Part 1 – The Transfer of Voice

Finally, the speeches ended, and the city, after years of internal struggle, sank into a heavy silence. Dire, Marila, and Alex had all reached the same point from different directions: if there was to be a way out, it was no longer through changing the law or fighting the underground; it had to be understood within the very foundation of this world. They began to think—not scattered thoughts, but a return to the very first moments that tied each of them to the city.

Just as their minds were nearing a conclusion, the air in the underground city grew heavy. The subterranean cloud, that entity capable of seeing the past and moving in shadows, silently appeared behind Marila. It placed its hand on her shoulder and, without a word, led her deep into the underground, to where Boss awaited in his luxurious home, surrounded by walls filled with maps and plans.

A process began that only Boss and the underground could understand. Marila sat on a stone chair. The subterranean cloud placed its hand on her throat, closed her eyes, and began a silent murmur—more like undoing an ancient contract than speaking. Marila’s voice—what connected her to two worlds—was gradually extracted from her being, like light drawn from glass, and then flowed toward Boss.

Boss inhaled deeply. This time, when he tried to speak, a voice emerged from his throat for the first time: dry, uncertain, but real. He repeated a few simple words: his own name, his father’s name, and words about the city. For him, the world suddenly took on a new shape. Until yesterday, his silence had been a bridge between two layers of reality; now, with a voice, he could stand at the center of what he had built and speak about it.

With this discovery, something shifted inside him. A gaze that had been hidden among fatigue and doubt now changed color. He thought again about his city, its map, the punishment of its people, and realized that escaping was no longer his primary concern. Neither his father, nor his mother, nor the world with its parks and hospitals mattered as much. What mattered most now was the governance of this world—a world he could now judge with his own voice.

Marila, after this complex process, was returned to the upper city. Unaware that her voice was gone, she went to the square to try, one last time, to explain the truth to the people. She opened her mouth, her lips moved, but no sound came out. Only silence remained; a silence not imposed by the law, but rising from within herself. Disappointed, she lowered her hands. It was as if the way out had been closed not only from the city, but from herself as well.

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Part 2 – A Book from the Future and a Father Who is the Author

In those days, Boss made another decision—one that clarified his father’s role in this world more than anything. With the help of the underground, he brought Alex to the lower city’s house; the very house that lay at the bottom of all houses, its walls covered with maps and notes.

Entering, Alex felt something strange: as if stepping into a memory both familiar and unfamiliar. A large book lay on the central table; an old, heavy cover with a name engraved: Alex Morgan. Boss’s father stepped forward, ran his finger over his own name, and sat down quietly.

As Alex flipped through the pages, he gradually understood what he was facing. This was not merely a story of the city; it was a plan that had taken shape in his father’s mind years ago. Each line recorded events that had shaped Alex’s life—the arrival at the City of Silence, Sam’s death, the Law of Twenty Deaths, Boss’s birth, the son’s escape—with such detail that it was as if someone outside time had witnessed them.

Alex paused to think. If his father had written this book, why did he not remember writing it? If this book had come from the future, how could it witness the past while being embedded in the present? Eventually, he reached the final pages—pages still unwritten. Blank, clean, yet heavy, like a room you know you must enter to make a decision but haven’t yet stepped into.

He realized the book did not only inform about the past; it awaited the future, waiting for a decision yet to be made. Every possibility in his mind seemed like a path that could be written on these blank pages. But there was a problem: even though his name was on the cover, he still did not know the escape. His knowledge was partial; the design was complete, but no output had been determined.

Now able to speak, Boss sat beside his father and explained—not aloud, but in short sentences—that the underground, inspirations, laws, and even the city walls had all been part of a plan born from the combination of his mind and his desire to “create a controlled world.” But how this world should end had deliberately not been written, as if Alex himself, in another time, had decided that true freedom could only exist when the ending was not predetermined.

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Part 3 – The Wall That Divided the World

Time passed, and the city walls continued to advance. One day, people noticed that half of some houses were no longer visible. The invisible wall had come so close that it had cut roofs in half; as if a city once complete was now being swallowed by an unseen circle.

Fear peaked in the city, yet something else happened simultaneously: habituation. For many, this world—with its walls, silences, and laws—became reality. Memories of other cities, noisy streets, parks, and hospitals faded like a distant dream. Some whispered to themselves that perhaps this was where they had always been meant to live, and that everything outside had been a passing mistake.

But for three people, it was different: Alex, Dire, and Marila. They still remembered the outside—not only in images but as a feeling. A sense that humans could live, err, speak, remain silent, and all of this was part of a natural flow, not punishment. They gathered—not in the square, but in a corner of the city where half of the sky was still visible.

For perhaps the first time, they decided to look not at the city’s past, nor others’ pasts, but their own. Alex thought of the day he lost Sam, the moment he laughed at Dire’s warning. Then he went further back, to the years before arriving at this city, when his words had touched others’ lives; the books he had read, the words he had spoken, the silences he had chosen.

Dire returned in his mind to the day the first inspirations about this city had come to him; the voice that had told him if he tried to escape, his family would die. He realized that from that moment, fear had guided his decisions, and instead of understanding the message, he had clung to protecting himself and others.

Marila, voiceless, thought of the hospital; the night she sat by Boss’s bed, the moment she took his hand and was transported to the lower city. She recalled the years before, when in the outside world she had spoken to patients, comforted with words, and sometimes unintentionally caused harm with words. Now, without her voice, she understood how dependent she had been on those words.

Through this deep reflection on their own pasts, something inside them changed. They were no longer just victims of a game; they were beginning to see where they had participated through fear, thoughtlessness, or avoidance.

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Part 4 – The Path That Is Written Only by Action

In the silence that surrounded them, Alex suddenly thought of his book; the very book on the table in the lower house, with its blank pages at the end. He realized that the escape was perhaps not in knowing what had been written, but in accepting “what had not yet been written.” If the ending had been predetermined, they would only be playing roles already scripted. But now, the absence of an ending meant that every action truly mattered.

He concluded that salvation did not lie in breaking the law through a collective rebellion, nor in killing Boss or destroying the underground. The way forward lay in restoring “the responsibility of choice” to each individual. As long as everyone thought their fate depended on Boss, the wall, or the underground, they always blamed someone else. But if each looked at their own past and accepted that through their words and mistaken silences they had contributed to building this world, then they could make a fresh decision.

Alex understood that he had to act to transform this city from a “designed game” into a “mirror for choice.” What did this mean? Instead of people remaining silent merely to survive, they had to understand that silence could be a tool for thought, and then, with the first word they spoke, they must take full responsibility—even if it came at the cost of death.

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Part 5 – The Realization That Loosens the World

Alex, Dire, and Marila sat in a corner of the city where half the sky was still visible. The invisible wall, like an unseen circle, had come so close that its edge passed through some rooftops, swallowing half the houses. Silence prevailed, but it was no longer the silence of fear or obedience; it was a deep, reflective silence flowing through the three of them.

Gradually, each began to see their own role in the game. Alex realized that the day he had ignored Dire’s warning, it wasn’t just stubbornness; something inside him had always laughed at rules because he wanted to be a lawmaker. That same desire later had made him a co-creator of this controlled world.

Dire saw how, years ago, when the first inspirations about this city had come, instead of asking “why,” he had only tried to do what would make him less afraid; and that fear had turned him into an enforcer of a law whose depth he had never truly understood.

Marila, voiceless, recalled the years when she had healed with words at the hospital, yet sometimes had given false hope unintentionally. Now, in a city where her voice had been taken, she understood how much she had relied on “speaking” to avoid facing real suffering.

When the three accepted their part—not as blame, but as responsibility—a subtle change occurred. Something in the fabric of the world loosened, like a rope long stretched so tight that everyone thought it was the wall itself, but now its knot had slightly undone.

Alex slowly rose and went to the city square. The people, weary and frightened, gathered; pale faces, eyes unable to distinguish between dream and reality. The wall had come so close that the square had become a small circle—the last shared space. Boss watched from above, from the hidden gap in the lower city, with his newfound voice still intoxicated by its first use.

When Alex finally accepted to remember the past, he recalled something that felt as if it could free them from here. Suddenly, a door opened to an old memory. He remembered a game they had played years ago with Sam—his first son—in the basement of their house. A simple game called “Silence,” but with challenges that, in this world, existed in a real form.

In the dark basement, with a weak flashlight, they built a city out of pillows and toy boxes; a small city with narrow alleys and houses made of couches and hanging blankets. The main rule was the same: whoever produced a sound—spoke, laughed, coughed—the game was over.

But the challenges went beyond simple silence. Sam, with childish mischief, cast strange shadows on the wall with his hands—shadows resembling invisible creatures slowly creeping toward Alex. Alex had to resist and keep his silence, while Sam watched with shining eyes. Sometimes, Sam gently moved a box to create a rustling sound and provoke a reaction from Alex. Sometimes he tapped the wall with his finger to create a vibration like the footsteps of something invisible in the toy city’s alleys.

Once, Sam placed a pillow in front of Alex and said, “Now you have to pass through the narrow alleys without touching it.” Alex, bent over, had to move between the pillows and boxes while Sam followed him with the flashlight, casting the shadows of the “city guards.” The smallest contact with a pillow meant breaking the rule of silence and losing the game.

In one of their favorite challenges, Sam built the “underground city”; a small pit under the table with several dolls that were “asleep.” Alex had to try, using gestures and without sound, to “wake” them, while Sam interfered with shadows and faint sounds. The rule was this: Alex must not produce any sound while waking the dolls.

At that moment, Alex remembered with a bitter smile that Sam always won—not because Alex could not keep silent, but because his laughter at his son’s mischief always burst out sooner than he expected.

Those games, in the basement of their house, felt like a small map of this very world they were now trapped in: cities, invisible walls, shadow-like creatures, the dead beneath the ground, and a law that was broken with the first sound.

Suddenly, everything became clear. Bass had arrived and had turned that childhood game into something gigantic and real. But the key difference was this: in the game with Sam, when Alex spoke or laughed, the game ended, but Sam always smiled and they started a new game. Here, Bass had changed the game; speaking, instead of ending the game, had become the beginning of punishment.

And then the final realization came: Bass himself had broken the rule. When he took Marila’s voice and spoke for the first time, at that very moment, the game had ended.

Because this world was the world of Bass and Alex, but Alex did not know that the law of silence had become invalid from the very moment the city’s leader himself produced a sound. Bass, without realizing it, had repeated Alex’s laughter at Sam’s mischief; breaking the silence—not with laughter, but with sound.

Alex stood in the middle of the square. This time, not as a man defending the law, nor as a victim, but as someone who finally understood how his thinking had upheld this world. He took a deep breath and began to speak—not shouting, not with slogans, but in a tone more like a calm confession than a speech.

He admitted that for years he and others had defined themselves by mistakes; that he had believed humans only change when pushed to the brink of destruction. He explained that this city, its law, and the wall had all been shadows of the same belief—where forgiveness had no place, only punishment and escape from oneself. He confessed that in shaping this image, he had unwittingly been complicit—through anger, pride, and stories he had written in his mind that trapped others.

Then, he reached a point he had never dared before:

He said that from this moment, he would see himself and others not merely as criminals and victims of a closed story, but as humans who could err, perceive, understand, and change—without the need for a world that forever imprisoned them for each mistake. He said that the city had made them look at their past, and that was enough. “The rest is extra punishment.”

For Boss, watching from above, these words made little sense; he understood a world where power meant control, and control meant fear. But for the people, something stirred deep inside. For the first time in years, someone was telling them they could move past mistakes without erasing them or drowning in them forever.

At that moment, in the lower house, Alex’s book shook its final pages without anyone touching it. Not that an invisible pen wrote on them, but the old writings—the repeated, closed endings for this world—gradually faded, giving way to whiteness, signaling not absence, but that “it was no longer necessary.”

The invisible wall, without a sound, began to retreat. At first, the people only felt the pressure lift from their chests, as if an invisible band tied around their ribcages for years had loosened. Slowly, the half-swallowed houses began to appear whole again. The horizon revealed its lines after a long time: forest, hotel, hill—all gradually emerged, like a scene illuminated by increasing light, not an abrupt explosion.

In the lower city, the sleepers woke one by one, heading to stairs connecting the upper and lower city, or turning into soft light dissolving into the walls—not with suffering, but like exhaled breath spreading calmly in the air. The underground, embodiments of fear and the need for punishment, became smaller and fainter. No one called them anymore, because no one needed another to punish or hide for them. Eventually, they became ordinary shadows, part of light and body, not masters of darkness.

In the crowd, Marila realized her voice had returned. But this time, she did not rush to speak. She smiled briefly—not from triumph, but from understanding that both silence and voice only have meaning when separated from fear. Dire, who had long played the role of lawkeeper, breathed deeply and, for the first time, saw himself not as an agent of a higher force, but as a human who could say “no,” even to his own fears.

Boss, from above, watched this scene in amazement. His throne, his maps, the walls of his house in the lower city—all became transparent, one by one. He realized that if people no longer saw themselves as prisoners of eternal punishment, his world had no place to stand. He was now only a boy—a boy who had to learn to live without his artificial world, without the fear that made everyone tremble. It was terrifying, but something deep inside sensed this might be the only real way to grow up.

When daylight fully covered the city, the wall was gone. Streets and houses remained, but the air had changed. The sound of people talking returned—not anxious shouts, nor fearful whispers, but ordinary conversations with pauses for thought. The Law of Silence, without being formally repealed, had faded from minds; the root that required it had dried.

Alex remained alone in the square. The book in his hand now felt lighter. Opening it, he saw the final pages no longer narrated a closed world; only a few simple sentences remained: acknowledgment of building this world from fear, acceptance of responsibility, and a short line seemingly written for himself:

"As long as you define yourself only by your wounds, wherever you go, the prison comes with you. When you accept that your past is real but your future does not have to repeat it, worlds like this are no longer necessary."

Part 1 – The Playground and the Accident

A year had passed since Bass had disappeared through the forest and vanished from the City of Silence. For him, that moment felt like falling from the edge of a long dream; when he opened his eyes, he found himself in a city overflowing with sound. Cars honked, people spoke to one another, children screamed, and words flowed through the streets like an endless wave.

Bass, who had never made a sound since birth, found no place for himself in this nameless, unknown city. No one had been waiting for him, no door had opened for him. Eventually, he discovered a park with a few old trees, rusted benches, and a playground whose swings groaned softly with every breeze. This became his home. By day, he sat on the swings, moving his legs gently back and forth; by night, he lay on the benches, gazing at the distant yellow lights.

Other children came and went; they laughed, argued, cried, and returned to their homes. Bass was a spectator, a witness to a world that did not belong to him. When someone asked him something, he would only shrug or make a vague gesture with his hands. Soon, people understood that this boy did not speak. After a while, no one even tried to ask him anything.

One evening, as the sun set and shadows stretched across the ground, Bass was sitting on a swing, lost in thought. His mind involuntarily wandered back to the city where even breathing at night had to be done carefully—a city whose border with the forest tightened a little each day. His foot got caught in the swing’s chain, he lost his balance, and fell headfirst to the ground. The impact was strong; for a moment, the world went blurry, and then all sounds shattered.

People ran, screamed, someone called for help on the phone, and an ambulance arrived. Bass was placed on a stretcher and taken to the hospital, where the smell of alcohol, the sound of footsteps, and the sharp white lights formed a new, unfamiliar world for him.

Part 2 – Marilla and the Homeless Boy

In the emergency room, a woman in a white coat with a kind gaze stood over him. Her name was Marilla, a nurse who had worked with countless patients over the years, but there was something different in the way she looked at this silent boy. Bass was moved to a quiet room; his head was bandaged, and a small monitor showing his heartbeat was placed beside his bed.

Once the immediate danger had passed and the doctor said he could be observed safely, night gradually fell. Hours passed, and no one came to see the boy—not a parent, not a relative, not a friend. Marilla, reviewing his file, noticed that the “Accompanying Person” field was empty; only the name the boy had indicated himself with gestures and writing on a piece of paper was recorded: Bass.

Near midnight, when the ward was quieter, Marilla sat by his bed. Bass was awake, staring at the ceiling. She asked softly:

“Does anyone come for you? Family? Friend?”

Bass shook his head from side to side. Then, with his hand, he drew a rectangular shape in the air, like a bed, then two trees, then a bench beneath them. He pointed at himself and then at the ground.

Marilla murmured:

“So… you live in the park?”

Bass nodded in confirmation.

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—not the usual tears of a child, but a silent confession: that he had nowhere to go, that this metal bed was, even temporarily, the safest place he had lain in months. Marilla, who had long been familiar with human loneliness, felt this was a different kind of solitude. He was not only homeless but silent.

The next day, when the doctor said he was physically able to leave the hospital, a new problem arose: where should he go? When asked again, “Does anyone come for you?” Bass simply gestured as before: “No, I have no one. I live in the park.”

To many, he was just a homeless child who would eventually return to the benches. But for Marilla, that answer was not enough. She switched her shift that night to stay and watch over the boy—perhaps out of duty, perhaps stirred by an old wound within herself that Bass had unknowingly awakened.

Part 3 – The Invisible Bridge Between Two Cities

That night, silence dominated the ward. Patients were asleep, hallways were dim, and only the occasional beep of machines broke the stillness. Marilla sat on a chair by Bass’s bed, file on her lap, but her gaze remained fixed on him rather than the papers.

Suddenly, Bass lifted his hand and held Marilla’s wrist—not tightly, but as if to confirm her presence. Then, with his free finger, he began drawing on the sheets: a small circle, then linear houses and a forest; he looked at Marilla.

Marilla could not understand the drawing, but sensed it was the only language he could use. She asked:

“Is this… a city?”

Bass took a slightly deeper breath and nodded gently.

At that moment, Marilla asked him to take her to that city. They climbed into a car and headed there. Upon entering, they found cobblestone streets, simple houses all around, closed windows, an oppressive atmosphere, and a silence so deep that even the sound of one’s own heartbeat seemed loud.

Bass stood beside her, just as he had on the hospital bed, but now his feet were on the ground of this city.

In the center of the square, a massive fissure gaped in the earth—a dark mouth from which a faint light emerged. Marilla approached the edge, terrified but unable to retreat. Looking down, she saw another city, smaller, denser, with a row of twenty-five houses lined together.

Marilla opened her mouth to speak but instinctively felt she should not make a sound. Bass silently looked down, as if observing the house he had built from above.

Part 4 – The Under-City and the Awakening of the Dead

Stone steps, as if always present, led from the edge of the fissure down to the under-city. Bass stepped on the first one without hesitation, as if he already knew the way. Marilla, still confused about why she was there, followed him instinctively. Her breath quickened, not from running, but from a fear she could not name.

With each step downward, a faint murmur became audible, like the sound of people talking in their sleep. When they reached the bottom, Marilla realized the source: in front of some of the twenty-five houses lay men and women, motionless, eyes closed, like the dead. Their faces were familiar to Bass; they were people who had once broken the law of silence in the upper city years ago and had been considered “dead.”

Tentatively, Marilla knelt beside one. She reached out and, trembling, checked his pulse. At first, she felt nothing; cold, still skin under her fingers. Unconsciously, she whispered:

“Can you hear my voice?”

The moment the words left her mouth, they hung heavy in the air. Beneath her fingers, a weak pulse began to beat. The man’s chest rose and fell with effort, his eyelids fluttered and opened slowly. His gaze was bewildered and fearful, like someone waking from an endless sleep.

Here, Marilla sensed the law governing this city: the opposite of the upper city. In the upper city, words meant death and silence meant survival. Here, in the under-city, silence held all in a deathlike suspension, and words—even the simplest—could bring them back to life.

Bass observed all of this carefully—not with surprise, but with a bitter understanding. It was as if he was witnessing the outcome of something he had once wished for: a world in which people would realize that every word spoken could one day cost a life.

At the end of the row of houses, slightly lower than the others, stood a house out of alignment. Not exactly in line, not as simple. On the door, Marilla only saw an old piece of wood, but Bass recognized it immediately: this house belonged to his father.

Part 5 – Father’s House and the Book

Bass moved toward that house downstream. Marilla followed, her steps sounding unnaturally loud in the heavy silence of the under-city. The door opened under a gentle push, as if it had been waiting for this moment.

Inside, the air felt different. The lifeless stillness of the streets was gone. The rooms resembled a replicated version of a house in the upper city—the same house where Alex, Lila, and Sam had lived. But here, the walls were more than mere paint and plaster; they were filled with sheets, designs, maps, and lines connecting two circles—one above, one below—with arrows linking them.

In the center of the room stood a wooden table. On it lay a thick book, open; a worn cover bore a name: Alex Morgan. Marilla approached, sliding her finger over the letters. Each letter awakened a sense of distant familiarity, as if she had read this name somewhere before, perhaps in a book from her own world.

As she flipped through the pages, she saw the book was not just a story about this city; it was more like a design notebook for the world they were now in. It described a city where silence is law and speech brings death; about a man named Alex, his wife, a son who would be born mute, and a law solidified after the twentieth death. Marilla realized it was not merely a record of events, but a blueprint written before they occurred.

She looked at Bass. The boy, silent and still, stared at the book, seemingly unshocked to see his father’s name on the cover. In his gaze was a heavy acceptance: that part of this world had existed in his father’s mind before his birth, and now he stood silently in its midst.

Hints of the future were in the following pages—not clear, but predictable. It stated: “One day, the child without a voice will build a bridge between two cities” and “A woman from outside will bring her voice to the city without dying.” Marilla held her breath; these lines felt uncomfortably close to reality.

The final pages of the book were blank; white sheets left intentionally for something to be written later—not by the past author, but by someone in the future who would make a great decision.

Part 6 – The New Law and Marilla’s Role

When Marilla and Bass left the house, the air in the under-city had changed slightly; it felt easier, yet heavier to breathe. Knowing that Alex, Bass’s father, was both a victim and a creator of this cycle made everything more complicated. This city was no longer mere punishment; it was a test, designed to make humans reflect on their past.

Above, in the City of Silence, people still lived; they did not speak at night and continued life by habit and fear during the day. For them, the dead had simply disappeared; no one knew that beneath their feet, in a second city, a single word could awaken them.

Bass, silently, looked at Marilla—a woman from outside, who had lived in a world where words were free. Now, here, each word she spoke had double power: it could awaken someone or challenge a law. He was the only one who could speak in both cities without dying, because at the start of this game, he had not been present.

In Bass’s mind, whispers began to form—the inspirations that had spoken to him nightly about the reason for creating this world. They told him that he had designed this place before his birth; that the underlings—creatures that could hide in shadows and erase people from others’ sight—were his creations. The goal was for humans, when deprived of words, to be forced to think about their past; the words they had spoken, the wounds they had inflicted with language, and the lives they had inadvertently destroyed.

One of these inspirations, the one that had frightened Bass the most, said: “The city walls will shrink each day.” That meant the living space of people would gradually tighten, leaving no escape, unless they found a way to free themselves beforehand.

When Marilla understood this truth from Bass’s gestures and writings, she returned to the upper city and explained it to the people. Dir, hearing these words, paled. He had been trapped in this city for years without knowing exactly who controlled the law. Now he heard that “Alex’s son” not only played a role but was considered the leader of this world.

Dir whispered, in silence only he understood:

“We’ve been trapped here for ten years. If this boy built this world, the way to save it is in his mind. Maybe the only way is to destroy him ourselves.”

Part 7 – The Choice Yet Unwritten

Bass, through the underlings, realized that some of the upper city’s people believed that killing him would save them. But the first inspiration he received years ago had said otherwise: “If you die, these people die. You are the leader of this world. You built this place before your birth to restore something to these people and their memory. The last person alive here will understand something that will change their life forever outside this place.”

Bass was exhausted—not only by the underlings who killed or hid people at his command, but by the game itself. A game that once may have seemed exciting, a world in which he was the lawmaker. But now, seeing how people, with every disappearance or drag across the ground, became more distant from humanity, this world had become a prison even for him.

One night, one of the underlings—a creature he called the “super-underling”—came to him in his sleep. It said it had traveled to the past and seen that this cycle had occurred before; a group of people in another time, in a place similar to this, had been trapped in the same game. The only group to escape had the last living member being the old man who died years later when Bass was eight—the man named Raymond.

Bass asked:

“Why did he return?”

The underling replied:

“To help you. But when he returned, he had lost his memory.”

For the first time, Bass realized this world was not entirely under his control. He had structured it, but now past and future were so intertwined that he could not recall all the connections.

In the upper city, people grew more exhausted by the day. The invisible wall had come so close that the hotel on the hill could no longer be seen. The forest had become a narrow strip. Tension in the city rose; those who had remained silent for years were now screaming inside themselves.

One day, Bass stood in the city square. People gathered around him. Still unable to speak, he asked one of the underlings to write something on a large board.

The text was simple, yet its impact was profound:

“This place was made so you understand that without speaking, by thinking about your past and your mistakes, you can find a way to survive. Speaking is not always power; sometimes it is an escape from facing reality. You have been trapped here for thirteen years, mostly silent, not because you thought, but because you did nothing. Now it is time to use that silence, but with a vigilant mind, to find the path out.”

Among the crowd, Alex, Dir, and Marilla stood, each with a past now woven into the map of this city. Somewhere deep in Alex’s under-city home, the book with his name on the cover remained open on the table. Its blank final pages awaited a decision yet to be made.

Part One: Arrival in the Town and the Law of Silence

A narrow dirt road cut through a dense forest and led to a small town nestled in greenery; a town that seemed to have been hidden from the world for years. The worn-out car that Alex was driving emerged from between the trees and stopped on the cracked asphalt at the town’s entrance.

Lila, his wife, sat beside him, her tired but hopeful eyes scanning the quiet, simple houses. Sam, their young son, sat in the back seat, oblivious to the heaviness of the town's atmosphere. Alex took a deep breath; this town was their last hope for a fresh start, far from crowds, far from past failures.

The houses were short and close together; the walls simple, the yards small, and the windows cautiously shut. An eerie silence hung in the air; a middle-aged man with gray-streaked hair and a calm but penetrating face stood in front of an old house, as if he had been waiting for this car and this family for a long time. He introduced himself as Dyer, the person who would hand them this house.

The house he gave them was old but solid; white walls, a wooden floor, and a window overlooking a corner of the forest. Dyer handed Alex the keys and, in a calm but heavy tone, explained that a "simple law" existed here—a law concerning the night and silence. His explanation was brief, more like a passing gesture than a full description. Then he left them alone with the house and the town.

When night fell, the house was shrouded in soft darkness. Lila, exhausted from the journey and moving, stretched out on the sofa while Sam sat in the other room, eventually succumbing to sleep. Alex walked silently through the rooms, muttering under his breath; perhaps a dark joke about the town’s silence law he still did not understand, or soft complaints to himself. The words didn’t matter to him, yet somewhere beyond his understanding, each word carried a weight of its own.

At midnight, the house's light flickered for a few moments, as if something in the air had shifted. Alex, not yet fully asleep, sensed silent footsteps. When he opened the door, he saw Dyer standing at the threshold without making a sound. His presence seemed neither to have come from the doorbell nor from knocking; he was simply there, like a shadow whose connection to light and darkness was unclear.

Dyer gestured for Alex to follow him. He led him outside; the night air was cold, and the forest loomed like a living wall surrounding the town. The middle-aged man covered Alex's mouth—not violently, but with a firmness that made the surrounding atmosphere heavier. Then he pulled out a small board he had brought and began to write.

The sentences were simple, but their meaning was heavier than any threat Alex had ever heard:

"If you speak a word between ten at night and five in the morning, your family will die. You are obliged to convey this law to all the townspeople. If more than twenty people die, this law will become permanent."

Alex was caught between fear and anger. Part of him believed that this man knew something others did not; another part could not accept that someone had the right to silence him this way. His reaction was ultimately like that of a human wanting to resist humiliation and fear: he spoke a few words out loud—not to argue rationally, but just to avoid feeling defeated. Perhaps he even let out a faint, fleeting laugh.

At that moment, in Sam’s room, something unseen made its decision. The boy, deep in sleep, moved slightly, his mouth partially open, his breath stopped, and his eyes closed without a chance to say goodbye. When Alex returned in panic, he found Sam lifeless on the bed; a small, still body, a mouth holding an unfinished word forever.

Dyer disappeared; the only trace of his presence was a short note on the table, blaming Alex for not taking the warning seriously:

"See, Alex, you shouldn’t have spoken. At night, between ten and five, if a sound comes from you, your wife will die and you will be alone. I didn’t leave this law just for you; you are obliged to spread it to the townspeople during the day. If more than twenty people in this town die, the law becomes permanent."

From that moment on, silence for Alex was no longer just the town’s strange law; it had become the boundary between life and death, a boundary he had unknowingly crossed.

Part Two: Mass Execution and the Consolidation of Fear

In the morning, the cold daylight fell on the narrow streets of the town and the closed windows. The news of Sam's death spread quietly and heavily among the people; whispers traveling from one house to another. Alex, with a pale face and sunken eyes, decided to share the truth he knew with others. Perhaps a part of him still hoped that warning them could prevent the repetition of this nightmare, and perhaps he wanted to be freed, even a little, from the burden of guilt that was crushing him.

In the small town square, men and women, old and young, gathered together. Alex stood there and recounted the events of the previous night: Dair’s threat, the law of silence from ten p.m. to five a.m., and the sudden death of his son immediately after breaking this law. To many, these words seemed strange and unbelievable. Their astonished looks, short laughter, shrugged shoulders, and half-serious comments filled the square. To them, this story was more like the ravings of a grieving man than a truth.

Among the crowd, there were also faces that did not laugh; those whose fear could be seen deep in their eyes. They took their intuition seriously and felt that this town was hiding something. But the voice of the crowd, even when quiet, was stronger than that of a few individuals; and in the end, most people returned to their homes and continued their day with the same habitual routines: talking, arguing, grumbling, and laughing.

On the second night, the town showed a dual face. In some houses, the lights were turned off very early, and the residents lay in silence on their beds, as if they feared even the sound of their own breathing. In other houses, conversations continued; jokes, old quarrels, unfinished sentences, and whispers that no one was willing to stop because of the story of the new man.

But the law did not wait for anyone’s belief or disbelief. In the middle of the night, in fifteen different houses, right in the middle of a sentence, a laugh, or a discussion, bodies suddenly stopped moving. No scream, no fall, no sound of anything breaking; only silence, and then lifeless corpses. The next morning, the town faced fifteen bodies; fifteen people who, the night before, were still part of the town’s normal life.

Fear, like a thick fog, settled over the town. People brought the bodies to the square, gathered together, and with a look mixed with fear and accusation, stared at each other and at Alex. Few dared now to simply mock his story. A bitter silence replaced the jokes of yesterday.

Some, still hoping to escape, drove their cars toward the exit road. They passed through the forest, to where the path always continued; but this time, it was as if they had hit an invisible wall. Cars could not move forward, steering wheels turned uselessly, and pedals only spun the wheels in place. An unseen force held them back. When they returned, the sense of confinement and realization fell upon everyone like a heavy burden.

In the following days, everyone felt the forest drawing closer to the town. Not because the trees had moved, but because an invisible boundary around the town was gradually tightening. It was as if the town, which initially breathed within the forest, was now slowly being compressed in the hand of a giant.

That night, before ten o’clock, Dair appeared again in one of the quiet alleys. Alex saw him and approached; not like someone seeking a guide, but like someone confronting the killer of his child. Dair’s gaze was calm, yet a heavy grief swelled in his eyes; a grief that seemed not only tied to this town and this moment, but to something much older.

Dair wrote on another board:

"I am Dair. I will be your guide until your son is born."

Alex, angrily, interrupted and wrote on the board:

"You killed my son. My wife is not pregnant."

Dair wrote:

"Tomorrow, go to the town doctor. You will see that she is pregnant."

Part Three: Pregnancy, the Consolidation of the Law, and the Birth of the Mute Boy

The next day, Alex and Leila went to the town’s small doctor’s office; an elderly woman. A simple examination, test, and ultrasound revealed the truth: Leila was several months pregnant, and they had not known. This discovery was both like a miracle and a bitter joke from a fate Alex no longer trusted.

In the following days, the town fell into a fear that rooted more deeply with each death. Now many people took the nightly silence law seriously. There were houses in which, as night fell, not even a whisper could be heard. Yet there were still those who could not or would not abandon their habit; those who had lived with speech for years could not suddenly rid themselves of it.

The deaths continued, but not like the first wave. This time, each death felt heavier; as if the town, each time it lost someone, sank a little further to its knees. The number of victims reached nineteen, and with each body buried, the invisible wall around the town crept ever closer to the houses.

Among them was an eighty-year-old man named Raymond; a man suffering from severe illness, but always calm, who smiled silently at the townspeople. He was not someone who spoke much; not because he did not want to, but because he had little left to say. He was the last barrier before the "twentieth death"; the final line which, if crossed, would make the law no longer temporary, but permanent.

Time passed, and Leila’s pregnancy progressed. The town seemed smaller each day; the invisible wall had come so close that now the forest appeared as only a narrow ring around the town. People could see less of the horizon; their lives confined to narrow alleys and silent houses.

Nine months passed, and the town now stood on the edge of a knife; if one more person died, the law would become permanent, with no way to reverse it. Raymond, the eighty-year-old man, was the final link in this chain.

On the night of the birth, the air was heavier than ever. The electricity in the houses flickered constantly, as if something in the depths of the earth wanted to make itself known. Leila was in pain, and Alex, torn between fear for his wife and the nightmare of losing a child again, wandered helplessly. The town doctor helped them deliver the child amidst all this tension.

Finally, the boy was born. He did not cry; his mouth remained closed, but his eyes opened, sharp and mature, scanning the room. It was as if he had come into this world not for the first time, but for a second or third time. Alex named him Bass; a simple but strong name.

Eight years passed. Bass grew up, and the town remained immersed in its silence. Throughout these years, Raymond, the eighty-year-old man, was still alive. He had been ill for years, but his death did not seem natural; it was as if something had kept him until the right moment arrived.

Finally, at the age of eighty-eight, Raymond died in his sleep. His death was the twentieth death in the town; a death that transformed the law from a temporary warning into a fixed and unchangeable reality.

At that moment, a shiver ran through the depths of the town. The sky seemed to bend for a second, and everyone, even those asleep, appeared to see in a brief vision that the invisible wall had become firmer, its ring tighter. From then on, the law of silence was no longer just a threat from a mysterious man; it had become a truth etched into the bones of the town.

Part Four: Bass’s Escape and Alex’s Solitude

Alex, who now knew that life in the town would continue this way, had years before the law’s consolidation decided to prepare a path for his son; a path that perhaps neither he nor Leila could ever take.

A few days before Raymond’s death, Alex explained the situation to Bass; not through words, but through hidden notes, and maps he drew at night on small pieces of paper, which he then placed in his son’s pocket the next day. He taught Bass that the forest, at a particular point, had a path that only someone completely mute could pass; someone who did not make a sound, but was somehow connected to the town. Bass, who had been mute from birth, was the perfect candidate for this escape.

On the day Raymond died and the law was consolidated, Alex knew there was no more time. He took Bass in the middle of the night, with Dair’s silent help, to the edge of the forest. They traveled a short but precise path until reaching a point where the trees slightly parted and a faint light shone through. Dair, without a word, took Bass’s hand and pushed him toward that light. Bass, eyes filled with fear but obedient, stepped forward and suddenly, as if passing through an invisible veil, vanished.

Alex stared at the spot where his son had stood; now empty. Dair placed a hand on his shoulder, not to console, but to remind him that the right thing had been done. For Alex, however, this escape was neither a victory nor a rescue; it was simply being left alone. He returned to the house, to Leila, who was asleep and unaware that their son was no longer there.

The next day, when Dair and Alex gathered the townspeople to announce the new laws, Alex’s face was heavier than ever. Dair wrote on a large board:

"From now on, no one has the right to speak. If anyone breaks this law, they will die. The reason for this silence is unknown, but if any words are spoken, you will leave this world."

The people, looking at each other and at Alex, understood that this was no longer a warning; it was a law that left no room for doubt.

Dair noticed that Bass was gone. He turned to Alex angrily and gestured: “Where is your son?”

Alex, with a blank expression, wrote on the board:

"I don’t know. I’ve been looking for him since morning."

Dair knew it was a lie, but said nothing. Perhaps because he himself had a hand in this escape, or perhaps because he knew Bass had to go. For the townspeople, however, the disappearance of this mute boy became a mystery; a mystery whose answer would later be even stranger than they could imagine.