He was falling.
The darkness pressed in—a vast void where distant flickers of light hung like dying stars. Cold, thin air tore at his skin and stole his breath, making thought a struggle. Questions tumbled through his mind, chaotic and sharp: Is this the end? Is this death? Or merely some cruel dream? Was anything he knew ever real at all?
Deeper and deeper, the void pulsed with the faint shimmer of pale light, growing closer like a silent breath. Then, not a blaze but a gentle glow emerged—thousands upon thousands of delicate motes, soft as whispers and radiant with a quiet purpose. They moved with deliberate grace, swirling around him in a celestial dance. No fear clung to their fragile wings, only calm resolve.
As the glowing motes brushed his skin, warmth seeped through his limbs, and his thoughts slowed, folding inward. His fingers stretched, seeking the fluttering wings, cold yet wondrous, and the moment his skin touched their fragile edges, his body began to dissolve. First the arms, then the legs, the chest—each fragment scattering into countless points of shimmering light, vanishing into the endless storm.
Am I becoming one of them?
He watched from somewhere else, weightless and disembodied, merging with the infinite dance of light. Then, sharp as winter ice, a searing pain ignited at the base of his skull. Gasping, he awoke.
His eyes fluttered open to a harsh, sterile room dimly lit by the smoky heart of a brass and glass lamp resting on a heavy oaken desk. The scent of aged parchment and faint trace of relic dust lingered in the shadows. He lay sprawled on a narrow, iron-framed bed, the coarse linen beneath him whispering with every shallow breath. His head throbbed fiercely where a freshly healing wound kissed his temple, tender and still tenderly numb beneath pale skin.
He blinked, heart hammering loudly in the silence as if echoing the ticking of the pocket watch cradled warm beside him on the bed. Its hands moved not in seconds but something more—an unnatural pulse like a heartbeat in time with his own, steady and unyielding.
Raising a trembling hand, he brushed the bandage cautiously. Beneath, the skin was already knitting together, the wound no more than a faint bruise. He flexed fingers stiff with shock and slowly swung himself upright, the room tilting then steadying as the pain dulled to a dull drone.
His gaze fell to the polished surface of a tall, baroque mirror standing against the wall. The reflection staring back was unfamiliar—yet hauntingly vivid. Pale, nearly translucent skin framed by soft, white hair tousled in disarray, sharp high cheekbones, and a pair of intense, haunting eyes that flickered with quiet storm clouds. He was dressed in an elegant, dark velvet tailcoat, tailored yet slightly worn, the collar crisp and white beneath it. The cuffs bore a small sigil—a crescent moon embraced by delicate engravings—that shimmered subtly in the lamp's glow.
The room mirrored the tension in his reflection: lined walls of dark mahogany, heavy velvet drapes partially drawn over tall windows framed with wrought iron filigree. Antique bookshelves bowed under the weight of dusty tomes bound in cracked leather and embossed with arcane symbols. An ancient bureau stood beneath a faded tapestry depicting angels and demons locked in eternal conflict, their forms blurred by time but their war eternal.
A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the ceaseless ticking of the pocket watch and the distant murmur of a city veiled in perpetual twilight.
"Who am I, now?" he whispered, voice rough as if unused. The name *Elias Marrow* lingered in the back of his mind, elusive yet insistent—a borrowed identity woven into this body's legacy.
A sharp memory flashed: a gunshot—a desperate act. The reason was buried deep, beneath layers of shadow and forgotten truth. The wound was real, but healing as if the body itself refused to accept death.
He rose, each movement cautious, acutely aware of the strange new weight of this existence. Outside the window, gaslamps flickered against a fog that never fully lifted, and somewhere beyond the city's maze, angels and demons schemed beneath stone spires that pierced the heavy sky.
"Who am I, now?" he whispered, voice rough as if unused. The name *Elias Marrow* lingered in the back of his mind, elusive yet insistent—a borrowed identity woven into this body's legacy.
A sharp memory flashed: a gunshot—a desperate act. The reason was buried deep, beneath layers of shadow and forgotten truth. The wound was real, but healing as if the body itself refused to accept death.
He rose, each movement cautious, acutely aware of the strange new weight of this existence. Outside the window, gaslamps flickered against a fog that never fully lifted, and somewhere beyond the city's maze, angels and demons schemed beneath stone spires that pierced the heavy sky.
The heavy knock echoed through the quiet room, jolting Elias from the restless swirl of his thoughts. He blinked once, heart still racing from the fog in his mind, then slowly rose and made his way toward the door. Each step felt like a tether pulling him back to a life half-remembered.
His hand trembled slightly as he turned the ornate brass handle and opened it.
There she stood—warmth in human form. A young woman with long, chestnut-brown hair that tumbled in soft waves past her shoulders, catching the dim light and shimmering with a gentle sheen. Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous glow, lips quirking in a playful smile.
She wore a cream-colored blouse tucked neatly into a high-waisted, deep forest-green skirt, the fabric flowing lightly to her ankles. Over this, a delicate, knitted shawl draped softly, patterned with intricate leaf motifs—an heirloom, perhaps, or a token of simpler days.
"You're finally up, lazybones," she teased, voice light and familiar, carrying the warmth of countless shared memories.
Elias's gaze softened despite the storm within. The name blossomed unbidden in his mind—the easy, everyday sound that felt like a lifeline in this foreign skin. "Mina," he said quietly.
The young woman's smile widened, stepping inside without waiting. "I wasn't sure you'd wake so soon. Mother's been pacing the halls since the dawn."
Mina's presence filled the room with a tenderness that anchored him, a reminder of the fragile threads connecting past and present.
As the door closed behind her, Elias felt the weight of his new life settle deeper—the burden of forgotten truths, hidden dangers, and a destiny yet to be grasped. But in this moment, the simple bond of family lingered like a fragile flame against the encroaching shadows.