PART 2 | The Airport

1 – The Surprise

My heart leapt in my chest and a chill ran through my body. Instead of the dim fluorescent lights of the gas station, I was struck by a strange and desolate scene — a vast airport terminal that looked as if it had been devastated by some apocalyptic cataclysm stood right in front of me. The air smelled faintly of burnt plastic and damp concrete.

My eyes quickly scanned the space, absorbing the bizarre scene before me. Everywhere I looked there were shards of glass and debris scattered across the floor. Advertisement posters hung crooked on the walls, covered with Japanese characters that confirmed my suspicion: I was no longer in my world. The seats scattered throughout the terminal were overturned or completely destroyed, with torn upholstery exposing rusted metal frames.

The screens that should display flights and times were hanging from the ceiling, but all showed the same uniform green glow, like a chroma key background waiting for something to be projected. No sound, no announcements, no human voice. Only a distant metallic humming.

The store windows were empty, some shattered. The escalators stood still, holding motionless human figures with blank expressions — people who seemed frozen in time, standing like statues in the sepulchral silence.

“This can’t be real,” I murmured, shaking my head. Panic overtook me as I turned back toward the restroom door. Maybe if I went back inside, closed my eyes, and counted to ten, everything would vanish. This had to be a nightmare. But when I turned the handle and opened the door again, it was an entirely different, ruined bathroom.

2 – The Girl in the Bathroom

I gripped the handle tightly and closed the bathroom door behind me, as if I could seal that bizarre world outside. My chest heaved, trying to process the absurd scene I had just witnessed. “This doesn’t make sense,” I murmured to myself, rubbing my temples. I needed to calm down. Maybe washing my face would help.

But when I looked to where the sink should be, I found only a cracked wall covered in some greenish, slimy substance. I frowned, confused, and turned to inspect the rest of the room. What I saw made me nauseous.

The bathroom was unrecognizable. It was no longer the small, functional restroom from the gas station. The walls were covered in a slippery slime that seemed to pulse faintly under the dim light. Broken tiles hung at odd angles, revealing dark holes filled with dead insects and dust. The floor was damp, with muddy footprints, as if someone had recently passed through. There were three stalls at the back, their rusted metal doors gently swaying, moved by a breeze that didn’t exist.

At that moment, I heard a sweet and delicate voice echo very close to me: “Hellooo…”

I turned around quickly and felt my heart pounding in my chest. Leaning against the opposite wall was a girl, wearing a traditional Japanese school uniform — dark blue skirt, short-sleeved white shirt, straight black hair cut at chin length, with a blunt fringe covering part of her forehead. Her face was extremely pale, like porcelain.

“Let’s play!” she said, tilting her head to one side. Her voice was soft and eerie at the same time.

“Hi… are you okay?” I replied hesitantly, immediately noticing something strange. She was speaking in Japanese, and although I didn’t understand a single word, my mind translated everything instantly. It was as if each sentence entered directly into my thoughts. When I replied in Portuguese, she nodded as if she understood perfectly. Telepathy? That was impossible… but nothing in that place made sense.

She pointed to the last stall and, with a widening smile, said, “In there. That’s where the game starts.”

As soon as she spoke, she began walking toward the last stall, looking at me. In that moment, I saw her eyes change color — they turned completely yellow.

I shook my head frantically, stepping back. “No. I don’t want to.” My words came out in a hoarse whisper, but she seemed to hear them clearly. With a serious expression, she stared at me as if assessing my weaknesses. Then, without warning, she took a step forward.

The only thing I could think about was running — and that’s exactly what I did. I opened the bathroom door and found myself once again in the apocalyptic scene of the airport terminal.

3 – Walking Through the Airport

I rushed out of the bathroom, my heart pounding. If that door wasn’t the way back to the gas station restroom, then maybe there was another exit somewhere in the airport. I started walking. The airport terminal was a panorama of devastation, as if it had been forgotten for decades or had survived a war.

The ceiling lights flickered, emitting occasional sparks. Some hung down by exposed wires. The signs were either off or cracked, many with shattered screens. I passed by vending machines for snacks and drinks. They were turned off, covered in dust and cobwebs, yet still full of products in their inner compartments, waiting for customers.

The people… they were the worst part. They walked around, but they weren’t normal. Some had yellow eyes, others pitch black like coal, and some — the most disturbing — had completely red eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light.

Most of them didn’t speak. They simply looked at one another, motionless, exchanging long and empty stares, as if waiting for a signal that would never come. At the airline counters, I noticed something even stranger: people engaged in endless conversations. Their lips moved, gesturing repeatedly, but they showed no facial expressions and no sound could be heard.

Their clothes were old-fashioned and dirty. I saw women in traditional kimonos, some torn. Men dressed as samurais or business executives in suits and ties, but all equally dusty, with stained and tattered garments.

The check-in terminals were broken and filthy. The screens looked like old CRT monitors from the 1980s, glowing green with an empty blinking prompt, as if waiting for someone to type something.

I saw people standing still in front of the machines. Others gestured with irritation, as if arguing with whatever they thought they were seeing, even though some screens were completely off.

The silence was absolute. But if I focused, deep down, like a whisper in the mind, I could hear murmurs: children’s voices, loudspeaker announcements, airplane engines, the rattling of suitcase wheels — all at once, as if memories had been imprinted on that space or as if in another dimension everything was still working perfectly.

At times, I noticed that some of those people — or whatever they were — could sense my presence. Their expressions twisted for a moment, as if my being there was an offense. Tense faces, accusing eyes. But they never came near me. They never spoke. They just… hated me in silence.

I decided to go up to the second floor. The escalators were still, covered in dust, with some steps caked in dirt. The people stood motionless on the steps. I politely asked to pass, but no one reacted. With effort, I climbed through them.

Upstairs, the scene wasn’t any better.

In the restaurants and cafés, the tables were full, but no one was eating. People just stared at one another. The waiters walked in circles, passing by tables and counters without ever stopping, like broken dolls stuck in a programming loop.

I passed by a bookstore. The headlines caught my eye. Japanese newspapers filled the shelves, but among them were editions of major Western publications — The Guardian, Le Monde, La Stampa, Die Welt, The New York Times. One headline in particular made me stop: a photo of a man speaking at the UN Assembly. Above the image, it read: “President of Taured speaks at the UN and calls for peace and unity among all nations.”

My breath stopped. Taured exists in this world, I thought, stunned.

I kept looking and saw the cover of TIME magazine, featuring the same man alongside a beautiful woman, with the caption: “Couple of the Year.” Intrigued, I wanted to pick up the magazine and flip through its pages, but a sharp, rising whistle — like the sound of a falling bomb — coming from somewhere outside the airport, drew my attention away.

I turned and walked to a massive glass window that stretched from floor to ceiling. When I reached it, I found a disturbing view. The sky was red, streaked with grey patches and heavy clouds like those before a storm. The airport runway looked like a war zone. It was unrecognizable: bombing craters, old planes destroyed and covered in tall weeds. Modern planes were parked, but so rusted they looked like metal ghosts. Further along the tarmac, a large modern plane lay burned, reduced to a charred shell.

People with suitcases walked toward some of these planes. They approached, then stepped back. They returned, hesitated, and pulled away again. They were trapped in that repetitive cycle, never boarding.

I turned slowly, my heart heavy with the anguish that seemed to eat away at me from the inside. Every detail screamed that this place was not my world. Was I in some dark corner of the universe — or of my mind? Japan was on the other side of the planet, but this was not the Japan I knew. So, where exactly was I now? The distress in my soul grew because I had no idea how to return home.

4 – The Woman Lost in the Station

At the end of that desolate floor, something caught my attention. A working escalator led to the third level. Curiosity pushed me to go up. When I reached the top, I was surprised to find a subway station inside the airport. It was a large space, but just as deserted. The white and blue tiled walls were cracked and stained with soot, while faded posters advertised unintelligible destinations written in Japanese. The silence was crushing, broken only by the distant hum of flickering lights.

I stood still for a few seconds, observing the emptiness, until I heard the metallic roar of a train approaching — like a growl rising from beneath the earth. I peered into the cars through the grimy glass, but they were completely empty. No one was sitting, no one standing, not even shadows moving inside.

When the train stopped, the automatic doors opened with a mechanical hiss. Then, a young woman stepped off the train. She had messy brown hair and red, swollen eyes — she had clearly been crying a lot. She wore a light coat and worn-out jeans and carried a small shoulder bag. Her face was pale; she looked confused and completely lost. The train doors closed and it vanished into the darkness of the tunnel.

“Please,” she said in a trembling voice as she approached me. “I’ve been trying to get home for half an hour.”

“You… you’re trapped here too?” she asked, breathless. I didn’t know what to say. She looked around in desperation, sat on a concrete bench, and put her head in her hands, shaking. “I got on the right train. It was my usual train. But it only stops at stations I’ve never seen in my life.” She pulled her phone from her backpack, tapped the screen a few times and showed it to me. “No signal! Nothing!”

While she was speaking, another train appeared in the distance, lighting the tunnel with yellowish headlights. She looked at the approaching vehicle and said, “I think I’ll try to go home again,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. “Maybe this time I’ll find the right line.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, worried. “That sounds dangerous.”

She gave a sad smile. “Staying here is worse. If I stay, I know I’ll never make it home.”
Before I could respond, she ran toward the train that had just stopped. The doors opened and quickly shut behind her with a definitive click, and the train departed rapidly, disappearing into the tunnel’s shadows.

5 – The Men in Black

I descended the escalators, now motionless, trying to reach the ground floor. With each step, the atmosphere grew more oppressive. My eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, trying to identify any sign of an exit — a way to return to the normality of my world.

That’s when I came upon a discreet door, worn and faded, with two Japanese kanji characters positioned next to the number 444.
For some reason I couldn’t explain, I hesitated for a brief moment. But curiosity won out.

Carefully, I turned the handle and slowly pushed the door open.

On the other side, I found a dark, damp room. On the floor, crouched, were several pale human figures whose red eyes glowed in the dimness. They turned their faces toward me simultaneously, as if synchronized. The air felt heavy, almost tangible.

The one closest to me growled, its voice low but full of hatred: “Get out of here!”

Another voice echoed louder: “This world doesn’t belong to you!”

“Leave before it’s too late to return to your own world!”

The tone was both threatening and prophetic. My entire body reacted with instinctual alertness. I slammed the door shut and took two steps back, afraid one of those figures might burst through the walls at any moment. But nothing happened. Only silence remained on the other side.

As I passed by an abandoned store, I was immediately drawn to something unusual: human skins, tattooed, hanging on an improvised clothesline — as if they were goods for sale. Before I could process what I was seeing, a young man completely covered in intricate tattoos emerged from the back of the shop, shouting: “Get out! Go! Get out!” His movements were frantic, almost animalistic. I backed away quickly, trying not to draw more attention.

I kept walking, trying to ignore the overwhelming feeling of being watched. Then, passing a large store with chaotic shelves and merchandise scattered all over the floor, I heard children laughing from the back. I approached cautiously and saw three boys playing with a ball. They were Brazilian — that was clear from their appearance and the language they spoke.

“Do you know how to get out of here?” I asked hesitantly. The boys kept playing as if I wasn’t even there. I tried again, addressing the boy closest to me. He finally looked at me, but his response was cutting: “I don’t want to go home! I want to stay here!”

At that moment I realized — those three boys were the same ones from the poster in the bathroom at the gas station and the ones I had seen playing on the nearby sports court. Everything was a blur in my mind. I couldn’t make logical sense of what I was experiencing.

Before I could react, a scream tore through the air from the entrance of the airport. A guttural sound, full of hatred. I ran to the entrance of the store and saw a horrifyingly thin woman, her mouth torn open by a long, deep gash stretching from one side of her face to the other. Blood dripped from the corners of her mouth like a grotesque caricature of a smile. At her side were two men in black suits and dark sunglasses, looking like airport security agents.

Upon seeing me, she screamed, pointing her bloody finger: “There he is!” The men started running toward me.

My heart raced as I assessed my escape options. That’s when a small hand grabbed my arm. It was the same boy from the store. “Run! This way, quick!” he shouted, pulling me toward a side door.

We began running, darting through rooms and corridors completely empty — a kind of maze — until we entered a room filled with stacked luggage. We knocked over several bags behind us to slow them down, as we could already hear the heavy footsteps of the men chasing us.

Opening another door, we entered a fish market. It was surreal to find such a place inside an airport. All the fish were of the same kind, likely tuna, but in various sizes. The environment was freezing cold, like a refrigerated chamber, with fresh fish laid out on beds of ice. Whole, large tunas rested on metal counters. The air was thick with the strong scent of salt and blood. There was no one there, only a heavy silence and the occasional drip of water from rusty faucets. It was then I noticed — the boy who had been guiding me was gone. I was now alone. At any moment, the men in black could burst through the door and catch me.

On the central counter, I saw metal pots and huge knives. Without thinking twice, I grabbed one of the knives, ready to defend myself. I tossed several fish onto the floor, hoping they might slip when they arrived.

As they opened the door, one of them did slip and the other fired at me. The shots missed narrowly, ricocheting off some of the hanging pots. I opened the back door and found myself once again in the airport terminal.

Ahead of me was a long corridor with several doors. I was afraid to open any of them but had no choice. I opened one of the first, thinking the men would soon catch up. To my surprise, it was a large room with a giant slot car track, with multiple twisting lanes arranged on different levels and elevations. Miniature race cars decorated the track. On the walls, colorful posters of Japanese anime and games reinforced that it was a fun, themed space.

I walked through the room, attentively observing everything. Seeing an empty chair, I thought of blocking the door with it, in case the men were still after me. I did that and looked around for another exit. I spotted a pile of broken old monitors and PC towers blocking what looked like a door. I cleared the debris and tried the door. Luckily, it wasn’t locked. Cautiously, I opened it and found a strange environment resembling a futuristic laboratory. I could hear the men pounding and forcing the door I had barricaded with the chair. I had to get out — and fast.

6 – The Mad Scientist

I opened the door carefully. A small dimly lit room was separated from another area by a dark curtain. I took a few cautious steps, feeling a thick, cold, gelatinous liquid stick to the soles of my shoes. It dripped slowly from the ceiling in strands, almost alive, forming viscous puddles on the floor. I wiped my feet against the cracked tiles, trying to remove the excess, but was interrupted by a black cat that suddenly growled at my feet, emerging from the shadows like an apparition. I jumped back, heart pounding.

I pulled back the curtain and looked around. It was an organized pandemonium. The most accurate definition would be the fusion of a junkyard with a clandestine lab — loose engine parts, rusty propellers, tires, panels from old aircrafts, among other old items, were piled next to grease-stained test tubes and bottles filled with liquids of various colors. Old monitors scattered across a long workbench blinked frantically, displaying disjointed codes.

In the center of the room stood an imposing structure: a double-door cabinet covered with irregular mirror fragments, colorful wires, and valve tubes from vintage TVs. At the top, a red siren completed the bizarre device. The inside was lined with black leather, with small blue lights and vents that released a bluish gas.

From the back of the lab, a high-pitched voice stirred a distant memory — “The plane! The plane!”

Behind a pile of broken monitors emerged a short figure — a dwarf identical to the character Tattoo from the old TV series Fantasy Island. He wore a wrinkled white lab coat, messy black hair sticking out in all directions, thick glasses with cracked lenses, and an expression of pure scientific ecstasy. He hopped around the lab, agitated and laughing as if he had survived an electric shock. In one hand he held a battery-powered radio covered in tape and improvised buttons, and in the other a bamboo antenna nearly a meter long, swinging it as if trying to pick up signals from another world.

When he saw me, his eyes widened. He struck a dramatic pose, pointing at me like a lawyer accusing a criminal in court.

“John! Is it you? How can you be here if I haven’t finished building the quantum cabinet?” he said with almost theatrical astonishment.

I raised my hands slowly. “Calm down, calm down, I’m not John. Actually, I’m looking for him.”

He eyed me with suspicion, trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t fit, then explained:

“I teleported John Titor to another reality, and now I can’t bring him back, but I will — as soon as I finish fixing my time cabinet.” He spoke with a resigned tone, placing his instruments on the bench.

I tried to clear up the confusion. “No, no… I’m not looking for John Titor. The John I’m looking for is John Zegrus!”

His expression twisted into a mix of shock and offense.

“What? Zegrus?! That’s absurd! A complete fraud! He’s a residual product of a divergent worldline! An urban legend from years ago. Titor is the real one! The prophet of chaos the world awaits!”

“Wait!” I interrupted. “Maybe both exist… but in different universes. Distinct multiverses, you understand? I myself am not from here.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he let out a restrained laugh, as if he understood something I didn’t.

“So you’re a time traveler too… interesting… very interesting…”

He walked in circles around me, muttering imaginary equations. He looked at me with a manic gleam in his eyes and said:

“I’m trying to stabilize the temporal drift and reverse the photon layers of time. But the Men in Black are after me because I’ve discovered too much. They’re from the Paranormal Investigation Council. They want to stop me from making contact with other realities.”

I nodded, understanding he was being hunted too — like me.

“They’re after me as well,” I confessed.

He smiled. “Then we are brothers in misfortune. But perhaps fate has united us for a reason. I saw a man a few days ago. Must be the one you’re looking for. He wasn’t Asian. He was detained by airport security. Had strange documents, spoke incoherently…”

“That’s him!” I interrupted. “It must be Zegrus. Can you take me to him?”

“Yes, but we’ll have to be discreet. Those men are everywhere.”

We left together, crossing dark corridors, using hidden passages behind loose panels and concealed doors. I had the impression he was familiar with those paths, as if he had spent a long time there. In the distance, I saw the Men in Black patrolling. At several points, we had to stop behind columns, crouch inside locker rooms, or sneak between abandoned rooms.

On the way, we passed a narrow door between two red lanterns. Three young, half-naked women waved at us with seductive gestures, beckoning us with their fingers.

“Ignore them!” said the little man firmly. “If you go in there, you’re lost forever. Yakuza traps. Women trafficked from other worlds. Inside... are monstrosities that suck your vital energy until only skin and bones remain. The door closes forever. No one ever comes out.”

I turned my gaze away, avoiding eye contact with the women who seemed to be pleading… or pretending.

We continued. After several rooms, abandoned stores, and corridors that seemed to fold in on themselves like an endless labyrinth — always careful not to be seen — we arrived at a locked door, secured only with a simple latch.

“This is it. I need to return to my lab. They track me through my breath. Good luck, traveler of chaos.”

Without waiting for my thanks, he dashed off, nearly bouncing down the corridor, laughing loudly until he turned into another hallway.

7 – Reunion with John Zegrus

I opened the door carefully. Inside, sitting on a wooden bench, was him—John Zegrus. He raised his eyes and looked at me at the doorway. A faint smile appeared on his resigned expression. “Helios...” he murmured, tilting his head back.

He stood up slowly, approached the door, looked both ways down the corridor, and turned to me with a concerned expression. “You shouldn't be here...” he said, closing the door carefully, making sure no one saw me. “What happened?” he asked, looking at me curiously.

I explained as best I could. “You took too long to return to the car, so I went to check what was going on. I entered the bathroom, and my last memory was a red glowing point on the mirror. Then I felt dizzy, and when I came out of the bathroom, I was in this horrifying place. I tried to go back, but the bathroom was no longer the same as the one at the gas station. It was another one, from this world.”

Zegrus nodded slowly, as someone who understands the situation, and explained: “This is Haneda Airport, or Tokyo International Airport. We’re in a different multiverse than the one we were in. This kind of situation is a common risk in interdimensional travel. That’s why the time travel mechanism I underwent is risky and dangerous. You must be prepared for unforeseen events when moving from one universe to another.”

“But where exactly are we?” I asked, worried.

“We’re in a Garbage Universe,” he said gravely, and continued:

“This is an in-between universe, bizarre, surreal, where incomplete and rejected things are accumulated. It lies between two parallel worlds. It’s like a house’s attic, where leftover construction materials are stored along with other useless objects. Here rest incomplete remnants of time and space, along with fragments of the human mind, creating an unstable and chaotic reality. Uncontrolled emotions, disjointed thoughts, deep fears from all people… all of that shapes this place.”

I took a deep breath, trying to absorb it.

“The people you saw here, with repetitive behaviors and strange attitudes, are mental creations, urban legends, fears, dreams, characters from literature, and fragments of human imagination that mix together, giving life to this surreal environment and the bizarre figures you encountered. The more people believe in something, the more real it becomes in this dimensional plane.” He paused, massaging his tense shoulders, and with an expression that suggested he had remembered another important point, he said:

“However, there are other types of parallel universes, like the so-called Creative Universes. These are formed by human mental creations but appear normal and inhabitable. In them, you’ll find superheroes from films and comic books, fictional characters from literature, and even Santa Claus… children’s minds are powerful.” He smiled briefly. “Everything that millions of minds imagine together takes form and life somewhere in the multiverse. For example, there’s a multiverse where the Planet of the Apes is real. It was created by the collective mental force of millions of readers and viewers.”

Zegrus paused and added, “There’s also the universe of the dead, but I don’t have time to explain that now. You need to return quickly,” he said, glancing at the door with a worried look.

He took off a ring with a red stone from his finger and placed it in my hand. “To travel between multiverses, use this. Hold the ring in front of a reflective surface, like glass or metal. When the red glowing point appears, pull the ring back and touch the spot with your finger, thinking about the universe you want to go to. Your mind will be teleported there. If it’s not the right place, repeat the process until you get it right. With time, you’ll learn to guide your mind more accurately. But remember: whoever is touching you at the moment of activation will be taken along. You can go to the past or the future, but always in another universe—not your own.”

I was astonished by so much information I didn’t know. At last, he placed both hands on my shoulders and concluded, “This ring is for noble purposes. Use it to save lives and change destinies for the better.”

Looking at my hand with the ring, he said, “Put it on whichever finger it fits—it doesn’t matter which one.”

I placed it on the middle finger of my right hand and asked, “What will happen to you? How will you get out of here?”

“I’ll be sentenced to one year in prison for entering Japan illegally. But I’m prepared to escape that situation without the ring. Remember, I’m military and a specialist in mental extraction and insertion. They won’t understand my disappearance and will think I took my own life, but nothing serious will happen to me. My mind will simply return to my world.”

“And will we see each other again?” I asked, concerned.

He smiled. “If necessary, yes. I and the other researchers at Neuralink will be watching you from our universe. When your doorbell rings and there’s no one at the door, you’ll know we’re near. We’ll send suggestive ideas to your mind. We’ll use advanced techniques to transmit ‘mental inputs’ to your brain, guiding the path you must follow to begin the founding of Taured. Stay receptive, with an open mind, and the ideas will come naturally.”

“The project you will present to the world will be a seed. It doesn’t need deep study—just an embryonic seed. Later, others more prepared will embrace the embryonic project and help make real in your world what already exists in ours. We will guide you to found Taured.”

As soon as he finished speaking, we heard footsteps and voices in the corridor. They were close.

“You must go now,” he said, looking into my eyes.

Tension grew on his face. He was looking for something. His eyes landed on the metal door handle.

“This will do.”

He grabbed my hand and brought the ring close to the handle.

“Think of your world. Visualize it. Fix your gaze on the handle’s surface and think of your world, your life, your home, the things you love the most. Wish strongly to be in your world.”

I saw the stone glow just as a red point of light appeared on the metallic surface of the handle.

“Now! Place your finger on the portal!” he ordered with great urgency.

I saw the handle go blurry, began to feel dizzy—then saw nothing more.

8 – Back to the Cemetery

I opened my eyes with a sharp headache and a dizziness that made me stagger slightly. “My God… what is this?” I murmured, instinctively bringing my hands to my head. I was standing in front of my friend’s father’s grave, without understanding what was happening.

Confused, I looked around. “What a strange feeling… This has never happened to me before!” I said aloud, trying to organize my thoughts. I looked at the watch on my wrist: the hand pointed to 5:50 p.m.

I brought my hands to my head again, trying to ease the throbbing pain. A sensation of déjà vu overtook me with overwhelming intensity. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember exactly what, when, or where that had already happened.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea came over me so strong that I had to lean against one of the nearby tombstones to regain my balance. My knees buckled, and I stood there for a few seconds, taking deep breaths to calm myself. When I lifted my eyes, I noticed that the cemetery was empty, no one in sight. Still dizzy, I staggered to the car and opened the door with difficulty.

I remembered the solar eclipse that was supposed to be at its peak at that moment. But even knowing it was a rare natural spectacle, I was in no condition to admire it. I sat inside the car for about five minutes, waiting for the feeling of sickness to pass.

The initial excitement about the eclipse had completely vanished, replaced by an oppressive sensation of physical and mental discomfort. As soon as I felt a little better, I started the car and continued my journey toward São José do Norte. However, I still felt weak and disoriented. I decided I needed to rest and that I would stay alone in a hotel. I recorded a voice message to my friend: “Don’t wait for me today. Let’s meet tomorrow.” I ended it without giving many explanations.

When I looked at the dashboard, I noticed the fuel gauge was on reserve. Though worried, all I wanted was to get to downtown São José do Norte as quickly as possible and find a place to rest. As I passed the Gibbon Station, I again felt that same overwhelming sensation of déjà vu. I had never been in that region before, but the place seemed very familiar, and I didn’t understand why.

Arriving in the city, I quickly searched for an available hotel and checked into the first one I found. Hotel Caçulão was very simple, perhaps not even deserving of one star. I wasn’t concerned about that; in the state I was in, all I wanted was a quiet place to lie down and rest.

In the room, after a hot shower, I lay on the bed, trying to organize my thoughts. I had the strong impression that something had happened at the cemetery, but I couldn’t quite remember what it was. The exhaustion was immense—both physical and mental. I decided to relax my mind and not think about anything. Even so, I wasn’t sleepy. I closed my eyes for a few minutes, simply listening to the silence of the room.

When I opened my eyes again, I turned to the side. My gaze landed on the TV. I thought about turning it on, but the remote control was on the table beside the device. I didn’t want to get up and remained still for a few seconds, watching the small red standby LED. That tiny glowing point reminded me of something—the red stain on the glass of the photo at the cemetery. Suddenly, flashes started to surface in my mind. I began to remember the moment I touched that red mark and the presence of John Zegrus.

Little by little, the pieces began to fall into place, and I recalled the conversation with him.

The urgency to record everything took over me completely. I stood up and went to the table. I opened my laptop and began typing. The memories flowed clearly, as if being dictated by something within or beyond me. I recorded every detail in the same order as the events, of what seemed to have been a dream, from the moment I touched the red mark to my confused return to the cemetery.

When I finally finished, I looked at the clock, which showed 1:27 a.m. on October 3, 2024. I closed the laptop and sighed deeply. The silence of the room felt almost sacred. At last, I allowed myself to relax and fall asleep.

I woke up around noon. My body relaxed and my mind strangely calm. The sun filtered through the curtains, casting golden lines across the ceramic floor.

I got up slowly.

That’s when I saw it. On the table, next to the closed laptop, was something that shouldn’t have been there.

A ring with a deep red stone. I immediately recognized it: it was John Zegrus’s ring.

I stood motionless for a few seconds, staring at that piece of jewelry that had crossed who-knows-how-many dimensions.

I picked it up in my hands, turning it between my fingers while reflecting on the weight of its presence. That confirmed everything: the encounter with Zegrus and his revelation about the existence of Taured, the interdimensional journey, the revelations about the multiverse… none of it was a dream or hallucination. It was real. And now, with Zegrus’s ring in my possession, I knew my journey was not over—it was only beginning.