The airport buzzed with the dull, relentless hum of travelers — people rolling suitcases, children crying, announcements blaring over the intercom in multiple languages. You were halfway through your second espresso, watching the departure board flicker as your gate number lit up: Gate 14, Flight 73. Destination: Karsenia.
The line for boarding wasn't long, but your nerves prickled strangely, as if you were teetering on the edge of something. You handed your passport to the immigration officer, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and the kind of mustache that screamed bureaucracy. He glanced at your face, then flipped through the pages. Then he stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
“This... is not valid,” he said slowly, confusion etching itself onto his features. “This country—Karsenia—doesn’t exist.”
You laughed. “I think you’re mistaken. I was born there. It’s in—”
He cut you off, motioning to a colleague. “Sir, I need you to come with me.”
You were escorted — without explanation — to a stark, windowless room. Your passport was handed over to a pair of grim-faced officials who studied it like it was radioactive. You repeated your story: you were a citizen of Karsenia, had flown in several times before, even had stamps to prove it. They didn’t believe you.
“There’s no record of this place in any geopolitical database. No country, no government, no embassies. Sir, it doesn’t exist.”
They showed you a map. Your homeland — nestled between Eastern Europe and Central Asia — was a blank stretch of forest. You insisted it was there. But there was nothing. Nothing at all.
Then the questions started. What was your purpose in the country? Who issued your passport? What did you do for work? You tried to answer, but your memories were... fuzzy. Fragmented. You could remember walking through your city’s market, the smell of spiced tea in the air, the call to prayer echoing through marble courtyards — but the names of people, streets, dates, all slipped through your mind like mist.
They let you go after six hours.
Dazed, you stumbled out of the airport into a downpour. You flagged a cab, gave the name of the nearest hotel you remembered, and collapsed into the bed in your clothes.
When you woke up, the light outside was blue and bruised with morning. Your head throbbed like you’d been hit with something heavy. Your phone buzzed violently on the nightstand. 17 missed calls. 34 new messages.
Your thumb hesitated over the lock screen. Every message was from an unknown number.
“Where are you?”
“You shouldn’t have tried to leave.”
“They’re watching.”
“Who did you tell?”
“Do NOT call your number. Not again.”
You scrolled, heart pounding. The messages stopped at 3:16 a.m. You checked your call log. You hadn’t called anyone — but someone had tried to call you. Repeatedly.
You stared at your own contact number. A joke formed in your mind, dull and absurd and desperate. You hit Call.
It rang once. Twice.
Then someone picked up.
You heard breathing.
And then, your own voice said: “You shouldn’t have done that.”
The line went dead.
You dropped the phone.
The room felt colder, smaller somehow. You stared at the window, half-expecting to see someone standing outside. No one. You pulled open the drawer in the nightstand. Inside, instead of the hotel’s Bible or room service menu, was a small notebook. No title. You flipped it open.
The pages were covered in your handwriting.
“They said I’d forget.”
“I have 72 hours before they come back.”
“Do not trust anyone who asks about Karsenia.”
“Call your number only if you lose time.”
You slammed the book shut.
A knock at the door made you freeze.
You crept toward it, heart pounding in your chest. “Who is it?”
No answer.
You looked through the peephole. No one.
You opened the door slowly. On the floor was a keycard and a note written in the same shaky script:
“Room 709. You left something behind.”
There was no Room 709 on the elevator panel. The top floor ended at 708.
You checked anyway.
The hallway on the 7th floor was silent. The lights flickered faintly. You walked slowly, half-hoping nothing would be there.
But between Room 708 and the linen closet, there was a small door. No number. Just the outline of a card slot.
You slid the keycard in.
The door opened.
Inside was a room identical to yours — but different. Older. Dusty. And scattered across the bed were photographs. Of you. At different ages. In different cities. With people you didn’t recognize — and yet did. You picked one up.
On the back, written in neat cursive:
“You are not from here. Remember that.”
Suddenly your phone buzzed again.
UNKNOWN CALLING.
You answered.
This time, the voice was not yours.
“You’re waking up,” it said softly. “Good. We don’t have much time. Look under the bed.”
You dropped to the floor. There was a metal case — matte black, with no latch or handle. Just a small pad glowing green. A biometric scanner.
You touched your thumb to it.
The light blinked. Then unlocked.
Inside: a different passport. A stack of currency you didn’t recognize. A map. A photo of a woman — her eyes kind, but wary.
And at the bottom, another note:
“Go to the border. Don’t trust the version of you that answers the phone. That one works for them.”
You stood, numb, staring out the window as the city spun beneath you.
Who were you?
And where exactly was home?
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