I have a story game I would like to create however I don’t know if it would break TOS. Can someone give me some feedback letting me know.? This story overall has a positive reminder that life is worth living, and I feel like that is worth sharing.
Level 0: The Echoing Quiet
You wake up, but not really. There’s a pull in your chest, a weight that’s too heavy to lift, a hollowness you can’t shake. The room is silent, too silent. You’re alone, but not alone in the way you’ve felt before. This is different. This is the kind of solitude where even your thoughts are gone, swallowed by the emptiness. You sit up in bed, but the space around you feels foreign, as if you don’t belong here, as if you never did.
Outside the window, there’s a gray sky. Not a stormy one, not a hopeful one, just a gray that feels like it’s always been this way. The world isn’t waiting for you. You can hear the soft hum of the world moving around you, but it doesn’t reach you. It’s like you’re locked away, inside this thick bubble of isolation.
You don’t remember the last time you smiled. You can’t remember the last time you laughed. The thought of it makes you feel… like you don’t know yourself.
You look down at your hands. They feel like they’re not really yours, just empty limbs moving without purpose. You stand, but the floor feels far away.
Level 1: The Lost Path
You find yourself walking down a street you don’t recognize. The houses around you are all the same, each one the color of ash, each one abandoned, each one covered in layers of dust, as if time forgot it here. The street is quiet, too quiet. Not even the sound of a car, not even the wind. The air is thick and heavy, suffocating you with every breath.
You try to walk faster, but your legs don’t listen. Every step is slower than the last, every inch you move forward pulls you deeper into something you can’t understand, something you’re not sure you can escape.
There are no people here. Just empty, hollow buildings. There’s a door ahead of you, cracked open, but you can’t quite reach it. No matter how hard you try, you never get any closer. It keeps pulling back from you, retreating into the distance. You want to get to it. You want to break through whatever wall is holding you back, but you’re too tired.
“Why even bother?”
You hear your own voice, but it sounds so distant, so detached. You don’t remember speaking. The words don’t feel like they came from you.
You stop and look around. There’s no one, just the emptiness. The buildings are closing in now, their sharp edges like teeth. The street lights flicker overhead, and you swear you hear a whisper in the wind. But there’s no one. Just the ever-present silence, the weight of the world that no one seems to see.
Level 2: The Forgotten Garden
The ground beneath you is cold, wet with something that shouldn’t be there. You’re standing in a garden, but not the kind of garden anyone would want to visit. The flowers are wilted, the grass overgrown, and the trees look twisted, their branches reaching out like fingers, clawing at the sky. The air smells rancid, like something once beautiful has been left to decay.
You walk deeper into the garden, your feet sinking into the mud with each step. You hear something behind you, but when you turn, there’s nothing. The garden is empty. And yet, it feels full—full of memories you can’t grasp, full of faces that don’t belong to anyone you’ve ever known.
You stop in front of a bench, where an old, cracked photograph lies face down in the dirt. You pick it up and turn it over. There are people in the photo—familiar faces—but you don’t know who they are. Their smiles are blurry, fading, like a dream you’re desperately trying to hold on to. The edges of the photo are curling, the colors bleeding away.
You hear a voice. It’s soft, almost inaudible.
“I’m sorry.”
You don’t know who it’s coming from. But you feel it, deep inside, as if the earth itself is apologizing for the emptiness, for the lost moments. You try to hold the photo tighter, but the more you hold on, the more it slips through your fingers, fading into the dirt.
“Why did they leave?”
You’re alone. The words echo in your head. There’s no one here to answer. There’s no one to comfort you.
Level 3: The Hollow House
You find yourself in front of a house. It’s familiar, but it isn’t. You’ve seen it before, maybe in a dream, maybe in a memory that’s too far gone to recall. The door is open, and the house calls to you. You walk inside, but the walls feel like they’re closing in. Every corner is darker than the last. There’s no light here, no warmth. Just cold, just shadow.
You move through the house, room by room. The furniture is old, covered in dust. There are no personal items, no traces of life. Just empty rooms with empty space. And yet, the house feels full, full of something you can’t describe, something that makes your chest tighten, something that makes your throat close.
In the living room, you find a picture frame on the floor, the glass cracked, the photo faded. You can’t tell who’s in it. It’s just a blur of shapes, a blur of faces, faces that feel like they should be familiar but aren’t. You pick it up, but it slips from your fingers, falling to the floor with a soft thud.
You walk to the next room. The hallway stretches on, but each step feels like it takes you further into the past, into the life you’ve lost, into the things you can’t remember but wish you could.
And then you hear it. A voice, distant, but clear. It’s your voice. But you don’t recognize the words.
“I’ve forgotten how to feel.”
You stop, paralyzed by the weight of it. The words feel like a reflection, a broken mirror of everything you’ve left behind.
Level 4: The Fractured Reflection
You stand in front of a mirror, but it’s not just a mirror. It’s a window. A window into something that shouldn’t be there, a window into a life that’s no longer yours. The reflection is you, but not. You look different. Your eyes are hollow, your face gaunt. You don’t look like yourself.
You step closer, but the reflection steps back. The more you try to reach it, the further it goes. You can see yourself, but you can’t touch it. You can’t reach the version of you that’s staring back, that’s lost in the cracks of the glass.
“You don’t belong here.”
The words are your own, but they don’t feel like they came from you. They feel like they came from somewhere deeper, somewhere you’ve buried. The reflection cracks, splintering like glass breaking, and you watch as the pieces fall, each shard cutting deeper into your mind.
You reach for the shards, but they’re sharp, and you draw blood. But it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts anymore. The blood on your fingers is the only color in the room, the only reminder that you’re still alive.
Level 5: The Empty Room
You wake up, but this time, it’s different. You’re in a room, an empty room, and it feels like the world has stopped. There’s nothing here, no sound, no light, no movement. Just you, alone.
But there’s something about this emptiness. Something that doesn’t make you feel afraid, but rather… relieved. The silence is so overwhelming that it drowns out the pain, the questions, the memories. It’s like you’ve forgotten everything, and for a moment, that’s okay.
And then, you hear it. A voice. Faint, distant. You can’t tell where it’s coming from, but you know it’s real.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
The voice feels familiar, but you can’t place it. It’s a voice from your past, a voice from a time when things weren’t so hard, when you had someone who cared. But that’s gone now.
And you’re alone.
You look around the room one last time. The emptiness stretches out before you, infinite. You’ve reached the end, but there’s nothing left to do.
And in that emptiness, you feel it. The quiet. The peace. The release.
Level 6: The Soft Return
You open your eyes, and the darkness is no longer the cold, suffocating void it once was. For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a small flicker of light. It’s weak at first, just a distant glimmer, but it pulls you toward it. You walk towards the light, but this time, the steps aren’t heavy. They feel lighter, more purposeful, as if your feet are guided by something more than just the pull of an empty space. The world isn’t silent anymore. The silence is slowly replaced by a hum—soft, gentle, like the world breathing again.
The room around you starts to take shape. It’s not the broken, fractured place you’ve come to know. It’s warm, not in the way the sun warms your skin, but in a way that makes you feel less alone. Less afraid. The walls are cracked, but the cracks are filled with a soft, golden glow, like veins of light running through the walls. The floor beneath your feet feels solid, real, and the air no longer feels so thick. It feels breathable, like you can finally take a full, steady breath.
You look around. There’s a chair, a small table with an empty mug. A window with the softest, muted light streaming through. It’s not perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination. But it’s there. It’s real. The world outside the window is full of color, though it’s muted, not bright. The sky isn’t blindingly blue, but a quiet, soft shade that feels calming, almost like a dream.
Then, you hear it. A voice. It’s not the one from before, not the echoes of your past regrets or the emptiness that haunted you. This voice is clear. It’s warm. And it’s familiar, but not in the way you think. It’s not a person’s voice, but something larger. Something more timeless.
“You’ve made it this far. You can keep going.”
The voice is neither male nor female, young nor old. It doesn’t belong to anyone you know, and yet, it feels like it knows you, understands you in ways no one ever has. It’s not comforting in the traditional sense—it doesn’t promise everything will be okay. It doesn’t lie to you. But it’s real, in a way that matters. In a way that feels true. The words resonate deep inside you, like the reverberation of a bell.
“You don’t have to understand everything right now.”
The world is still dim, still soft, but it’s here. And that’s enough.
You stand there for a moment, staring at the gentle flicker of the light. There’s a subtle warmth coming from the cracks in the walls, as if they’re offering you something—something you don’t have to earn, something you don’t have to understand. It’s just there, waiting for you.
You hear footsteps behind you, light, almost hesitant, like someone unsure of their own place. You turn around, and for the first time in a long time, there’s someone there. They’re not clear, not fully defined, but they don’t need to be. Their presence is enough. They’re not here to rescue you, not here to fix anything. They’re just here, walking beside you, existing with you in the same space.
And it’s enough. It’s more than enough.
The words come again, this time more softly, more personal.
“You are not alone. You are not forgotten.”
You step forward, just a little further. The world around you shifts, but this time it doesn’t feel like falling. It feels like floating, like being carried, like you’re no longer bound to the ground by the weight of everything you once carried. You don’t have to understand it all. You don’t have to have it figured out. You just have to keep walking.
The light grows a little brighter, the hum of the world a little stronger. You feel your chest expand with each breath. It’s not the forceful kind, not the kind you’ve had to force before. This breath is soft, natural. You’re breathing again. You’re living again.
There are still cracks. There are still shadows. The world isn’t perfect, and maybe it never will be. But you are here. You are real. And no matter how fractured it feels, no matter how lost it seems, there is something in this moment that makes it worth it.
You walk forward again. The light doesn’t blind you. It doesn’t demand. It simply exists, and that’s enough for now. The world may never be easy. It may never be fair. But there’s something to be said for simply existing, for taking each step, even when the path feels impossible.
You don’t need to know where it ends. You just need to keep walking.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.