Asfinne opened his eyes slowly. The remnants of sleep still clung to his bright blue irises, which caught and reflected the golden rays filtering through the window. He moved slightly, and the wood beneath his bed groaned in response — an old, weary sound, like a tired sigh of something that had endured for far too long.
He turned his head and let his gaze wander quietly around the small room. It was not large, not grand, and yet everything inside spoke of quiet endurance. Nothing was new, nothing shone, but everything felt alive — as though time itself had chosen to linger here.
The bed on which he sat was a simple wooden frame, etched with faint carvings along the headboard. Once, those carvings might have been vines wrapping around stars — a symbol of hope, or of dreams. Now, the details had been blurred by years of touch and dust. The wood that was once a deep brown had faded to a weary gray, its surface rough and uneven. The grain of it caught the morning light, showing every nick and scar like the wrinkles of an old hand.
When Asfinne brushed his palm across it, he could feel the small splinters biting at his skin. The bed was hard, the mattress thin, yet he had long grown used to it. The stiffness, the discomfort — they were constant companions. There was a strange comfort in that constancy, as though this unyielding piece of wood somehow held him in its own way.
The pillow beneath his head was little more than a lump of cloth. The stuffing inside had long clumped together, forming uneven ridges that refused to soften no matter how much they were beaten or shaken. The once-white fabric was now gray-green, patched and re-stitched in several places by an anonymous hand from years past. Each crooked seam told a story — of care, of necessity, of persistence. It smelled faintly of old cloth and the warmth of yesterday's sleep. Yet to Asfinne, it was the scent of belonging, the scent of home.
The bedsheet, too, was old — thin cotton, its threads loose and visible in the slanted light. Sunlight wove through the tiny spaces in the fabric, scattering gold specks across the surface like threads of morning spun from the sky itself. When Asfinne ran his fingers along it, it felt cool and coarse. The wrinkles told their own story — that no iron had ever touched it, that it had been laid by hands that cared more for warmth than for beauty. And somehow, that imperfection made it beautiful. It was real, and that realness grounded him.
When he sat up, the sunlight reached across the room and touched his hair. His short blond strands caught the light, gleaming faintly — like soft flames flickering in a world of gray.
He turned toward the window, the old wooden panels cracked and weathered but still clinging to their hinges. Through the narrow openings between the slats, light spilled in thin golden lines that cut through the lingering shadows of the room.
Outside, the world was waking.
A faint mist hovered above the ground, wrapping the distant trees and rooftops in a gauzy shroud. Thin trails of smoke rose from metal chimneys scattered across the village below. The smoke curled lazily, twisting into the ashen sky like silver threads being sewn between heaven and earth.
People were already moving through the narrow streets — figures wrapped in heavy cloaks, their clothes coarse and dark, made from thick woven fabric of an older age. Some wore long coats and leather boots stained by the road's damp soil. A few, by contrast, were dressed in finer garments — nobles with embroidered tunics and tall hats, accompanied by small carriages marked with crests of families long respected.
The air beyond the window was alive with sound — the clop of hooves on cobblestone, the creak of wagon wheels, the hiss of early steam machines that still sputtered and clanked with primitive rhythm. They were not the polished inventions of modern cities but rough, smoking beasts of iron, breathing loudly as they struggled along the roads.
The market was beginning to stir. Merchants shouted faintly in the distance; a woman's voice called for bread, a child laughed. All of it wove together into a melody of life — coarse, human, unrefined, but beautiful in its imperfection.
Asfinne stared for a long time.
The world outside seemed old, almost ancient — a place carved from the bones of history. Yet, somewhere deep within him, something about it felt familiar. As though he stood between two realities: the memory of a future that had not yet come, and the weight of a past that refused to fade.
He slowly turned away from the window. The sunlight followed, spilling into the room, spreading across the chair by his bedside.
The chair was simple, hand-made, uneven in its joints. Its legs bore tiny cracks that spider-webbed across the grain of the wood, and a faint scorch mark marred its backrest — the memory of a fallen lamp from a sleepless night long ago. When he sat on it, it wobbled slightly but never broke; he had fixed it himself, hammering old nails into its bones, bracing it with leftover pieces from his bed frame. It was fragile, imperfect — and alive.
He took a step closer to the small wooden table that stood in the corner of his room. The surface was blotched with stains of ink and tea, the wood darkened from years of use. Yet it was clean — arranged with care, as though someone had set it that way with quiet intention.
A soft scent drifted through the air — warm, inviting.
Breakfast.
On the table sat a simple plate of food, still faintly steaming. Two fried eggs gleamed under the slanting sunlight — their edges crisped brown, their centers golden and soft. The sheen of the yolk caught the light, reflecting it like liquid amber. Beside them lay three slices of bacon, their color a dance of red and gold, their edges curling ever so slightly as they cooled. A thin ribbon of savory aroma rose upward, wrapping around the air like a gentle embrace.
Next to the plate sat two slices of toasted bread, browned perfectly, their surface speckled with crumbs that shimmered where the sun kissed them. A small dish of jam sat beside the bread — its color bright red, like captured sunrise, glistening softly in the light.
He could almost feel the warmth radiating from the plate, hear the faint crackle of cooling bacon, the whisper of bread's crust as it shifted with the morning air.
Sunlight touched the food, bringing it to life — making every detail glimmer: the sheen of oil, the steam that rose and curled like mist, the tiny specks of salt that caught the light. It was a simple meal, and yet it seemed to glow with sincerity, with care.
Asfinne stood silently, just watching.
He didn't move toward the food at first. Instead, he let the moment fill him — the silence, the scent, the warmth. There was a kind of peace here that words could never capture. The faint creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet, the sound of the wind brushing the shutters, the distant song of birds greeting the dawn — all of it formed a quiet symphony of morning.
The room smelled of life: old wood, morning sun, and food prepared with simple kindness.
He drew in a deep breath. The scent of eggs and bacon mingled with the air, seeping into him, anchoring him in this place, this time.
He neither spoke nor sighed. He simply was.
And for a brief moment, it felt as though the entire room — the bed, the pillow, the sheets, the window, the chair, the table, even the plate of food — had come alive, breathing with him, quietly watching.
That morning, the room was not merely a space.
It was a heart — beating softly, slowly, in rhythm with his own.