Quantum Leap

In this first chapter, the protagonist begins her journey through a fragmented reality—guided by signals only she can read, compelled by a collective voice that dissolves boundaries between thought, paranoia, and higher cognition

The Unit steps into the unknown. The Whole is waiting.

The Whole: collective consciousness

Me: The Unit

The Whole: “So, Me—are you ready? Did you absorb everything from the books and the video in your neighbor’s flat? Smoked all your cigarettes? Scrolled enough? You know you can’t bring anything with you—no cigarettes, no phone, no keys. You don’t want to be traced. No one must know where you are. You don’t need to worry. Just trust us. Follow the instructions. Follow the signals. Trust the leak. You’ll recognize them. The plan will unfold before you, adapting as it goes.”

Me: “Yes, I think I’m almost done. I just feel a bit strange. Every time I light a cigarette and inhale, I see flashing green lights—beautiful, psychedelic. Let me finish this last one.”

The knock shattered reality at 3:00 a.m.—a metallic chime striking the spine of spacetime. Resonant. Absolute. It was time.

Me: “Okay. No one’s watching from the neighbor’s window. The way is clear. I’m out.”

First directive: go to the house with three windows. “Here I am,” I thought—but the door was locked. “Not this one. Look right.” My eyes scanned, catching one of the entrances to the castle courtyard—just like the one in that painting back home. “Follow the paint. Maybe that’s the house.” Another closed door. “Look left.” That one’s open. A hidden entrance to the castle. So dark inside.

The directive echoed: Leave your scent. Confuse the others. “Okay. Out now.” I stepped into the cold pre-dawn air. “There’s the narrow path. Follow it. Walk briefly along the main road so they’ll see me heading away from the village.” A car passed.

Turn right. Go uphill. Hide behind that parked car. Wait for the signal.

Cold seeped through my clothes. A window lit up, then dimmed. “Okay. I hear the rooster: one, two, three—no, not yet. Again: one, two, three, four. The dog barks. That’s it. It’s time.” The signals pulsed in my brain. “Hide in the lamb kennel.”

A strange thought: maybe they’ll just lift the kennel, with me inside, and load it onto a truck. The moon hung round and silent above it all.

The Whole: “Out now. Walk around the olive trees. This is a calibration. Let’s make sure you’re reading the signals correctly.”

I spun—left, right, back, forward—olive trees melting into motion. Calibration complete. Adrenaline buzzed bitter in my mouth.

The Whole: “You’re ready. Go into the garden—through the hole in the fence. Do you see it?”

Me: “Ouch—yes. I’m in.”

The Whole: “Follow the signal. You need to mark the area—down the ditch, careful, it’s slippery—good girl. Circle the pool. Piss. Now head into the laundry room.”

The dog barked like mad the whole time I was in the garden—yet no one came out. The laundry room waited, a clandestine refuge tucked into the stillness.

Inside, I checked for the camera. The green light blinked—The Whole was watching. Disguised as a gas sensor. I waved. That was the protocol. Then came the disorientation—dense and absolute. I stripped and placed my clothes in the washer. Tried to fold myself into a laundry bag.

Me: “No way I’m fitting in this bag. I hear you laughing—it’s not funny. If I don’t fit, how do I leave? Maybe two bags instead.”

Then it hit—an overwhelming faintness. My body betrayed me, slumping without consent. I collapsed beneath a mound of towels, barely conscious. My vitals dimmed to near-zero. Time blurred.

It must have been twelve hours. When I stirred again, night had returned. My limbs wouldn’t move right—muscles stiff, vision fragmented. I stumbled outside, disoriented, searching for the fence hole but found only shadows. Holes in the ground looked dangerous now—traps for brittle bones. Then a deep grunt: a mother boar. That was the signal—sit and wait. Flashes of green light stuttered through my mind. Realities overlapped. I didn’t know why I was there. I just wanted to go home. I felt insane. What would the villagers think of me?

I stayed—an hour? Two? The moon drifted like a fast-moving clock, but night refused to end.

Me: “Okay. I can’t find the way out. I’m already trespassing. It’s cold. Wet. Back to the laundry room.”

Back inside, I pissed and shit on the towels—and the smell hit me: sharp, chemical, sickening. My own waste didn’t smell like mine. I bagged the bundle and left it outside the door—a strange offering to no one. Then I collapsed into the leftover fabric. And finally, I slept. Dreamless. Blank. Gone.

I awoke wrapped in towels like a cocoon, a quiet metamorphosis stirring beneath my skin. Nearby: a bottle of water. A few cookies. Sparse offerings for a body in flux.

Me: “They left this for me. I have to learn to feel. Really feel. Let my body tell me what’s good, what’s bad. Start with the food. Two kinds of cookies. First one—sweet. What do I feel? Dizzy. Try the other—nutty, not as sweet. And now? Better. Okay. I’ll go with this one.”

A chained dog lived above my room. I heard his chain scrape across the roof. When I wandered the garden, he barked without pause—until I returned inside. He was my guardian.

That night, someone was staying next door to the laundry room. A family, I guessed—voices, a TV. But no one came.

By the morning of the third day, a flicker of strength returned. I wrapped a towel around my legs like a skirt and stepped outside. The dog watched. I gave him a silent nod before retreating once more to the laundry room—awaiting the next phase of my epic leak.

The air hummed. Somewhere, a quantum threshold quivered.