What does a story mean to you?
To me, it's just a way to pass time. Nothing more.
I'm Ren Hayden—a novelist, or at least, that's what I like to call myself. In truth, I've only written three original books. The rest? Fan fiction, never meant to see the light of day.
Naturally, that means I can't exactly live off my writing. So I work part-time jobs. And if I'm being completely honest—
I'd rather be dead.
If not for one thing:
My parents left, and they left my siblings with me.
---
My little brother was on the floor with a textbook and a dying pencil.
My sister was asleep on the couch, a bowl of half-eaten cereal slipping from her lap.
"Did you eat?" I asked, tossing my keys on the table.
"No," he said, without looking up.
"You should."
"You should too," he mumbled.
That stung more than I expected.
I didn't reply.
Instead, I microwaved something frozen, gave them what was left, and collapsed in the corner of the living room with a pen I wouldn't use.
"You're home early," my sister mumbled, barely awake.
"Just tired," I said.
She smiled in her sleep. "You're always tired."
---
That night, I didn't dream. Not in the usual way.
I blinked—and the ceiling was gone.
---
I was floating.
Not falling—just suspended, like breath caught in the back of a throat. The world was nothing but endless ink, with glimmers of words drifting past like stars. I saw letters I forgot I ever wrote. Scenes from books I abandoned. Characters I loved and never finished.
And then she appeared.
She didn't step into view—she became it. A shape made of glimmering pages and soft light, smiling like she knew every mistake I'd made and still found it amusing.
"Ren Hayden," she said, like reading my name off a worn cover.
"Who are you?" You barely mutter, as it required you tremendous will.
"Let's just say I'm God." She circled me, curious, like a child poking a dead bug with a stick.
"You write stories," she said. "But you don't feel them."
I frowned. "That's not true."
Her grin widened. "No? Then tell me, what did your first story feel like?"
I paused.
Exactly.
"You want to change that?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Live them. All three. The ones you actually finished. No edits. No skipping pages. Just you, inside, from beginning to end."
I stared at her.
"Why me?"
"You're broken. And I like watching people try to fix themselves."
"…What happens if I say no?"
"You wake up," she said. "Back to your rent and your silence. Working 'til death says otherwise."
"And if I say yes?"
"Then you get one more chance to understand your own words. The ones you wrote when you still had something left in you."
I didn't speak for a long time.
Then I thought of my brother and his snapped pencil.
My sister, smiling in her sleep.
The three books on my dusty shelf.
I didn't think I can simply leave them behind.
"…What about my siblings?" I asked quietly. "I can't just leave them."
The god blinked, then smiled like she'd been waiting for the question.
"You won't be gone long. Time here doesn't move like it does out there. To them, it'll be like you never left."
I hesitated, but something in her tone felt true. Like a story where the ending hadn't been spoiled yet.
"…Alright," I whispered. "I accept."
The light shattered.
And the story began.