This is a story of of an entity called The Narrator.
The Narrator's job was simple: he stayed in an endless, empty space for all eternity, always repeating the same story of a man named Stanley, over and over again, to no one in particular.
There was no one there to tell The Narrator what to do, he could do as he wished, however this is the only task he was brought into being for, to tell the story.
The Narrator did this every day of every month of every year, and although others might have considered it soul rending, The Narrator relished every time he told the story.
And The Narrator was content.
And then one day, something very peculiar happened. Something that would forever change The Narrator; something he would never quite forget.
He had been beginning the story, as always, with the same introduction, bringing Stanley into play. But Stanley was different today. Instead of taking the left door, as instructed, Stanley went right. Never in all his years doing his job had this happened, this complete defiance. Something was very clearly wrong. Shocked, frozen solid, The Narrator found himself unable to narrate for the longest time.
But as he came to his wits and regained his senses, The Narrator corrected himself for Stanley's mishap.
This happened exactly 386 years ago. As if time meant anything in The Narrator's dimension. He was used to the many occasions that Stanley would completely disobey him, or maybe follow his voice only sometimes. A thousand times has The Narrator seen Stanley fall to his death from the lift. A thousand times had The Narrator smugly watched Stanley and the complex blown to smithereens. A thousand times had The Narrator watched, heart-broken, as Stanley killed himself simply to spite him.
The Narrator's existence was no longer a peaceful continuation, but a grueling prison of watching the same thing time and time again. It was like being forced to watch re-runs of your favorite TV show forever. Sometimes he forgot about things, other times he could remember the previous version of the story clear as day.
But then another peculiar thing happened.
Stanley, in his office, stopped pressing buttons mid-introduction. He turned and waved skyward, as if anything was there. Anyone would think Stanley a madman, if they were to see him wave now.
It was as if Stanley could remember The Narrator. Maybe Stanley was becoming self-aware. How could it have been that easy, a simple thought, a character, becoming aware? No, no, Stanley is simply Stanley. That couldn't happen.
How would you explain the wave, then, Narrator? Denial is never the way to go about your life.
The Narrator sighed, continueing on the story in which, this time, Stanley fell to his death.