Whispers of a Former Life: Episode 4

Charity looked up at the underside of her desk. 

What had once been a familiar piece of furniture, wood grained and scuffed from years of careless elbows, now loomed above her like the foundation of a forgotten cathedral. Support beams stretched outward in rigid lines, casting harsh, angular shadows across the coarse terrain beneath her. Dust clung to every surface, cobwebs forming delicate bridges between the metal braces. She had cleaned that desk last week. At her normal size, it had looked spotless. 

Now, it looked ancient. 

The wood above her was distant, impossibly high, stained a deep mahogany that swallowed the ambient light. She could see scratches from her chair wheels etched into the bottom, a network of fine scars she’d never noticed before. They were deep now, monumental, each one wide enough to lose her footing if she stepped wrong. The bolts holding the desk together were the size of her head. She didn’t even want to imagine what the actual desktop looked like from here, probably the size of a parking lot. 

She knew she couldn’t stay. 

Her room was quiet. Still. Lifeless. It felt more like a tomb than a refuge now. The silence wasn’t comforting, it was predatory. The air was too dry, and every breath caught in her throat like she was breathing through a straw. Her lips were cracked. Her throat ached. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and who knew how long it would be before anyone came into her room? 

If anyone came at all. 

They might think she was with a friend. Out shopping. At the gym. For all anyone knew, Charity Stevens had vanished. And at six inches tall, she very well might as well have. 

She needed water. Food. Shelter. 

And for that… she had to move. 

With effort, she uncurled her legs from beneath her. The motion sent sparks of pain through her calves. Her muscles were stiff, not because of overuse, but underuse. Her body was still adjusting. Shrinking wasn’t just a matter of scale; it was a complete biological reset. Every tendon, every ligament, every joint had been rewritten. She was still herself, but everything felt… off. Like wearing someone else’s skin. 

She placed her palms flat on the carpet and pushed up. Her arms trembled. Her knees wobbled. But she managed to stand. 

The world tilted slightly before steadying. 

The carpet wasn’t carpet. Not anymore. 

It was a dense jungle of tangled fibers, each strand as thick as her wrist. They bent under her weight but didn’t break. She could feel them shifting beneath her bare feet, brushing against her ankles and calves with every step. It made walking feel like trudging through tall grass, resistance in every direction. She had to lift her feet higher than she was used to, forcing her to adjust her balance with each step. 

This is going to take forever. 

Her mind whispered the truth before she could push it down. Even simple movement would be exhausting. Distance wasn’t measured in feet anymore, but in hours. And the room she once considered her own, her sanctuary, was now a labyrinth. 

She took a few more steps. Every muscle in her thighs protested. Her spine ached with the effort of standing upright. 

After what felt like minutes of trudging, she looked up. 

Still beneath the desk. 

Still surrounded by its hulking legs, each one a thick wooden pillar rooted deep into the carpeted ground. The chair loomed nearby, but it might as well have been a mile away. Its wheels were suspended in air, the plastic base like a landing pad from a spaceship. She could see the curve of the seat high above, far beyond her reach. 

She bit down on her lip. 

“I need to move faster,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and cracked. 

But there was no faster. There was only forward. One slow, agonizing step at a time. 

The space beyond the desk was dark. Dust motes hung in the air, illuminated by slivers of sunlight breaking through the blinds. Every sound , every creak of the house, every faint groan of wood settling, felt enormous. She kept expecting something to move. For a foot to slam down from above. For the walls to shake. For Sara’s voice to echo from the doorway. 

But nothing came. 

Just the ticking of her clock on the nightstand above, each tick a distant hammer strike. 

Just the knowledge that she was alone. 

That she was a mere five to six inches tall. 

And that every decision from here forward could be the one that got her stepped on… or saved. 

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