Tap! Tap! Tap!
The sharp rapping at the door cut through the swirling chaos in Noir's mind, a harsh anchor to this bewildering new reality. Before he could even formulate a response, the door opened. A young woman, who looked quite similar to Alder with long, black hair cascading past her shoulders, stepped inside. She had kind eyes and a warm smile that softened the edges of her features.
"Alder? Are you ready? I need to get some groceries today, and I could really use a hand," she asked, her voice light and familiar, clearly speaking to the 'Alder Wilson' persona Noir now inhabited.
Noir simply nodded, the gesture feeling strangely automatic. "Just give me a moment, Grace. I'll be right down." The name felt foreign on his tongue, yet it slipped out naturally.
Grace's smile softened. "Alright, I'll be waiting for you." With another gentle nod, she quietly closed the door, leaving Noir alone once more in the elaborate room.
His breath hitched. Grace. This was Alder's elder sister. The fragmented memories started to connect, linking a name to a face, a voice, a person. He wasn't just in a new body; he was in a new life. Buying groceries felt absurd given his inner chaos, but the ordinary nature of it was unsettling. He had to act the part. He had to be Alder. But how long could he keep up the pretense when his true self screamed in protest?
Noir turned from the door, his gaze sweeping across the room that was supposedly his. The grand desk, the heavy, carved wood of the bed, the groaning bookshelf – they were anchors in a storm he couldn't comprehend. He tried to piece together Alder's fragmented memories, to make sense of this sudden, violent transplant. This new world, he dimly recalled, was in the uprise of machinery, its technology mirroring the 1950s of his own understanding. Steam-powered marvels, clockwork precision, a burgeoning industrial might – it was all so different, yet strangely familiar in its historical progression.
His eyes drifted to Grace's retreating figure in his mind's eye. A pang of something akin to envy pricked him. Her long, black hair, a stark contrast to the unfamiliar short crop on his own head, stirred a phantom ache for what he had lost. His own waist-length mane, a part of his identity, was simply gone.
He moved to the grand desk, its solid, dark wood a grounding presence. He picked up a pocket watch lying amidst the scattered papers and stacks of books. Its intricate mechanism, a tiny world of gears and springs, was a microcosm of the larger, mysterious steam-era technology. He found himself idly, almost nervously, opening and closing the watch's glass cover, the repetitive click a futile attempt to calm the storm raging within. Beneath the desk, his foot began to stomp a restless rhythm against the polished wooden floor, a desperate outlet for the stress coiling in his gut.
"This is insane," he muttered to himself, the words barely a whisper. "A castle, a 'Host,' a 'Fool'... and now I'm Alder Wilson, a historian in the 1950s with no idea how to get back." He slammed the watch shut with a sharp click. "And my hair... where the hell is my hair?"
His mind reeled, trying to connect the ethereal 'Castle of Fabrications' and the 'Host' with this mundane reality. The fragments of Alder's life, the shock of a new body, the overwhelming sense of displacement – it was too much. He couldn't make sense of it. The questions were too many, the answers too few.
Finally, stressed and defeated by the mental exertion, Noir pushed back from the desk. He walked towards the tall, dark wardrobe at the right side of the room, its broad doors promising anonymity. He opened it, pulled out a fresh linen shirt, and quickly shed the one he was wearing, exchanging it for another, as if the simple act of changing attire could somehow transform his predicament. The feel of the fabric, the familiar routine, offered a fleeting moment of distraction from the terrifying truth.
As he finished changing, his gaze fell upon the scattered papers and books on Alder's desk once more. A flicker of curiosity, perhaps a vestige of Alder's historical inclination, prompted him to turn and examine them. He leafed through several volumes, their titles hinting at arcane subjects, before his fingers brushed against a peculiar piece of paper. It was ancient, its texture fragile, covered in strange, intricate carvings. As his eyes traced the patterns, a shocking realization hit him: these were inscriptions for a luck increasing ritual.
"What in the world is this?" he murmured aloud, the absurdity of it cutting through his confusion. "A luck increasing ritual? Was this Alder guy delusional, or something else entirely?" He sighed, running a hand over his now short hair, the implications of such an item in Alder's possession adding yet another layer to the deepening mystery.
"What is taking you so long? If you don't want to go, just say so!" Grace's voice, sharper this time, cut through the door, followed by a second, more insistent knock on the door.
Noir snapped out of his bewildered state. He quickly strode to the door and pulled it open. "It's nothing, I was just sorting out the books," he offered, the lie feeling clumsy on his tongue.
Grace's eyes, sharp and perceptive, scanned the cluttered room. "I don't see any books sorted in this room," she retorted, a knowing, amused glint in her gaze.
"Nevermind," Noir said, stepping out and closing the door behind him. "Let's just go."
A little smile, one that seemed to show a quiet concern for her silly younger brother, touched Grace's lips. She simply nodded, and they began their walk.
As they moved through the bustling streets, Noir's gaze swept across the surroundings, taking in the advancement level of this world. It wasn't overwhelmingly impressive, certainly not a futuristic utopia, yet the place pulsed with a different life energy than he had experienced in his own world. Children were laughing and playing, their joy echoing freely. People were everywhere, a vibrant tapestry of daily life; some were diligently working, their faces set in quiet determination, others were out for shopping, their conversations light. All seemed so gentle and respectful, a stark contrast to the undercurrent of tension he often felt in his previous life.
As they walked, a group of Grace's friends crossed their paths. Grace stopped, her face lighting up as she greeted them, ready for a prolonged chat. Noir, knowing from experience that such encounters rarely ended soon, felt a surge of annoyance. He wanted to explore, to understand, not to stand idly by.
"Could I… could I just go ahead?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Grace, still grinning, nodded. "Sure, I can manage on my own after all. The groceries weren't much anyway."
Wasn't the reason you took me with you because you needed help? Noir thought, his inner voice laced with annoyance.
As if she read his mind, Grace's grin widened. "Don't look all so annoyed, little brother. It's nice to spend some time with your sister every now and then, isn't it?"
Noir gave a half-hearted shrug that could be taken as agreement. He needed to get away, to think. He left Grace's side and started walking, his black eyes now keenly exploring the place, trying to absorb every detail of this strange, new world.
As he ambled through the bustling market square, his eyes scanning every peculiar detail – a steam-powered delivery cart trundling past, the intricate gears on a public clock, the peculiar fashion of the era – he noticed someone staring at him. She was a young woman, seated on a low stool by a draped stall. Her face held a captivating blend of youth and an almost ancient knowing. Before he could react or avert his gaze, her voice, soft yet surprisingly clear, cut through the market clamor.
"Would you like me to tell your fortune, young man?" she asked, her eyes sharp and unusually deep for her age.
Noir stopped, a flicker of his past life's cynicism warring with the raw confusion of his present. "What?" he asked instinctively, the single word sharp with disbelief.
She offered a smile that seemed to hold ancient secrets, a captivating curve of her lips. "Your future, your path, the unseen threads that guide your steps. All for those with open minds."
"I have no money," Noir stated, a pragmatic truth. He didn't even know what currency this world used.
But she merely waved a delicate hand. "Oh, for you, young one, it's all free." Her gaze held a strange intensity, pulling him in.
Noir paused. Free? In his old world, nothing truly valuable was ever free. Yet, the absurdity of his situation, the utter disorientation, made him hesitate. What did he have to lose? He had nothing to lose. "Alright," he said, a decision made on a whim. "I'll hear it."
She led him into her small, surprisingly dark fortune-telling lair, a space draped with heavy, patterned cloths that muffled the outside world. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and something else, something subtly metallic and ancient. She gestured to a low stool. "Sit, sit."
Noir sat, the stool surprisingly comfortable beneath him. "So, how are you going to do this?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of his usual analytical nature despite his bewilderment.
She smiled, a hint of something sly in her eyes. "With these." She grabbed two different sets of tarot cards from a worn wooden box on a nearby table. "Please, shuffle both sets separately."
As Noir took the decks, his fingers familiarizing themselves with the slick feel of the cards, a memory from his old world surfaced. He recalled the traditional tarot system, a deck of 22 Major Arcana. One of the decks in his hands was identical to that familiar set, its imagery resonating with the archetypes he knew. But the other… the other was something else entirely. It felt heavier, its symbols abstract and geometric.
"What is this other set?" he asked, holding up the unfamiliar deck.
The young woman chuckled softly. "Ah, keen eyes, young man. These," she said, tapping the deck he held, "these cards that display architectural elements are issued by the Unorthodox Church of Creation. They resemble the original, yes, but with minor changes in their meanings, reflecting the world as built, rather than merely divined."
Noir nodded, a strange sense of intrigue momentarily overriding his confusion. He finished shuffling both decks, his mind racing with the implications of an 'Unorthodox Church' and cards depicting buildings.
"What do you wish to know, young man?" she asked, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper.
Noir paused, his gaze sweeping over the mysterious symbols. "The present and the future," he stated, his characteristic pragmatism asserting itself.
"Why not the past?" she countered, a glimmer of knowing in her eyes.
"The past," Noir replied, his voice firm, "is something I don't have control over. What's done is done. It would be meaningless to dwell on it."
She looked at him for a long moment, a strange expression on her face. "Very well. But your wish must be known before the final shuffle." She pushed the decks back to him. "Shuffle both sets again, for your present and your future."
A flicker of annoyance crossed Noir's face. He was being tested, he realized. But he complied, shuffling the decks again with more vigor than necessary. As he finished, she reached out, her fingers quick and precise, pulling one card from each of the two sets. She laid them side by side on the small table.
"Here is your present," she announced, her voice resonating with an almost mystical authority.
The cards were revealed: The Fool card of the original tarot, depicting a wanderer poised at a cliff edge, and The Cornerstone card of the other set, a stark, geometric representation of a foundational block.
The young woman murmured to herself, her brow furrowing. "This is weird." She thought in her mind, Why are two cards of the same connection together, especially when it is the card 0?
"What does it mean?" Noir asked, his voice betraying a tremor of anticipation. The sight of The Fool card, so eerily similar to his new status, struck him.
She looked up, her expression grave. "These cards correlate to each other, young man. They form almost the same meaning. They represent a new beginning. A journey into the unknown. And… freedom of actions, yes, but also a certain… absurdness."
Noir nodded slowly. A new beginning. Freedom. Absurdness. It resonated too perfectly with his recent experience, with the words of the 'Host'. "And the future?" he prompted, leaning forward.
She picked up the two remaining decks, a knowing glint in her eyes. "That would be 500 Mora."
In an instant, without a second thought, Noir's composure returned. The mystical aura of the room, the strange connection to his transmigration, all evaporated. His pragmatism, his core self, reasserted itself with full force. "No thanks!" he said, the words sharp and dismissive. He pushed himself up from the stool, turning to leave. "I'll pass."
Noir, leaving the fortune teller's stall, pushed through the lingering scents of herbs and the mundane clamor of the market. The encounter had left him with a prickle of unease, a strange residue of both the absurd and the unnervingly familiar. He quickened his pace, the unfamiliar gait of Alder Wilson's body still requiring conscious effort.
When he reached the house, Grace was already there, the aroma of a home-cooked meal wafting from the kitchen. "Took you long enough, Alder," she teased, though her smile was soft. "Dinner's ready. I made your favorite, stewed beef."
Noir's stomach, surprisingly, gave a slight rumble. "Thanks, Grace," he managed, the words feeling more natural this time. He followed her into the cozy dining area.
They sat at the small, round table, the clinking of cutlery and the soft glow of the gas lamp creating an intimate atmosphere. "Rough day?" Grace asked, observing his quiet demeanor.
He shrugged. "Just… a lot on my mind. University stuff." It was a plausible lie, a safe one. He watched her across the table, her long, dark hair shimmering in the light, a pang of something akin to loss, but also comfort, passing through him. She was, despite everything, a constant in this new, bewildering existence.
"Don't let it get to you too much," she advised gently, reaching across to tap his hand. "You'll figure it out. You always do." Her belief in 'Alder' was evident, and it was a heavy mantle to wear.
"Yeah," he murmured, forcing a small smile. "I hope so."
After dinner, Noir helped Grace clear the table, the domestic rhythm a stark contrast to the arcane encounters of moments prior. Soon, he found himself back in Alder's room, the polished wooden floor and the towering bookshelf feeling both welcoming and profoundly strange. He closed the door behind him, the quiet click sealing him in once more with his new, inescapable reality.
...
Meanwhile, across the city, in a small, dimly lit room heavy with the scent of aged paper and exotic spices, the fortune teller, whose name was Lena, was recounting her day to her elder sister.
"You won't believe the reading I just had, Elara," Lena said, her voice still tinged with the peculiar energy of the divination. She gestured animatedly with her hands. "Two decks, both used, and the cards… they were uncanny. Absolutely uncanny."
Elara, a woman about thirty-four, with a keen, intellectual gaze that mirrored her younger sister's, listened intently. She sipped from a steaming cup of herbal tea. "Uncanny how, Lena?"
"The present cards," Lena explained, a flicker of bewildered excitement in her eyes. "From the traditional Major Arcana, it was The Fool. And from the Church of Creation deck… The Cornerstone."
A shiver, sudden and visceral, ran down Elara's spine, causing her to set her teacup down with a quiet clink. The usual composure of her face seemed to drain away, leaving it stark and pale. "Which cards did you say they were?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter something fragile in the air.
Lena, confused by her sister's drastic reaction, repeated, "The Cards of number zero, Elara. The Fool and The Cornerstone. Why? Is something wrong with it?"
Elara's face, as if it had lost all life in it, was utterly devoid of color. She looked at Lena with wide, almost frightened eyes. "Just whose fortune did you tell, Lena?" she asked again, her voice low, trembling.
"Just a young man," Lena began, but Elara cut her off, her gaze distant, fixed on something unseen.
"A millennium ago," Elara began, her voice gaining a haunting, almost reverent quality, "there was a prophecy. A whisper among the most ancient scholars, preserved in texts few have ever seen. It spoke of a grand beginning, heralded by the simultaneous manifestation of these two very cards. The Cards of Number Zero. Not just a new journey, but a beginning with infinite potential."
She leaned forward, her eyes now burning with a mixture of awe and fear. "It foretells the start of a new fabrication. Perhaps even… a lie that even reality perceives as the truth. The pinnacle of absurdness, Lena. A freedom from the very concept of fate." Elara's gaze finally settled back on her sister, heavy with the weight of ages.
"This isn't just a reading, Lena. This is... an omen."