At a small house somewhere far away from the noise of the world, silence lingered like a veil.
A faint wind drifted through a half-opened wooden window, carrying with it the salty scent of the sea. Outside, the sound of waves rose and fell gently, like a lullaby sung by the ocean itself. The faint rustle of curtains accompanied that rhythm — soft, steady, endless.
On a simple wooden bed in the center of the dimly lit room, a man lay unconscious. His hair, long and white as freshly fallen snow, spilled over the pillow, shimmering faintly under the pale green light that swayed from the ceiling. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his breathing shallow — as though the soul within him was barely holding on.
Beside him sat a young woman, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old. Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders like silk ink, absorbing the faint light of the room. Her gray eyes, calm yet distant, watched the man in silence. She sat perfectly still, her posture straight but not tense, her hands resting on her lap as if she had been there for hours.
The bed itself was made from soft, polished wood. The sheets that once gleamed white were now stained crimson in places, dark and dried — silent witnesses of the man's suffering. The pillow beneath his head appeared almost weightless, as if filled with nothing but air. The scent of blood lingered faintly in the room, mingling with the aroma of wood and salt.
For a long while, nothing moved. Only the flame of a small oil lamp trembled gently, casting shifting shadows across the walls. The woman occasionally glanced toward a small bowl of water and a folded cloth nearby — her tools for cleaning and tending to his wounds. She had already replaced the bandages several times that night.
Then, at last, the silence broke.
"H… hm… hm… HM!?"
A faint sound escaped his throat. His fingers twitched, then tightened slightly. His eyelids fluttered, heavy and reluctant, before opening slowly to reveal eyes of golden hue — dim at first, then glimmering like the last ray of sunlight before dusk.
Above him, a single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, its glass faintly tinted green. The reflection of its glow danced upon his hair, turning the white strands into soft shades of yellow.
He blinked several times, squinting at the brightness, then pushed himself up with effort. His muscles protested; pain shot through his arms and ribs, yet he forced his trembling body upright.
The woman's eyes followed him silently. She did not move to stop him, but her gaze carried quiet concern — and something else: caution.
As he finally sat up, his eyes swept through the small space. There was the bed, the single dining table beside the window, and little else. The wooden floor was clean but uneven, the walls bare except for a single shelf with a few folded blankets. The house was too simple to belong to anyone wealthy, yet somehow, it felt safe — almost peaceful.
Then his eyes met hers.
"You're awake…"
Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper, but it held warmth that seemed to fill the empty room.
He blinked again, trying to focus, his expression wary. The softness of her tone did not completely ease his unease.
He looked down at himself — his chest, his arms — all were wrapped in white bandages. Beneath them, faint stains of blood still showed through. He took a deep breath, the air stinging his lungs, and exhaled slowly.
"Who are you? Are you the one who saved me?"
His voice was rough, yet steady — cautious, as though he were a soldier awakening on enemy ground.
The woman didn't flinch. Instead, she rose to her feet and stepped back slightly, her movements smooth, deliberate, neither fearful nor aggressive.
"My name is Serin," she replied quietly. "I found you lying on the beach near this village, covered in blood and barely breathing. You were badly wounded, so I brought you to this guesthouse."
Her tone was calm — too calm to carry deceit.
The man's golden eyes studied her carefully, searching for any sign of falsehood: a twitch, a hesitation, a flicker of guilt. He found none. Her words rang true, simple and clear.
A faint, almost invisible smile touched his lips.
"…Thank you for your kindness. And… where exactly am I?"
The question was polite, but his gaze still sharp.
Serin's lips curved slightly, her gray eyes softening. "This is a small village at the edge of the largest kingdom in this world — or at least, what people here call 'the world.'"
Her voice lowered a little, as if speaking a secret meant only for him.
"You must be from another world, aren't you?"
The words hit him like a gentle but undeniable wave. His body tensed. For an instant, his eyes widened — then his composure returned as quickly as it had left. He inhaled slowly, steadying himself.
But her words stirred something inside him — something that refused to settle.
Another world…
His mind felt blank, hollow. He tried to reach for a memory — any memory — but his thoughts only met a blinding emptiness, a vast white void where everything should have been.
His name, his past, his purpose — gone.
All that remained was the sound of his own heartbeat, echoing in that emptiness.
And then, through the stillness of his mind, came a voice.
Soft. Whispered. Yet impossibly close.
"And who are you?"
The voice didn't come from outside. It resonated within him — deep, faint, but clear.
He blinked, startled, and instinctively turned toward Serin.
Her lips moved.
Those were her words.
Their eyes locked, golden and gray meeting across the dim room.
He said nothing. The question hung between them, heavy and unspoken, vibrating in the air like a string pulled too tight.
The lamp's faint light trembled, its green hue washing over their faces. The world outside fell silent — no wind, no waves, no sound. Only the steady rhythm of two breaths and two hearts that did not yet understand each other.
He could not answer.
He did not know how.
Serin stood there, motionless, her eyes unreadable. Perhaps she too sensed that the man before her carried more than wounds — something lost, something broken, something waiting to awaken.
The silence stretched, and in that fragile stillness, something invisible bound them — not with trust, but with a shared uncertainty.
No more words followed.
Only quiet, and the faint, unending hum of the light above them.