Soro
I should probably start with an apology.
Not because this book is dangerous—though it is. Not because it’s full of gears that turn when they shouldn’t, or clocks that tick when the room is silent—though they do. And not because the characters inside it have a habit of staring back at you if you read too late at night—though I swear that’s happened more than once.
No, I’m apologizing because I’m the one who brought this idea into the light in the first place.
My name is Soro, and this whole mess started on a stormy night. The kind of night where the sky cracks open like a broken power core and the rain hits the windows hard enough to sound like tapping fingers. I was supposed to be asleep. My little brother was supposed to be asleep. But neither of us were, because that’s how stories like this begin—too late, too loud, and with too many ideas that should’ve stayed quiet.
He was the one who said, “What if there was a guy named Zack?” And I said, “What kind of guy?” And he said, “The kind who survives things he shouldn’t.”
That was it. That was the spark. That was the moment the gears started turning.
I didn’t know then that Zack would become the spine of this world. I didn’t know he’d carry the infection in his shadow or the weight of betrayal in his voice. I didn’t know he’d be the kind of character who refuses to stay on the page, who insists on telling the story his way, who looks at you like he knows something you don’t.
I didn’t know any of that. I just thought it would be fun.
And for a while, it was.
My brother and I sat on the floor with notebooks and half‑broken pencils, sketching out machines that hummed with impossible power, cities built on rust and steam, and characters who were too stubborn to die. We laughed. We argued. We built a world out of scraps and imagination.
Then the power went out.
The storm hit the house so hard the lights flickered once, twice, and then everything went black. The kind of black that feels thick. Heavy. Like it’s waiting for something.
We sat there in the dark, listening to the rain hammer the roof.
And then— I swear on every gear in this book— I heard something turn.
Not a normal sound. Not the settling of the house or the groan of pipes. No. This was a gear. A real one. A metal one. A sound that didn’t belong in a powerless room.
Then came the clock tick.
Just one. Sharp. Clear. Too close.
My brother heard it too. He didn’t say anything, but he grabbed my arm, and I could feel his pulse racing like a runaway engine. We sat there, frozen, waiting for the next sound.
It didn’t come.
But the silence after was worse.
When the lights finally flickered back on, we didn’t talk about it. We just looked at each other with that unspoken agreement siblings have—the kind that says, We’re not telling Mom about this.
I should’ve stopped writing then. I should’ve taken the hint. But I didn’t.
Because the story was already alive.
Zack kept talking. Lila kept whispering. The infection kept spreading across the page.
And I kept writing, even though every night after that storm felt a little too quiet, a little too dark, a little too full of ticking that didn’t come from any clock I owned.
You might think I’m exaggerating. You might think I’m trying to scare you. You might think this is just a dramatic introduction to a dramatic book.
I wish it was.
But the truth is, the deeper I went into this world, the more it felt like the world was looking back. The more I wrote about gears turning inside bodies, the more I heard faint clicks behind me. The more I wrote about power cores pulsing like hearts, the more I felt a hum under my skin. The more I wrote about betrayal, the more I wondered if I’d betrayed myself by starting this at all.
And yet… I couldn’t stop.
Because this story isn’t just mine. It’s my brother’s. It’s Zack’s. It’s Lila’s. It’s every character who clawed their way out of the dark and demanded to be seen.
They’re the reason I kept going, even when I was afraid. Even when I regretted it. Even when I heard that gear turn again—yes, again—two weeks later while I was editing a chapter about illegal experiments.
Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe it’s just the house settling. Maybe it’s the wind.
Or maybe stories have a way of waking things up.
Maybe some ideas aren’t meant to stay quiet. Maybe some worlds want to be found. Maybe some gears turn because they’re supposed to.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m not the only one who hears them.
So here’s why I brought this idea into the light:
Because it wouldn’t stay in the dark. Because it wanted to be told. Because my brother believed in it. Because Zack wouldn’t shut up. Because Lila kept leaving notes in the margins. Because the infection kept spreading across the page no matter how many times I tried to rewrite it.
And here’s why I’m regretting it:
Because now you’re here. Reading this. Listening. Leaning closer.
And the gears always turn louder when someone new is paying attention.
If you keep going, you’re stepping into the same storm I did. You’re walking into the same dark room. You’re hearing the same impossible sounds.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe stories like this aren’t meant to be safe. Maybe they’re meant to be alive.
Welcome to Forgotten. If you hear a gear turn… don’t look for it.
It’s already looking at you.
