The Stitched Horizon
The world you know is a lie—and the only way out is the knife in your hand.
For as long as you can remember, you've inked maps in a dusty workshop under your master's gruff care—until a corpse with your exact scar crosses your path. Your memories, your past, the very sky above—all of it stitched together by a hand you've never met. To find the real horizon, you must trust the one man who claims he wove your world, even as he offers you the blade to cut yourself free.
The story begins
The needle slipped from your fingers and vanished into the dark grain of the workbench. You didn't reach for it. The lantern guttered, and the corpse lay between you and Lark, its throat a clean, bloodless line—the same line that traced your own skin, a scar you'd worn since before memory.
Your hand went to your neck. The scar was warm, like a fresh brand.
Lark's shadow fell across the body. "You recognize him?" Her voice was low, careful.
"No." But you did. The shape of his face, the way his fingers curled—you knew them the way you knew the streets of the village, the way you knew the painted stars overhead. A life you'd never lived, pressing up against the inside of your skull.
The workshop door groaned. The Stitcher stood in the frame, silhouetted against a sky that shouldn't have had a door in it. His smile was patient, terrible.
"You've found the loose thread," he said. "Shall I show you what it unravels?"
What happens next is up to you.
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