Ronan awoke with a start, his breath ragged, his body covered in a thin layer of sweat. His eyes darted around, confusion clouding his mind as the real world slowly came into focus. The sound of the bustling city outside his window, the faint hum of the old refrigerator in the corner, and the dull gray walls of his small apartment all told him one thing: he was home. The world he had been in—the strange land, the bright skies, the unsettling encounters—had faded like a half-remembered dream.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering feeling that something was wrong. It had felt so real. The old man, the shadows, the village—it was all so vivid. But as he lay there, staring up at the cracked ceiling, a creeping sense of unease began to take hold.
"Just a dream," he muttered to himself, sitting up on the edge of his bed. The normality of his apartment—the dull hum of city life outside, the familiar smell of old pizza boxes and dust—felt grounding, comforting. He was here. He was real.
But then his mind wandered back to the conversation with the old man. That man had known his name—Ronan Winter—but had also said something strange before leaving.
"You're here for a reason. Your name is not what you think it is, but it is the name you must bear now."
Ronan frowned, trying to remember the exact words. His true name? What did that even mean? Was he supposed to be someone else here, someone with a different name? Was the world he'd just left not just a dream, but an alternate reality where he had a role to play?
He could still feel the weight of the words hanging in the air, a ghost of the man's voice echoing in his mind. How did he know my name?
His head pounded as he got out of bed, trying to piece things together. He needed answers. Desperately.
The old man hadn't just known his name—Ronan was sure of it. He had said it with such certainty. But how? The man and the mysterious figure in the village, both had called him Ronan Winter, just as he was known back home, but somehow it felt off. The old man had made it clear that there was another name, a name he had forgotten. Ronan shivered at the thought.
"There are things in this world that should not be known. Secrets that are better left buried."
The old man's warning replayed in his mind. What if his name was something more than just an identifier? What if it held some power, or some connection to the reason he was here in the first place?
He stood up and walked to the small, cracked mirror above the sink in his bathroom. His reflection looked just like it always had—messy black hair, pale skin, the same tired eyes that had seen too much for someone his age. Nothing had changed. But the mirror was silent, offering no answers.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, deep, aching sense of loss. The world he had just left—if it wasn't a dream—had been so different, so much more than this mundane reality. He remembered the strange sense of destiny he had felt, as though he was meant for something greater than this apartment, greater than the dreary streets outside. The world he had found himself in was alive with possibility, with untold secrets waiting to be discovered. But here, in this room, he felt small. Trapped.
He needed to know more.
Ronan dressed quickly, trying to shake the strange sense of disconnect. He couldn't go back to sleep, not when there were so many unanswered questions swirling in his mind. As he grabbed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, his eyes caught the worn, old book sitting on his desk. He had found it in the apartment when he first moved in—an old leather-bound thing, filled with cryptic notes and symbols that made no sense. It had been there when Mrs. Jones gave him the apartment, a gift from the previous occupant. He hadn't given it much thought until now.
His fingers hesitated as he reached for it. The book felt strangely important now, as if it might hold the key to everything.
Flipping it open, he scanned the pages, each one filled with incomprehensible writing. But then, toward the back, he found something that made his heart skip a beat. There, scrawled in the margins, was a single phrase:
"The true name is the key to the Borrowed. The world remembers, even when the soul forgets."
Ronan's breath caught in his throat. The true name? What did it mean? And why was this written here, in the book that had come with the apartment? He turned the pages frantically, but there was nothing else that made sense, just more symbols, more cryptic phrases. His hands trembled as he slammed the book shut.
"How could they know?" he whispered aloud, staring at the book. "How could they know my name?"
A chill ran down his spine. Could it be? Was this all real? Had he been truly "borrowed" as the old man had said? The idea that this world might not be a dream, that it might be a second life—a borrowed life—made his stomach twist in knots.
Suddenly, as if the book had been waiting for him to piece it together, a single word echoed in his mind.
"Velrion."
The name felt foreign, yet familiar—like a distant memory trying to push its way to the surface. He froze, staring at the book in disbelief. Velrion. It was his name. His true name.
"Velrion…" he whispered again, testing the sound of it on his tongue. It was strange, like a key unlocking something deep inside him. It didn't feel like just a name—it felt like an identity, a forgotten piece of him that had been waiting to be remembered.
It was then that everything clicked. The world he had entered wasn't just a dream. It was where he truly belonged. It wasn't a matter of if he had been brought here, but why.
The old man had known it. The strange figure in the village had known it. The world itself had known it.
Ronan Winter didn't exist in this world. His true name, the one that bound him to this strange land, was Velrion.
He dropped the book onto his desk and ran a hand through his hair. The apartment felt suffocating now, the walls closing in on him. He needed to go back. He needed to understand why he had been given this name, why he had been brought here.
And just as quickly as the thought entered his mind, he was overwhelmed with a sudden, pressing need to return—to return to the world that had felt so real, to confront the truth behind the darkness and the name that now lingered at the edge of his consciousness.
He knew one thing for sure now: this wasn't just a dream. It was something else. Something far more dangerous.
He glanced at the window, staring out at the streets below. It was as though a door had opened, and he was standing at the threshold, unable to turn away.
"I have to go back," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
He didn't know how, but he would find a way. He had to. Because the world he had left behind was calling him back, and the name Velrion was the key.