Blankfall

The world is broken in ways nobody talks about.

Rivers flow the wrong direction. Cities have streets that lead nowhere and buildings that don't quite line up with each other. There are seventeen statues in the central plaza but the plaque says twelve, and the extra five have no names on their pedestals. Old women celebrate holidays nobody else remembers. Sailors know fighting styles that require weapons no one makes anymore. People wake up grieving and can't explain why.

Most folks don't notice. Or they notice and look away. Easier to smooth over the gaps than ask questions that don't have answers.

But the gaps are everywhere once you start looking.

Old maps show coastlines that don't exist. Entire peninsulas, island chains, places that should be there but aren't. The ocean has stretches where the currents run sideways and temperatures change in sharp lines, like someone drew borders in the water. Sailors call these the stitched waters and most won't go near them.

Some people carry scars they don't remember getting. Wounds that appeared overnight, healed already, shaped in patterns that look almost deliberate. Almost like writing.

There's fog that appears without warning. They say it grants wishes. They also say it takes something in return.

The world feels like a house where rooms have been walled over. You can sense the empty spaces behind the plaster. Sometimes you hear echoes from places that aren't supposed to be there.

Something happened. Something big. And almost everyone has forgotten.

Almost.