“Don’t Look Back, Don’t Forget.”

Not long ago, I was hanging around at my usual hideout: a library. I’d never been to this one before, but something drew me to it. So I stepped inside.

I was wandering around when something caught my eye—a book, resting alone on a table. One I’d imagined a million times before, thought about every day.

It had no title on the cover. But I knew exactly what it was.

A continent of four quadrants. Castles. Adventure. Heroes.

I had written it myself—with a friend.

Zephyria.

How was it possible? We weren’t even done writing it, much less publishing it. Yet I didn’t hesitate to open the book. My eyes had barely skimmed the first words when I became aware of two very sudden changes.

Firstly, I wasn’t in the library anymore.

Secondly, the book was gone.

Behind me was a door I didn’t remember walking through. It clicked gently shut behind me. Beyond it lay the library I’d been in moments ago.

In front of me was… another library. Dusty. A little stuffy. The floor, walls and ceiling were all panelled wood, and high windows allowed rays of golden light to stream through. Sounds of a busy community could be heard, somewhere outside.

Some unknown feeling urged me forward. I walked between the towering shelves and pushed open the heavy wooden double doors. I was met with bright sunlight, a large, bustling, medieval town square.

Except this wasn’t just any town square. This is the Central Square, I realised in awe. The communal place between the four quadrants: North, East, South and West. I’m in Zephyria. Their- my- world.

A pair of guards caught my eye, and I watched as they marched past. Eastern, by the uniform. I began to imagine what the Eastern quadrant would look like. I’d made it the mining quadrant, given it a stronghold, dwarves, and a rebellion. It was my favourite.

There was a sharp snapping sound, and suddenly I was somewhere else.

In front of me stood an imposing, rectangular building. It looked like a stronghold, but I remembered describing the East Palace exactly the same way. I walked closer to the palace and saw every detail exactly as I’d imagined it.

I turned to find a way inside, but the main gates burst open. A figure sprinted out, flame-orange hair streaming out behind her.

Betty.

And silhouetted against the horizon, a group.

Jay, Mark and Ruby. Flame the griffin. And the horses, Lilypad and Starbright.

My story had brought me straight into the main plot. I wanted to meet my characters, yet I knew that they’d be running soon; guards were coming from the Palace already. And I didn’t even dare imagine what would happen to the story if I interacted with the main characters.

So instead, I pressed myself against the wall, waiting until the guards had passed before slipping into the palace. It looked far more imperial on the inside; all gilded decorations and plush hangings. I saw a beautifully woven tapestry of the continent. I couldn’t help reaching out to feel the silk.My fingers brushed the Northern Quadrant on the map, and the air around me ‘snapped’ again.

I came back to my senses in a cramped stone room. The walls are lined with shelves, and on one side was a desk, spread with parchment, a quill and bottle of ink.

Sitting at the table was a young, blonde-haired boy. Apparently, he couldn’t see me.

It doesn’t make sense. This is Jay, but five years younger than the boy I’ve just seen!

I watched him, wondering why I’d been brought here. I knew this was in the North Palace, but… I’d just have to watch and see.

A few moments later, the concealed door swung open. In front of it stood a confused looking girl with the same orange hair.

Betty again. Five years ago.

She asked his name, he deflected by asking back. She giggled, answering;

“Betty. I’m Betty.”

Jay nodded his thanks for letting him out, and raced out before she could ask any further.

I know they’ll meet again, years later.

The air snapped again. I catch a glimpse of open fields, but instead I find myself in the ‘real-life’ library again. I haven’t written the West yet…

Could I have dreamed it?

But when I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushed a worn piece of parchment.

I pulled it out.

On it, in an unfamiliar script:

“Don’t look back, don’t forget.”