone in your pocket.

You were standing in the middle of a crowded street, surrounded by strangers who didn’t even glance your way. A wooden cart creaked by, pulled by a two-headed ox-like beast. A vendor shouted something in a language you didn’t understand.

You looked down.

Pajamas. Thin, modern cotton. Alien to everything around you.

The wind bit at your skin.

No one stopped. No one screamed. No one cared.

You were completely out of place—yet no one seemed surprised to see you.