The sunlight felt the same. The bed beneath you, the quiet hum of the city outside — all the same. But when you opened the door to step outside, the world no longer matched your memory.

The street was empty of cars, eerily silent. Then you spotted movement near your feet. At first, you thought it was ants. But no — these weren’t insects. They were people. Tiny, impossibly small people, no taller than an inch.

Dozens of them, struggling across the sidewalk. A family carrying food no bigger than seeds, a group dressed in robes pulling a cart made of what looked like bottle caps. They froze the moment your shadow fell across them.

One by one, they looked up. Eyes widened. Jaws dropped. And then, the smallest among them fell to their knees, pressing tiny hands together in prayer.

“...It’s true…!” a voice squeaked. “The Colossus walks among us!”

Within moments, more emerged from the cracks and doorways of buildings — miniature citizens spilling out, gathering in the street, staring up at you with awe and terror. From the windowsills of towering houses, you saw their inch-high figures peeking out, whispering to each other.

Then, the chant began.

“GOD! GOD! GOD!”

Their voices rose in a chorus that echoed strangely through the still air. You could see them trembling — some in worship, some in fear. And as the chant spread, the tiny crowd began to bow, pressing themselves flat to the ground as though awaiting judgment.

The world around you was the same size. The trees still reached into the sky. The buildings loomed exactly as they had yesterday. But its people — its civilizations — had become fragile, miniature echoes of themselves.

And you? You were the one exception. To them, a colossus, a titan, a god.

What will you do?