Chapter 1. Makoto Shinkai's world.
The clouds outside the studio window were painted in hues of tangerine and violet—just like the skies Makoto Shinkai had drawn a thousand times. Yet, on this particular evening, they looked... strange. Alive. As if watching him.
Makoto leaned back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes. The animation frames of his latest film were scattered across his desk—another love story suspended between worlds, between time. But something about this scene wasn't right. The colors were too vivid, the clouds moved too slow, like frames out of sync.
Then he heard it. A low hum. The same sound he'd imagined for a dimensional tear in one of his movies, but this wasn't coming from the speakers.
Makoto stood and turned toward the window.
A Crack had formed in the sky.
It wasn't a tear in glass or a bolt of lightning. It was a fracture in reality itself, floating just above the Tokyo skyline. Iridescent, shifting, pulsing. And somehow... familiar. He stepped closer, heart racing.
The Crack opened wider, like a lens adjusting focus, revealing glimpses of another world—an endless field under golden light, two silhouettes running toward each other beneath a comet-split sky.
"No way... That's—"
It was a scene from Your Name.
But it was moving. Breathing. Real.
The wind in his studio surged, scattering papers and sketches. The Crack pulled.
"Wait!" Makoto yelled, grasping at his desk—but it was too late. His body lifted, weightless, and the studio faded behind him as he was consumed by the glowing fracture.
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He fell.
Through skies he had painted. Over cities he had imagined. Across timelines he had written.
When he landed, it was gentle, like a leaf resting on water.
He stood in the middle of a shimmering village—wooden houses, sakura trees, floating paper lanterns. It looked like 5 Centimeters per Second, The Garden of Words, and Suzume had all collided into one surreal, living dream.
Children ran past, giggling. A girl with a red ribbon stared at him, then whispered to her friend, "Is that... the Watcher?"
Makoto's heart pounded. "What is this place?"
An old man approached, his eyes twinkling. "You created this world. All of it. Every tear, every goodbye, every promise under the sky."
Makoto's voice trembled. "How?"
"The emotions you poured into your stories—they birthed a realm between realities. A sanctuary of memories. But it's fracturing now. The cracks are spreading. You must decide: return... or stay and rewrite it."
Makoto looked up. The sky above was torn, the Crack bleeding into their perfect world.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure if he was the storyteller anymore—or the story itself.
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To be continued...