Alex jolts awake to the persistent buzz of his alarm clock. “Already morning?” He's tired, yet the cause remains elusive. He must've slept well. Instead of waking naturally before the alarm, it's the alarm that drags him up. Still not entirely awake, he maneuvers out of bed and heads for the bathroom. He knows his dog is waiting for a walk and breakfast. He quickly takes care of his needs and gets dressed.

As usual, his elderly little dog, nestled in a back room, wags its tail with joy at his appearance, mainly because it's anticipating food. MacGuyver, a Shetland sheepdog, has been Alex's companion for years, returning the care Alex provided. But now, the roles are reversed. Alex has to rise 90 minutes earlier than usual to ensure the dog is fed on time, warding off illness and vomiting. After a short walk and the dog eagerly finishing its food, Alex pats the dog's head, toasts an English muffin, flicks on the TV, and settles into his recliner to catch up on the morning news.

Nothing groundbreaking—just local updates. He lowers the volume, turns onto his side, and gives in to a nap. His lingering drowsiness doesn't concern him; there's enough time for a quick snooze before work—a routine he's familiar with. This practice has developed due to his early rise to care for the dog before his workday. Recognizing the extra morning time, he views this brief slumber as a pleasant way to start the day, especially when he's still slightly fatigued.

His eyes close, and the living room quickly fades into a hazy darkness.

Now, Alex finds himself gazing into a void of jet-black, sprinkled with distant shimmering lights. Running parallel to him is an elongated, slender, silvery cord, reminiscent of kite string with a faint glow and ripple. Intrigued, he lifts his hand and reaches out. The closer his hand gets, the more the cord gleams. Accompanying the growing radiance is a soft vibration from the cord. He nearly brushes it with his hand, but he pulls back. Heightened warnings seem to advise against touching the cord. Just before contact, he senses a pulsating energy through it—potentially electrified. Caution prevails. As he withdraws his hand, the vibrations ebb. He begins to take in his surroundings.

All he sees is darkness, with distant stars twinkling in the void. He's alone, suspended in space, except for the silver cord. Nothing lies ahead except the cord, and nothing behind but those faint stars. Shifting his gaze downward, he gazes not at the floor of his home, but at the unmistakable sight of Earth. The vibrant, multicolored sphere is unmistakable. Even without his glasses, he recognizes the familiar shapes—continents, oceans. Alex observes the cord's constant undulations, forming slow, sweeping arcs as it stretches toward his home planet. He can't be sure, but it seems to originate somewhere on Earth and ascend from there. He examines the cord, trying to trace its origin. By pinpointing the Pacific and Indian Oceans, he speculates it might lead back to the Himalayan Mountains.

He gazes upward to trace the cord's path. It stretches skyward, growing taut and rigid, extending beyond the moon, piercing through the void of space. The cord's unending journey appears impossibly linear and tense. Unintentionally, his hand inches toward the cord once again, its vibration palpable. Swiftly, he draws his hand back, holding it parallel to the cord. And in that moment, he observes a transformation. The stars, typically sharp and static even from his backyard, shift from their static state. Amidst the realization of his space-bound existence, the stars' crisp edges blur, initiating a subtle downward drift. An instinctive retreat of his arm restores the stars to their brilliant, unwavering points. Did he move, or did they? Sensation eludes him. Seeking his bearings, he shifts his focus downward to the Earth.

Beneath him, the sole sight is the radiant silver cord, a flawless line. Earth's absence is conspicuous. Glancing upward, no moon graces the sky—only the unyielding cord extending into void above, and below.

He has transitioned. Earth, moon, and stars hold their positions, resolute. Returning his attention to the cord, his hand extends towards it. As proximity is rekindled, a glow emerges, matched by vibration. Touching it feels daunting. Guided by caution, his hand traces its length, parallel. In tandem, the stars blur again, commencing a descent. Withdrawn from the cord, the stars promptly regain their sharp brilliance.

The revelation emerges—his motion governs this cosmos. It seems that as his hand skims the cord, he journeys alongside it. Alex experiments, repeating the motion. He brings his hand near the cord, gliding parallel without contact. Stars blur, descending. Indeed, he is the source of motion. Another attempt, with his hand inching further upward the cord. Proximate stars transmute into elongated, pale trails, eventually vanishing. Solely distant stars linger, accelerating downward. Rest remains elusive. He explores, sliding his hand along the cord, the light flickers in response. He tests—lifting and lowering his hand, observing how starry trajectories alter. Finally, his hand aligns with a star, fixing it in place.

“This is under my control,” he muses. “Since the cord starts with Earth, let's try heading home,” he reasons. His hand glides downward, stars ascend, forming blurry lines. Further descent erases them, leaving white trails.

The rhythm slows, stars rematerialize, their lines gaining clarity. Gazing down, Earth comes back into view. A smile graces his lips at this reunion, before his gaze ventures upward. “Alright, let's see where this takes me,” he decides, raising his hand. A look below reveals Earth vanishing from sight. He raises his hand higher and witnesses the sun whiz past, rapidly disappearing beneath. A grin spreads across his face as he extends his hand almost directly overhead.

The cord before him emanates a vibrant glow, seemingly in tune with his motion. He speeds through the cosmos at astonishing velocities, weightless and gravity-free. It's akin to drifting on an airy cushion, a sensation of motionlessness. There's no feeling of weight, no chill, no sense of acceleration. Unbeknownst to him, the vacuum of space offers no air to carry sensations.

The space surrounding him shimmers too, its luminescence fading inches from his skin. It envelops him, from fingertips to feet. He's now inches away from the brilliant cord.

His gaze shifts upward, curiosity ignited by the unknown. To his right, a cluster of stars dances in a spiral pattern. He fixates on it, the sight almost entrancing. He recognizes it to be reminiscent of images captured by deep-space telescopes, showcasing spiral galaxies. “So small,” he reflects, recalling the immense scale of a galaxy—millions of light-years across, if not more. As it rapidly descends and fades from sight, another collection of stars, distinct in appearance, sweeps past him. Swirling clusters come and go, an escalating whirl that melds into a single, enveloping blur.

Contemplating the rotation of spiral galaxies, he ponders. Entire epochs might be needed to perceive the motion of an entire galaxy. Yet, before him, galaxies twist, shift, and morph. In their dance, outer stars detach from the main mass, flung into space's depths. Time seems to warp.

For what feels like hours, these blurs accompany him. Gradually, they fade, relinquishing him to a vast expanse of jet-black emptiness. More hours drift by. He speculates on his distance traveled and the distance yet to traverse. Somewhere, this must conclude.

“What's this?” he queries. A force tugs him upward and to the right. The more he ascends along the cord, the stronger the pull. It's so potent that Alex frets about being dislodged. “Can I alter my course on this thing? Is it safe?”

Applying the principles he deduced for upward and downward motion, he lowers his hand to decelerate. Deliberately, he shifts his hand to the right, away from the cord, but cautiously. His gaze fixates on the cord, fearing a roller coaster-like loss of control.

To his relief, the cord bends, mirroring his hand's path. Beyond the curve, the cord remains taut, unyielding. It's like a stretching rubber band. Yielding to the intensifying pull, he guides his hand toward it. Before him gleams a solitary radiant star, his destination.

Proximity escalates the pull, altering the star's appearance. He discerns it as a pale orange disc. Hurtling toward it, his speed moderates as he nears the surface. So absorbed in studying this unfamiliar world, he neglects the fact that he has left the cord behind. He's in freefall toward the planet.

Still high above the planet, discernible landscape features elude him. No rivers, oceans, hills, or mountains grace the view. The arched horizon remains unbroken, a seamless expanse. As he orbits the enigmatic world, a peculiar sight captures his attention in the distance.

Toward that direction, his interest is drawn. From what seems like hundreds of miles away, he spots it. Initially resembling a mountain range, he soon realizes the shapes are too sleek and smooth to be mountains. Not brown, green, or snow-covered, but instead, they possess a silvery elegance that defies the mountainous archetype. They shimmer, a subtle, almost imperceptible motion.

Perhaps the shimmer stems from heat waves dancing off the ground, imparting an illusion of movement. The landscape strikes him as an immense desert.

Skimming barely above what he assumes is the surface, he notes the remarkable illumination despite the absence of an evident light source. He gazes upward, greeted by a pale red sky devoid of a discernible sun. Casting his eyes downward to the “ground,” he beholds a landscape resembling fine particles, reminiscent of talcum powder. These particles hover, nearly touching yet collectively choreographed. They differ from the initial orange hue he observed during his approach. Instead, individual particles display an array of colors, primarily red and yellow, converging to create the orange impression. Within this ceaselessly shifting mass, smaller particles introduce an array of blues, greens, golds, and silvers, their hues constantly oscillating. Upon closer inspection, a particle shifts from blue to green, gold, silver, then back to blue.

Intrigued, he lowers his hand to gauge its nature. The more he examines it, the more it resembles an extraordinarily dense fog, a cloud.

Alex had felt a cloud before.

Many years ago, he had embarked on a skydiving adventure. A summer evening commute home had introduced him to a radio advertisement for skydiving classes. Their call for new students had piqued his curiosity. Equipped with some disposable income, the mentioned price appeared reasonable. “Why not?” he mused, scribbling down the phone number. Upon arriving home, he dialed the skydiving school and learned he could begin the next morning, Saturday. Unable to contain his excitement, he eagerly secured his spot.

Saturday dawned splendidly, a deep blue sky punctuated by light, billowy clouds and a warm sun, infusing the day with enthusiasm. After tending to his dog, showering, dressing, and grabbing his car keys, he set out. His destination: the local airport, where skydiving classes and jumps awaited (assuming nerves didn't intervene). The 30-minute drive saw a pit stop for breakfast and a drink at a drive-thru.

Upon reaching the airport, two skydiving options presented themselves: a 30-minute class alongside a jump master or a more extensive 6-hour course. Opting for the latter, Alex anticipated being the one donning the parachute and pulling the ripcord. During the jump, two jump masters would accompany him—one on each side, as a precaution.

Alex promptly decided, “If I'm doing this, I'm doing it properly,” and he opted for the second choice. He reckoned that leaping solo, detached from another person, would provide an authentic experience. Acknowledging the comfort in having two experienced jumpers alongside him during the descent, he did hope they knew what they were up to. They assured him they'd be right there with him, should “anything happen.”

He also grappled with a dose of concern (fine, outright fear). The possibility of freezing up or losing focus during the jump nagged at him. The presence of the jump masters, ready to intervene if necessary, not only bolstered his confidence but also furnished the extra courage required to go through with it.

The classes sped by. Educational films covered dos, don'ts, and how-tos in case of mishaps. He couldn't help but wonder why they highlighted “potential mishaps” so frequently.

In one video, a jumper's parachute became entangled right after pulling the cord. The lines had snarled with the parachute. The narrator reassured that such occurrences were rare.

“Rare? Try never! Why am I even here? One mistake, and I'm toast!” His mind buzzed with apprehension about a less-than-graceful landing. Just contemplating it activated his survival instincts, clenching his stomach muscles.

The instructor's seasoned guidance eased everyone's tension. Demonstrating how to disentangle the parachute lines and ensure a successful deployment, he showcased a smooth, gentle landing, maintaining an upright posture with slightly bent knees.

Subsequently, each student executed several practice jumps from a mock-up airplane, exiting through the door and onto the cushioned ground below. The objective was to create a cushioned landing spot while honing exit technique.

As the late afternoon sun began to set, all the lessons were wrapped up. The culmination of the day approached—the students' turn to jump. Eager excitement filled the air as they boarded the plane, ready to seize the moment (or, at the very least, survive it). Alex's jumpmasters pulled him aside, advising him to let others board first. “Those who board last will be the first to jump—us,” they explained.

“Wonderful. I get to be the first to meet my maker,” Alex thought with a hint of sarcasm.

Typically, for first-time skydivers, the plane ascends to 9,000 feet, and then everyone takes the plunge. But this crew goes higher—up to 14,000 feet—allowing for an extended free fall experience. This elevation might provide more time for the jumpmasters to assist any new students encountering difficulties.

As the plane climbs, Alex's energy unexpectedly surges. By the time the aircraft reaches its jump altitude, he's buzzing with vigor. One of the jumpmasters signals for him to prepare.

Gazing down at the distant ground, he positions himself just a few steps from the open plane doorway. He grips the sides of the opening firmly to avoid any accidental spills before the jumpmasters give the go-ahead. Stepping onto a small ledge affixed to the plane's exterior, he clings on while awaiting the jumpmasters' readiness. He gingerly steps outside, cautiously appraising his footing. The narrow ledge protrudes slightly, positioned just behind the plane's door. He's resolute about not departing prematurely or slipping off. Clinging tightly to the plane's side, chest pressed against the fuselage, back against the sky, he contemplates how long he can hold on. The forceful wind pushes against him, and concern about losing his grip and sliding off the plane creeps in.

A tap on his left shoulder breaks his concentration—it's time to release and leap. With a deep breath, he obeys, pushing off from the plane and tumbling into the sky. Astonishingly, he easily corrects his orientation, flipping over and assuming the required posture. Now, he lies flat, gazing downward, arms, legs, and hands spread wide and slightly curved behind him.

The jumpmasters swiftly close in, signaling approval with a thumbs-up. Promptly, they guide him through the predetermined sequence of actions. First, he surveys his surroundings, then shifts his gaze from one instructor to the other, offering a thumbs-up to signal his well-being.

They prompt him to examine the altimeter strapped to his wrist. He communicates the displayed numbers through gestures. He proceeds to locate the chest-mounted pull ring for the main parachute and simulates its activation. Checking with the jumpmasters, he identifies the backup chute's ring and mimics the pulling motion. Another glance at the altimeter—the plan is to deploy the main chute around 5,000 feet.

Repeating the exercises once more, the instructors signal their approval—everything looks good, and he's set to go.

He's taken aback to realize that, much to his relief, he experiences no sense of falling—just the vigorous wind against his body and face. His main concern had been potential air or motion sickness, something he's all too familiar with. It hits him during carnival rides, car trips along winding mountain roads, and turbulent flights. Yet, this time, the airplane's ascent doesn't affect him in the least. Maybe it's the sheer excitement of the situation. A grin spreads across his face as he eases into the experience, taking in the panoramic view of the Earth beneath him.

Finally, it's time to have some fun and explore. Not too far beneath him, a cluster of sizable, fluffy white clouds come into view. Without hesitation, he descends directly into one of the larger clouds. As he plummets through the cloud, the temperature drops swiftly. Though his jumpsuit fully covers his limbs and torso, the cold penetrates. It's bone-chilling. The cloud's moisture seems to intensify the cold, reminiscent of standing in a dense winter fog while enduring a biting wind. Thankfully, the descent through the cloud is brief; any longer and he'd have frozen like a popsicle.

Emerging from the cloud's base, the view of the Earth sharpens beneath him. Freed from the cloud's chill, he warms up rapidly. With his background in civil engineering, he's spent years analyzing aerial photographs. Now, looking out, he can confirm that the Earth's horizon truly exhibits a significant curvature. He scans to the right and then the left, eager to take in everything within his vision. He spots the river alongside the airport he recently departed from. On closer inspection, he even locates his car and the cluster of houses surrounding the airport.

“Whoa! Those houses really do look that tiny from up here,” he muses.

It's like gazing at an aerial photograph, only infinitely more remarkable. This is 3D reality! He continues to free fall, and though he's plummeting toward the ground at high speed, it doesn't feel that way. He's engulfed in excitement, having a blast beyond measure.

A quick check of his altimeter reveals he's got 1,000 feet left before deploying his parachute. Eager to execute it flawlessly, he bides his time, glancing once more at his wrist's altimeter. He signals to the instructors that he's set to pull the ring and release his parachute. They acknowledge his readiness and gradually drift away.

Reaching for the large metal ring on his chest, he offers up a swift prayer. He gives the ring a firm tug, sensing a shift on his back. In an instant, the parachute opens above him with a muted thud. Feeling a strong jolt against his harness, he gazes upward to ensure the lines connecting him to the parachute are intact. They are, and the parachute is fully inflated. With everything in order, he exhales a long sigh of relief, settling into the harness to finally unwind a bit. He redirects his focus back to the breathtaking sightseeing opportunity.

“Everything good up there?” one of the jumpmasters asks through the walkie-talkie. Alex's helmet features a built-in speaker and microphone. He responds, his excitement evident, sharing how much fun he's having.

The instructor guides him to practice controlling the parachute—maneuvering to the right, left, descending faster, or slowing down—achieved by pulling on the rings above him. Left ring for left movement, right ring for right, and both for slowing down. Strong tugs on both can almost halt his descent. The ground-based instructor leads him through these exercises step by step. Once confident that Alex has a handle on controlling the parachute, the jumpmaster lets him experiment, initially with wide swings left and right, followed by whatever he wishes.

After a few minutes of floating earthward beneath the broad, rectangular parachute, the instructor advises Alex to start thinking about landing.

Landing? He glances downward and sees what he didn't want to encounter.

The small airport boasts three runways forming a large triangle. Alongside one runway, a long, dense tangle of blackberry briars extends. The wild thicket spans about 100 feet in length, 20 feet in width, and at least 5 feet in depth, brimming with thorns! What if he lands near that prickly mess? Or worse, what if he lands IN it? Extracting himself from that would be a nightmare. Why keep such a thorny hazard near the landing zone? Especially for new jumpers!

To him, it appears he's descending straight toward the heart of those brambles.

To his relief, the voice in his helmet instructs him to pull on the right ring. He complies, gradually veering away from the brambles. More commands come through his helmet, guiding him to a spot in the middle of the open field circumscribed by the runways. He glances over to find the thorny patch at a safe distance.

“Flare now,” the voice commands, signaling he needs to slow down as he nears the ground. Pulling both rings simultaneously achieves this, and he slows down rapidly. Just as his feet are about to touch the ground, the instructor directs him to slightly increase his speed and raise both rings. As his feet softly touch the ground, a gentle breeze gusts from behind, tipping him slightly forward, his knees brushing the ground. He stands up quickly, spotting one of the jumpmasters heading his way.

“Everything alright?” the jumpmaster inquires. Alex's grin assures the instructor that he's yet another thrilled first-time jumper. But just landing isn't enough for him. He removes his helmet, leaps high into the air, and lets out a triumphant yell. He has discovered the allure of skydiving. The exhilaration coursing through him post-jump is more intense than anything he's experienced before. Perhaps it's the thrill of having faced danger and emerged unscathed. Maybe it's the surge of adrenaline. All he knows is that he's now feeling better than ever before.

Assisted by the instructors, he gathers his parachute and heads to the office to remove the harness and jumpsuit. The lead instructor hands him a jump log, a small booklet containing the date, instructors' names, and a description of the successful, problem-free jump he executed.

Alex snaps back to the present moment as he attempts to touch the surface of the orange planet, only to find it elusive. The particles continually evade his hand. The more he reaches, the more the space around his hand expands.

Scant vegetation emerges as he nears the peculiar mountains, appearing more frequently the closer he gets. Occasional gigantic plants come into view. All appear identical: towering around 100 feet, leafy only at their summits. These plants boast massive, sleek, silvery trunks, each about 15 feet thick. Enormous leaves, each spanning the area of his house, captivate him. The undersides of these leaves constantly shift colors—shimmering silver to dark gray, and back to silver. Once, when he approached a mammoth leaf, it trembled and retreated. Another time, an immense leaf recoiled as he neared, as if avoiding him. He begins to sense that touching anything on this strange terrain might not be advisable.

He's inexplicably drawn toward the odd-looking mountains. Their appearance transforms as he approaches, their mountainous façade giving way to an irresistible attraction. Their steep sides seem overly sleek, almost machine-crafted.

Closer still, it dawns on him that these are not mountains. They're structures—dozens of them—perhaps the most bizarre he's ever seen. Varying in height from hundreds to over a thousand feet, his pull leads him to the tallest among them, positioned at the heart of this peculiar cityscape. The buildings resemble elongated, upside-down ice cream cones, perfectly circular at their base and tapering to singular points at their peaks. Their surfaces shimmer under the intense light. Only the tallest of these edifices bears any openings on its exterior—ovoid in shape, uniformly sized, arranged without a discernible pattern.

His descent slows further until he hovers just above the ground. Approaching one of these towering structures, he discerns their surfaces mimic tightly woven fabric. Then he uncovers the true nature of the ovoid features: open spaces lacking glass or framing. He studies them, curiosity piqued about what lies within these enigmatic constructions. “Maybe I can glimpse inside,” he ponders.

Almost involuntarily, he ascends until he reaches the aperture that emanates the pulling sensation. Hesitation grips him as he peers inside. If whatever resides within can transport him across the cosmos from Earth, he's not entirely sure he's prepared to make its acquaintance. Curiosity, however, prevails. He turns his head toward the opening and looks within.

He's utterly captivated by the scene before him. An expanse devoid of both floor and ceiling lies before his eyes. Suspended in the air, a little boy hovers about 3 feet tall, utterly motionless. His eyes shimmer with a vivid shade of blue. Short, nearly white hair crowns his head, and his skin boasts a soft, smooth texture. Clad in a silvery garment that drapes from his shoulders to his feet, he clutches two glossy spheres of different hues. One, a deep blue resembling a basketball, the other, a medium green about the size of a softball. Unaware of the observer's presence, he reaches out, releasing the orbs, which remain suspended in front of him. He gazes intently as they remain still, untouched. His fingers brush against the larger sphere. It reacts by expanding, shifting from blue to a pale yellow, then returning to its original form. Taking the second sphere, he nudges it toward the first. The edges of the spheres blur, merging into a single, smaller entity. He continues touching it, each press leading to a transformation of shape or hue. This process unfolds, yielding an endless array of sizes, forms, colors, and dimensions. At times, the object becomes so minuscule that Alex can scarcely perceive it.

Suddenly, Alex realizes the boy is alone. Where are his parents or family?

At that moment, he becomes aware of the absolute absence of sound—no wind, no birdsong, no laughter, no traffic hum, not a single note. He casts his gaze downward, expecting to spot the bustle of a crowd from his vantage point.

Yet, no one is visible—no individuals, no bustling streets or pathways—just structures amid a mist-like substance that shapes the terrain or blankets it. Alex notices that the mist seems to emanate from the buildings, spreading in gentle ripples in every direction.

His attention is once again drawn to the boy's actions inside the area. This time, their gazes lock. In that instant, Alex is immobilized by an unrelenting grip—he can't shift his gaze away from that intense stare. Without warning, his head starts throbbing. The pain intensifies as his vision blurs, then dissipates altogether.

As the ceiling fan comes into focus, Alex realizes he's back home in bed. A bit groggy, he concludes he's just had an exceedingly peculiar dream. Glancing at the wall clock, he notes the time—11:15 PM. Only five minutes have elapsed since he laid down. Overwhelmed by weariness, he rolls onto his side, seeks comfort, and shuts his eyes, yearning for slumber to return. Yet, the sensation of floating and a pair of penetrating blue eyes continue to linger, haunting him. It's two hours before exhaustion wins and Alex finally slips back into sleep.

Little does Alex remember that, nearly six hours later, he will awaken in his recliner, having unknowingly taken an unanticipated nap.