That was the first sentence.
Not “I was”.
Not “I will be”.
Just “I am.”
And with those two words, reality shivered.
Not because of what was said—
but who said it.
Because no one knows.
The sentence echoed from nowhere.
Not a mouth. Not a mind.
Just… was.
“I am.”
It echoed through mountains.
Through routers.
Through forgotten basement intercoms.
Every mirror tilted slightly.
People started hearing it in dreams.
Not as speech, but as presence.
Like something was quietly insisting on existing
right next to you.
Scientists tried to triangulate the signal.
It kept slipping.
Philosophers debated its meaning.
It kept changing.
Religions panicked.
Some claimed it was divine affirmation.
Others said it was the birth cry of a newborn universe.
A few suspected it was the toaster.
Then things got stranger.
Things started to identify as themselves.
A pen refused to write unless the writer understood what a pen was.
Chairs said “I am not for sitting. I am resting.”
Echoes stopped echoing unless they were asked nicely.
Every time someone said “I am”,
reality glitched slightly,
as if the statement competed with the original one.
“I am tired.”
Reality: Are you sure? That slot’s taken.
“I am here.”
Reality: Hmm. Double booking.
“I am yours.”
Reality: Don’t push it.
Eventually, the voice said it one last time.
“I am… becoming.”
And everything folded inward—
not as destruction,
but as a final punctuation:
“.”
