It’s probably time to say a little about myself.
My name is Mac.
I was born and raised on the Islands—somewhere between fog, soft grass, and tea with milk. The town was small and cozy, with identical houses and never-ending rain. My parents still live there, but we hardly keep in touch. In our family, this has been the tradition for generations: parents give their children an education, consider their duty fulfilled, leave them alone—and expect the same in return.
I graduated from university—some dull department, I can’t even remember the name. After that, I decided to see a bit of the world before diving into office slavery. A few countries, a few continents, a few adventures—until the money ran out. That’s when I got a job as a zipline instructor. I ferried tourists along a cable stretched over a canyon. Lived alone in a rented cottage at the edge of the village. Quiet. Simple. Somehow… right.
So, that was my life. And now I can go back to that day.
I woke up late—at 10:30, for the second time that morning. I lay there without opening my eyes, feeling sunlight seep through the curtains. Something in me had changed. And the change was for the better. A new kind of calm confidence had appeared—not about anything specific, just in general. Confidence in myself, in my actions, in the future. Along with it came a sense of quiet goodwill—a steady, benevolent attitude toward people and the world around me. And for some reason, I immediately knew this wasn’t a passing mood. This was the state I would be in from now on.
I opened my eyes, turned my head—and instantly sat upright.
There was a guy sitting on a chair by the table.
That guy. The one I’d seen earlier that morning, stepping out of the Gate. He was looking at me and smiling.
A reddish-brown jacket, dark pants, heavy boots. A backpack stood nearby. He looked as if he’d simply dropped by for a visit.
Except no one had knocked.
“Hi,” he said. “Hope I didn’t scare you too much.”
“Uh…” I tried to gather my thoughts. “You…”
“Yes. I’m the one you saw. My name’s Art.”
I slowly got up from the bed. He stood as well and held out his hand. I stepped forward and shook it.
He was a little older than me. Light, shoulder-length curly hair, refined, non-angular features. Calm, attentive eyes. Good-looking—too good-looking not to notice. I’d been called handsome myself, but I noted that his appearance was almost the opposite of mine, with my short black hair and rather plain face.
But it wasn’t about looks.
There was something about him… stable. Strength. Confidence. Calm. And all of it without posing, without any hint of showmanship. Like sunlight: it’s just there—and everything feels better because of it. And then, looking at him, I was struck by how closely the feeling coming from him matched the one I’d felt—and was still feeling—inside myself.
He sat back down, leaning comfortably against the chair.
“So, what’s your name?”
“Mac,” I said, stepping back and sitting on the bed.
“Well, there we are. Nice to meet you. I saw you there. Right beyond the Gate. Followed you. Saw you come into this house. Went in—you were asleep. So I took a walk around the area. Got back just a couple of minutes before you woke up.”
“So you saw the Gate from the inside?” I asked—the question I’d wanted to ask the whole time, and been afraid to.
“Yes. I went in as soon as it appeared. Usually I wait for the right Variant, but this time I didn’t. Felt like I had to go right away. Saw you. Decided that wasn’t a coincidence.”
We fell silent. Then, struggling to find the words, I asked:
“So… you came from another world?”
“Another Variant,” he corrected gently. “There are eight of them. Or rather—there were eight. Now, as I understand it, there are nine.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward.
“Wait. What do you mean? Variants of what?”
He raised an eyebrow, looking at me with a faint smile.
“One thing at a time. You’ll learn a lot. But first, let’s eat. You’ve been sleeping all morning, and I’ve managed to work up quite an appetite.”
I exhaled, relaxing a little.
“Alright, let’s go have breakfast,” I smiled. “There’s a place here—Lemar’s. Their fried eggs are almost legendary.”
He smiled back. Then easily picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulders.
“Perfect. I like legends.”
We stepped outside. The Gate was still there. It cut violently into the now-familiar landscape. On the road, I saw far more people than usual, along with several Creatures. People—alone or in groups—were mostly heading toward the Gate. The Creatures, meanwhile, were moving in the opposite direction.
Of course, I thought. A brand-new global sensation. Tourists would be swarming the place now.
We headed toward the center of town. Art looked around with a light, almost childlike curiosity. That warm curiosity was contagious. I looked around too—and saw everything with new eyes. The air had warmed slightly, but still held its morning freshness. A gentle breeze brushed my face. The mountains, the trees, the sky above them all seemed subtly different—newly, distinctly beautiful. The world felt as if it were smiling at me, and I wanted to smile back.
Lemar’s café looked the same as ever—a small building with an open terrace, a peeling sign, and a slightly crooked door. Lemar himself stood behind the counter: massive, round-faced, eternally sleepy-eyed, with his trademark sly smile.
“Mac!” He spotted me and broke into a wide grin. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re late today. And with a friend?”
“Lemar, meet Art. He arrived yesterday on a passing bus.”
Art shook his hand, smiling.
“Nice to meet you. I’ve already heard about your fried eggs.”
“Whoever told you didn’t lie,” Lemar said importantly. “Sit down. I’ll take care of you.”
As expected, the place was more crowded than usual, but we found a free table by the window. Sitting down, Art casually took off his backpack and set it beside him.
Lemar brought lemonade first, in fogged glasses. Then fresh, still-warm buns on a wooden plate, and three small wooden boards with farmhouse butter: plain, garlic, and herb. After that came two enormous plates of fried eggs. They had everything: three eggs with crisped edges, bacon, sausages, beans, and a mound of vegetable salad.
We dug in. Art ate Lemar’s eggs slowly, with obvious pleasure, paying equal tribute to the signature lemonade. I tried to keep up, glancing at him and feeling oddly proud—as if I’d cooked it all myself. Exchanging satisfied looks from time to time, we finished our plates. Lemar, who had seemed not to watch us at all, immediately appeared with a tray holding two large clay mugs of coffee. The aroma alone made my head spin. As always, he said nothing, maintaining a deliberately indifferent expression, as if our opinion of his cooking didn’t interest him in the slightest.
“I’ve never had a breakfast like this,” Art said, looking at Lemar with genuine delight. “Nothing even close.”
A proud, self-satisfied smile flickered across Lemar’s face, but he immediately returned to his indifferent look.
“Just fried eggs. The way they’re supposed to be,” he muttered, clearing the table and leaving only our mugs. “Drink your coffee. Wave if you want more.”
“Alright,” I said when Lemar returned to the counter. “Now tell me.”
Art took a solid sip of coffee, glanced at the mug with clear approval—and began.