It all started so simply, so innocently, so responsibly: when you are an adult, you have to be prepared for such things.

Parents don’t live forever.
Nor do spouses.
Nor siblings.
Nor children.

He had studied actuarial science in college. He was a former Boy Scout: “Be Prepared” was a mantra he had intoned since childhood. Nothing wrong with that. It simply meant he was ready for that universally dreaded phone call.

Not a text message, not an email. A phone call, perhaps late at night while brushing your teeth. Perhaps early on a Saturday morning before anyone is up doing anything.

He had gotten a phone call like that one Saturday morning.

He screamed—a howl he didn’t know he could make. He would never forget that morning, or how completely unprepared he had been.

And so, he had a plan now.

He had a plan for everyone.

His mother’s was twelve pages.

His father’s was nine.

His wife’s was thirty-seven.

There were wills, passwords, insurance policies, funeral preferences, account numbers, phone trees. He knew which relatives would need to be called first and which ones should not be left alone after receiving the news.

But those were only logistics.

He planned the grief, too.

If his mother died first, he would drive rather than fly. He imagined the call coming at night. Rain, probably. If driving, pull to the side of the road when the call came. If at home, go to the bedroom, close the door. Scream into pillow as needed.

For his father, he had prepared three possible eulogies. They all centered around regretting not reconnecting after the divorce. One version was reserved and stoic, another was lighthearted and anecdotal. He would just need to ask around beforehand which fit best, as he didn’t really know his father well enough to choose himself.

For his wife, he knew where he would stand at the funeral. He knew the music she would want. He knew the flowers: daisies. She wore a blue dress with a daisy pattern on their first date. She loved that dress.

He had decided he would allow himself three days before handling paperwork and two weeks before returning to work.

He considered this practical.

People refused to think about death, then acted surprised when it came. Ludicrous in his eyes. “Death and taxes”—wasn’t that the saying?

He would not be surprised.

One Saturday morning, his wife sat across from him eating toast while he updated the beneficiary information on her life insurance policy. Sunshine poured through the bay window behind her as she scrolled through her phone.

Suddenly she laughed.

She laughed and couldn’t stop, one hand covering her mouth.

He looked up.

“What’s so funny?”

She turned the phone toward him.

A cat meme. Something absurdly stupid.

She wiped a tear from her eye and breathlessly said, “Oh, I don’t know why I found that so funny.”

Later, after breakfast, he went to the den.

He pulled out the manila folder labeled WIFE — DEATH.

Thirty-seven pages.

He stared at it for a long time.

From the kitchen, he heard a cupboard close.

Then her voice, humming badly to herself.

There was no plan in which losing her was acceptable.

***
Thank you for reading. This story is about being an adult, which bums me out sometimes. I would love to hear your feedback.

Like most loyalists, when I first heard the name Praxia Apostle, I thought it had to be the name of a great leader, a fearless commander, a long-sought savior. Turns out Praxia was a lowly bean counter, a one-upon-a-time accountant who’d joined the cause, who was relegated to supply logistics. She kept track of stuff.

Stuff we needed to fight the upstarts. It was important, but not the stuff of legends. Still, Praxia became legendary, exalted, almost deified. And all because of an epic accounting error.

Not her error. An error that’d been discovered long ago, but she was the one who finally exploited the error. You see, the universe is a numbers game. Things have to add up. The tally sheet has to balance. The bottom line is always the bottom line.

And astrophysicists have known for a long time that the universe wasn’t adding up. Something was missing. Something big that was actually very small. Dark matter. The elusive primordial element that controlled the ultimate fate of the universe.

But Praxia Apostle wasn’t interested in entropy and heat death, she had holes in her supply spreadsheet she had to fill. And at some point she realized dark matter could fill those holes. No one quite knows the exact methods and/or madness Praxia employed. She would only say she “reconciled the books.”

However she did it, Praxia’s “reconciliation” made it possible for our quantum printers to harness dark matter from the ether. An almost infinite supply of star stuff that we could feed into the printers for everything from boots to bullets to butter.

With that kind of resource edge, we loyalists crushed the upstarts ushering in an era now known as the Pax Praxia. To many in the cause, she became a pseudo-religion. Praxia Apostle apostles sprung up everywhere preaching a muddy gospel of divine amortization.

It’s no surprise then that Praxia went dark, like a spreadsheet column hidden, which only led to further calls for her deification. It’s too bad. I think an unassuming accountant who changed the course of history, even with a prophetic name like Praxia Apostle, just wanted to live an ordinary kind of life, to do her job, to count, to matter.

On balance, isn’t that what we all want?

“I need to stretch my legs,” she said to her uncle,a red-headed gentleman wearing a wide-brimmed white silk hat and a three piece suit to match.

Tall and slim but not too womanly at eighteen, Libby was in no hurry to crawl into the steamer chest. “I need to stretch my legs. Tired of sittin.’”

“We have to get on board, and you have to be inside the chest before that can happen.”

“Don’t explain it again, Burt. I understand. I just don’t understand why.”

“Call me, Grampa, Libby.  Do you remember why Abraham lied about Sarah being his wife?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, I don’t want some deckhand or bosun’s mate to see how pretty you are and think he can get you by killing me.”

“Ain’t you still got that little Derringer, Grampa?  Just shoot ‘em if they try somethin’”

“Listen, Libby. We don’t have time for all that. Just stay inside the chest until the deckhands deliver it to my stateroom. Nobody will see you, and I want have to shoot anybody.”

“I can’t stay inside the stateroom 15 days, Grandpa.  I thought you said you’d disguise me as a boy.”

“That’s after we get to Natchez, honey. People on the boat will see you close up.  They’ll know you’re too pretty to be a young man.”

“What about all that makeup and the wig and that mustache?  And I can use my deep voice.”

“Okay. Okay. After we get our stuff in the stateroom, you can disguise yourself and we’ll eat dinner in the dining room. Lights won’t be that bright.  Now sit down or lay down. I am going to close this lid on your head when I count to three.”

Libby grinned and flopped down on the floor of the chest, thinking that Uncle Bert was a push over. 

What she had no way of knowing was that being a pushover on a steamboat on the Mississippi River could get you drowned. 

. 

First favourite band: Van Halen. I was ten, gimme a break. The album cover had an angel smoking a cigarette. That's bad, & bad is cool. Jump (a ridiculous song that would be considered satire today) was number one on American Top 40 (hosted by Casey Kasem) for months.. months. It was huge.

I used to draw the VH logo all over my binders at school. I put on a play in Grade 5 about Van Halen coming to some small town & shaking things up. I played David Lee Roth.

My teacher, Miss Mcguire, a former Catholic nun, filmed me & my friends on a camcorder, lip sync songs from 1984: Jump, Panama, California Girls, & Hot 4 Teacher. The play was a hit. It was exhilarating.

But the high did not last, as my next play about WWF wrestlers invading the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, lacked direction, & a clear message. It was a flop, in other words. It was not well received & my star started to lose its shine. I rode my BMX home singing Panama as loud as I could to fight back the tears.

Like every other night, Stephen sank into his bed, pulling the blanket up to his chin, his mind still half-tangled in the small worries of the day — an unanswered email, the dishes he hadn't washed. He had no way of knowing that this ordinary night would be the last one he'd ever spend in the world he understood.

Outside, the cold had teeth. It pressed against the windowpanes and crept along the floorboards, the kind of cold that makes a person burrow deeper into the blankets without quite waking up. Somewhere in the walls, the old clock ticked its familiar rhythm — the same sound Stephen had fallen asleep to for years, so constant he no longer even heard it. And then, right as the hands met at midnight, it simply stopped. A silence fell over the house that felt less like the absence of sound and more like the world holding its breath. Stephen didn't stir. He was already gone, folded into the kind of sleep that asks nothing of you and gives nothing back — the sleep of a man who trusts that tomorrow will look like today.

It didn't.

He woke slowly, the way he always did, eyes adjusting to the grey light slipping through the curtains. For a moment, everything felt normal — the same ceiling, the same crack near the light fixture he kept meaning to fix. But something underneath the stillness felt wrong, the way a familiar song sounds off when a single note is out of tune, and you can't say which one. He sat up. Rubbed his eyes. Looked around a room he'd lived in for years and felt, for one disorienting second, like a stranger standing in his own life.

Then he saw it. The old map — the one his father had framed and hung above the desk, the one Stephen used to trace with his finger as a boy, learning the shape of the country he belonged to — had fallen. It lay face-down on the floor, glass cracked, as though something had reached into the room while he slept and quietly pulled it from the wall.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the radio, some instinct telling him he needed to hear another human voice before he could believe anything. Static, then a voice — calm, official, utterly unaware of how it was about to break him. He sat frozen on the edge of his bed, the blanket still pooled around his legs, listening to a stranger explain that the country he'd fallen asleep in no longer existed. No war had been fought for it. No blood spilled in the streets. No warning had ever reached him. While he slept the deep, forgettable sleep of an ordinary Tuesday, the ground beneath his own bed had quietly become the soil of a different nation.

He didn't move for a long time. He just sat there, holding a truth too large to fit inside one morning — that a person's entire world, their home, their identity, could shift overnight without asking permission, without a single sound to mark the moment it happened.

Historical footnote: This isn't fiction. On January 1st, 1993, Czechoslovakia split into two nations in a single night — no war, no bloodshed, no warning shots. People simply woke up to find their old country gone, replaced overnight by the Czech Republic and Slovakia. History remembers it as the "Velvet Divorce" — perhaps the quietest border in history, drawn while everyone was asleep.

Discussion Question: Are there any psychological thrillers, mysteries, or alternate-history novels — something in the spirit of Philip K. Dick or Robert Harris — that explore a protagonist waking up to find their entire geopolitical reality rewritten overnight, the way it happened here? I'd love some recommendations.

Chapter 1

They had imagined this moment so many times.

No parents telling them they were making a mistake.

No arguments.

No one asking them to choose between love and family.

Just them.

And now, finally, their own house.

He pushed the front door open and stepped inside with a cardboard box in his arms.

“Welcome home,” he said, grinning.

She stood at the doorway for a moment, looking at the empty living room.

“Home?” she asked, smiling.

“Yeah,” he said. “Our home.”

The house wasn't perfect. The walls needed painting, there were boxes everywhere, and half their belongings were still packed into the car.

But somehow, she loved it.

Maybe because, for the first time, nobody could tell them where they belonged.

He put the box down and suddenly grabbed her hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Come here.”

Before she could protest, he pulled her into the middle of the empty living room and spun her around.

She burst out laughing.

Her laughter filled the room.

Then it echoed.

She stopped.

The echo came back a little too late.

Just a fraction of a second.

She looked around.

He was still smiling.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

She stared at the empty hallway behind him.

For a moment, she thought she heard another laugh.

A quieter one.

Almost exactly like hers.

She swallowed.

“Nothing.”

He walked over, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead.

“Come on. We have a whole house to unpack.”

She smiled again.

And followed him.

Neither of them noticed that, upstairs, one of the bedroom doors had slowly opened by itself.

Once upon a time, in a shiny penthouse high above the city lights, there lived a very naughty little character named Bad Boy.Bad Boy was no ordinary fellow. He was Diddy’s pride and joy, a thick, heavy, always-ready companion who hung low and proud between the legs of the man himself. Bad Boy had a mind of his own. He loved parties, he loved attention, and most of all he loved getting into delicious trouble.Every night when the music got loud and the champagne flowed, Bad Boy would wake up. He’d stretch, thicken, and stand tall like a king surveying his kingdom. “Let’s go, Daddy,” he’d whisper in that deep, throbbing voice only Diddy could hear. “Time to be bad.”One particular evening, after a long day of deals and beats, Diddy climbed into his big soft bed. The lights were low. The sheets were silk. Bad Boy was already half-awake, twitching with mischief.“Shh,” Diddy murmured, stroking him slowly. “It’s bedtime, boy.”But Bad Boy didn’t want bedtime. He wanted playtime. He pulsed harder, hotter, rising up against Diddy’s palm like he was demanding an encore. “Come on,” he throbbed. “Just a little late-night session. You know you love how I feel when I’m thick and greedy.”Diddy chuckled, low and rough. He wrapped his fingers around Bad Boy and gave him a firm, loving squeeze. “You really are a bad boy, aren’t you?”Bad Boy throbbed in agreement, leaking a little bead of excitement that glistened in the dim light. He swelled even more, heavy and insistent, until Diddy couldn’t resist any longer. He stroked him slow at first, then faster, the wet sounds soft in the quiet room. Bad Boy loved every second loved the grip, the heat, the way Diddy’s breath hitched.Higher and higher he climbed, pulsing hard, until finally he erupted in thick, hot spurts across Diddy’s stomach, painting him in victory. Bad Boy pulsed and twitched through every wave, proud and spent.When it was over, he softened just a little, still warm and heavy in Diddy’s hand. Diddy wiped them both clean, tucked Bad Boy back under the sheets, and kissed the top of his own knuckles.“Good night, you filthy little monster,” he whispered.Bad Boy gave one last, sleepy throb like a satisfied smirk and settled down to rest.And that is how Diddy’s bad boy penis went to sleep every night: thick, happy, and already dreaming about the next round of trouble.

I breathed out hard, putting all my effort into my final rep. I pushed my legs out and came down with a crash of weights. Bright white lights, my face hot, legs lightly shaking. I stood up slowly and got a paper towel to wipe the machine down, grabbed my things, and moved to the leg curl. Sitting down, I moved to put my phone and wallet in a cup holder when I noticed something inside, small and shiny. A pair of keys.

I looked around the gym: dumbbells rising and falling, heavy grunts, everyone focused on themselves. I scanned the gym one last time for anyone who looked like they lost something, but seeing nothing I started my set. By the time I finished still no one had come. I grabbed my stuff and the keys and went to the front desk.

"Excuse me," I said.

"Yes?" replied the staff member.

"I found some car keys that someone left, I was thinking I could leave them with you?"

"Oh, yes, I can take those. Thanks."

I nodded at her and went back to my workout, keeping an eye out for anyone searching for something. I stayed another twenty minutes, not spotting anyone, and I finished my workout. I grabbed everything and started to leave. In the entranceway I saw the same worker vacuuming the floor. Stepping out of the revolving door, I paused and looked at her, half expecting her to look up and say thank you or tell me that someone took the keys. She kept vacuuming.

Just outside, I started up the staircase, the gym being in the basement of a mall. I was only three steps up when I heard someone, in an urgent voice, speak to the worker. I looked back and paused. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but it was clear: he lost his keys and couldn't find them. She nodded and said something, then a moment later was back with his keys. I stood there, staring, my mouth half-open as if to say something, I found the keys, but I closed it. A small smile came to me then, and I went up the stairs.

Gray Oaks retirement home smelled of day-old cheese sandwiches and emptiness. Every breath tasted stale. Every breath was a reminding flavor of being forgotten.

Gwen sat in her rocking chair staring at the smoke swirling in front of Hugh taking a drag of his cigarette. 

The cloud he blew out had her coughing. The scent of tobacco made the room spin, taking her back to the good ole disco days.

“Take that shit outside, Hugh.” She waved her hand in front of her face, trying to catch her breath. “All god damn day and night. One smoke after the other.” She began hacking.

Hugh flicked the ash on the area rug covering the floor and took another drag. “Too cold outside,” he said, his voice was deep. He had a voice that commanded attention. “Cigarette don’t feel the same out in the cold.”

Even though she was staring directly at him, he could see the face she was making in her head. Eyebrows narrowed, lips pouted.

“So, why should I have to suffer, Hugh?” Gwen asked, her voice raspy. “That shit makes me dizzy.”

“Me too,” he said. 

“Why the hell you smoking then?” 

“To forget the taste of the air.” He told her. “Whenever I breathe, I remember.”

“Remember what, Hugh?” 

“Being somebody, Gwen.”

Gwen didn’t know how to respond. She stopped rocking and paused, sat there and eyed him with a look on her face as if someone just told her Santa Claus wasn’t real, because the realization hit right after he said that.

She realized right there and then, that Gray Oaks isn’t where you go to retire, it’s where you go to be forgotten.

I have had enough.

Enough of this life, enough of...

Everything.

My harlot of a wife with that swindler of a landlord taking everything I had and running off into their own happy ending.

If that wasn't enough, they even framed me as a thief, with my brother-in-law the sheriff turning their lie into the truth.

Now?

Exile.

Into the woods.

The gods hate me, don't they?

Fine.

They can take this life that they clearly didn't want me to have, and I can see they have sent their collectors.

The first bite was blinding pain, but liberating.

The bloodhound tore my thigh clean off the bone.

I dropped to the ground, the shock stole my scream and cruelly kept me awake.

The ogre got to me next.

It took an arm.

Ate it like a piece of chicken. It was weirdly satisfying to look at.

Then, the goblin.

Crude stone dagger in its hands, it carved open my chest and tore my heart out. It had a huge grin on its face, like it'd been weeks since it had fresh meat.

Still, seeing my wife writhing under another man in our own bed was worse than getting my heart eaten in front of me.

As I faded, I thought, at least I made them happy.

That...was supposed to be my last moment of clarity.

It wasn't.

It's pitch black, but I can feel footsteps all over me.

Lurking, stalking.

Was I buried alive?

If I was, then why do I feel the midnight breeze all around me...

And through me?

What is that I smell? Mud? Grass? Iron?

Then, a tiny light.

I recognize it. It's the light of the town, the same town where I was chewed up and spat back out, only for the monsters to do the same to me.

Ugh, I can taste blood. Where is it coming from?

Wait... that's me. I can feel my bones, but... buried, in the dirt.

My eyes, they aren't mine. Not anymore.

Their eyes are my eyes. Their ears are my ears.

Their hunger. Worsened by mine. Now ours.

Maybe the gods do hate me, enough to not let me rest.

Wait...

I can smell my wife's perfume...

On him.

The bloodhounds have caught it.

The sheriff's laughing. The ogres heard him say something about getting away without a scratch as he climbed into their carriage.

The goblins saw the glint of the citrine necklace I gave my wife around her neck. It took everything I had to buy her that.

The forest floor grumbles.

I'm hungry.

We're hungry.

Their carriage is about to pass beneath the trees.

My trees.