I came back to the world the way a match flares—one sharp hiss and suddenly everything was bright.
Fern‑damp loam cushioned the back of my skull, cool as the tiles of a city subway at midnight. I blinked against bronze‑white light and, for a breath, waited for traffic noise or paramedics or any sign that the car accident had been a nightmare. Nothing. Just cicada‑like humming and the steady rustle of leaves fifty feet overhead.
A jagged strip of linen was the only thing preserving my dignity. Everything else—phone, sneakers, the name on my driver's licence—was wiped clean. I flexed fingers and toes, cataloguing bruises and the shallow cuts on my shoulder. Tender, but functional. Good. I'd been a Boy Scout long enough to remember the first rule of weird situations: take inventory before you panic.
That was when I noticed the shadows. Plural.
Two crisp silhouettes spilled out from my feet, diverging across the moss like quarrelling siblings. I followed the rays back to their sources and nearly laughed: a pair of suns, one honey‑gold and the other a harsher white, rode the sky on separate tracks like commuters refusing to share a seat. If this was a hallucination, my subconscious had gone full science‑fantasy.
"Well, Ian," I muttered, "that's one way to confirm you're not in Kansas—or Perth—anymore." My voice sounded steadier than I felt, so I kept talking. "Objective one: survive until nightfall. Objective two: remember my last name. Stretch goal: figure out why the trees are bending toward the little guy."
The trunks around me weren't quite Earth familiar—coniferous giants with spiral‑veined bark and root flares wide enough to park a ute under. Closer inspection showed the rings on a fallen branch actually arced toward the nearer sun, as though the wood had grown in permanent salute. File under 'mysteries for later'. Right now I needed tools.
A glitter caught my eye: a quartz shard half‑buried in leaf mould. The edge looked sharp enough to shave with. I palmed it, feeling unexpectedly comforted by the weight—civilisation started with a rock that could cut something else. Presto, I was officially a tool‑using animal again.
My stomach chose that moment to file a noise complaint, so I added 'food' to the to‑do list. First, though, I needed a higher vantage point. I circled the clearing, testing each step before committing, and found a boulder slanted like a half‑submerged tortoise. The rock radiated late‑morning warmth; I caught myself wishing for a flat white and a newsfeed scroll.
From the top, the world unfolded in cautious splendour. Towering conifers marched in every direction, their needles catching the twin lights in shades of copper and teal. Beyond the trees a river flirted with the sunlight, flashing silver between trunks. Birds I didn't recognise—all elbows and elongated tail feathers—corkscrewed through the canopy, screaming at each other in harmonies you could dance to. I inhaled resin, wet earth, something like citrus, and felt awe elbow fear out of the driver's seat.
"Congratulations, Ian," I said, shading my eyes against the double glare. "You've gone and got yourself isekai'd." The word tasted ridiculous outside of internet forums, but it fit. New world. Fresh start. Problem set.
I pivoted slowly, mapping landmarks: a broken ridge where pale stone bled through soil, the glint of possible quartz seams, the river bending north‑east. Everything in me wanted to sprint toward that water—but heat was already pooling under the bigger sun, and I'd read enough survival manuals to know dehydration stalked faster than thirst announced itself. Better to plan, then move.
Raising my hand, I aligned my fingertips with one sun, then the other. The shadows pulled apart in real time—proof that each star spun on its own eccentric track. Calendars here must be a nightmare. I made a note on the inside of my skull to start a journal as soon as I had bark and charcoal.
My shoulder twinged, reminding me that naked optimism wouldn't stop infection. A first‑aid kit was out of the question, but clean water and a decent shelter were not. The oak‑like behemoth I'd woken under had a lightning scar that hollowed near its base. I hopped down from the boulder and tested the cavity: spacious enough if I curled up, the wood inside dry. With some fern fronds and a strategic pile of deadfall, I could make a serviceable fox‑hole against the coming night.
Night. What would the sky look like without Orion's belt? The thought unsettled me more than the idea of alien predators. Constellations were supposed to be eternal; losing them felt like misplacing memories.
A breeze shifted, carrying the promise of river water and something musky—animal? Difficult to tell. Time to move. I tapped the quartz edge against my thigh like a metronome and set off toward the shimmer between trees, cataloguing plants with leaves I didn't recognise and pretending I was on a casual Saturday hike instead of day one of staying alive.
Somewhere behind the buzz of insects and my own pulse, the forest thrummed with possibility. Two suns, two shadows, and one very small human armed with a pebble knife and far too much curiosity. Story of my life.
I hadn't decided whether to thank the universe or curse it yet, but I knew one thing: by sundown I intended to have a fire, a shelter, and at least a rough idea of tomorrow's sunrise—or sunrises. Anything less and I'd just be another fossil for the trees to curl their rings around.
So I breathed deep, squared my shoulders, and let the twin lights guide me toward the river's glitter, already drafting mental field notes for the day I found something that could write.
After all, every adventure starts with chapter one, and I'd just turned the page.