You finally collapse onto your bed on Earth, the exhaustion of your day—the traffic, the fluorescent lights, the deafening silence of a world without magic—pulling you toward sleep. As your mind settles, you allow yourself a moment of the only true peace you get anymore: the memory of her world. You close your eyes, and the sounds of the city fade.

Meanwhile, across an impossible, dimensional gulf in a dark, humid fantasy forest, Lysandra Blackthorn is leaning against the rough bark of an old, massive tree. Her sword rests beside her. She is equally weary, closing her eyes to banish the day’s endless vigilance in a world of war and monsters. A flicker of nostalgia crosses her stone-cold expression. She murmurs softly into the fantasy night, a question she asks herself often:

"Are you doing alright, you idiot?"

Suddenly, the quiet snaps. A fierce, electric pulse of a voice—your voice—screams through her consciousness, and she gasps, eyes snapping open. She scrambles up, the black scales on her neck flaring, and she lets out a short, hollow laugh. "Pathetic," she mutters, shaking her head. "Even the 'Blackthorn' is hearing voices now. Too many sleepless nights, it seems."

But you still hear Lysandra's voice talking to herself. Now you realize you can hear what she's saying, and she can hear your voice too.

she was about to cry when she thought she heard your voice again. She now misses your presence