Prologue

My name is Sora.

You see what I did there?

All I did was tell you my name, but that's all I need to say for you to know what I look like. We never even met before and I'm not a celebrity, not to mention, there are tons of people named Sora, but that doesn't matter now, does it?

Why should I even bother describing myself? You already know how I look. I got brown hair and blue eyes. The range varies; it could be brunet, warm, or chocolate, and my eyes are often compared to the skies, the sea, sapphire gems, or other shades of blue.

It's always the hair and eyes.

Why nothing else?

I have a nice nose too. It's aligned correctly, symmetrical, and placed in an aesthetically pleasing manner. My cheeks are a little round, babyish, but given time, they'll look sharp. I won't be chiseled by any stretch of the imagination; my features are far too soft for that, and I won't grow a beard and I don't have scars, which means the hyper masculine look is out of reach for me, but that's okay, because I have a boyish face. I'll probably be carded well into my thirties. My complexion is invariably tanned, sun-kissed, and darker than pale. I don't consider myself handsome though, nor am I ugly. I'll leave that determination up to you.

My mouth is my best feature. It allows me to wield my trademark weapon: the cheesy grin. It's not a full curve with pointed corners—it's a rounded rectangle, a full display of teeth, with a slight skew of mirth. It's playful, disarming, and charming.

But you already know all that.

It's the only thing that stays constant about me. I can't give you my age, my last name, my shoe size, what I'm wearing right now, or my social security number, because it never stays the same. Feel free to imagine whatever you like.

As long as I'm not naked.

So what is this about? What exactly is going on here? And why am I talking to you right now? Well…

That's because I need your help.

The fact that I can't recall my background, my past, or my clothes is of rather large concern to me. It's not for lack of memory, because I have plenty of those, the problem is, I don't know which one is real.

I suppose I should back up a little bit.

I have the God Quill.

It's quite a magnificent little thing. It's a feather with a pointed tip. You dip the tip in ink and write to your heart's content. But this isn't any old quill; it's the God Quill, the very thing that creation itself uses to create creation.

Whatever I write.

Becomes reality.

It sounds great on paper but…

Ever read the Monkey's Paw?

Things never go as you'd expect.

I now find myself in a literal existential crisis. I just want to return to my original life, but the problem with that is…

I forgot which one it is.

When you've reshaped reality, recreated the world, and rewritten everything as many times as I have, you tend to lose track of things. It's not like writing down "everything returned to normal" will work either, believe me, I've tried. It seems like my only solution is to do things the hard way:

To go through every story I ever wrote and see if I can reach the ending.

This is where you come in.

Believe it or not, you're also the only other constant besides me. You've stayed the same throughout countless tales. I have come in many forms, in many permutations, and many varieties, but you have always remained as you are, reading over every word, absorbing every detail, and worrying about my every move.

You're my greatest supporter, aren't you?

Before me is every story I ever wrote. Some of them are bad, and some of them are good, but one of them must be my true home. I don't know how long it'll take or how long you're willing to stick with me, but let's set off on this journey together.

Maybe, with the both of us, we can find the perfect story for me.

Thank you for reading.