In a certain place—
a place drowned in silence.
A silence so heavy it felt almost tangible, as though even one's own breathing could echo back from the walls. It was the kind of stillness where even the faint creak of dry wood or the whisper of wind slipping through the cracks of an old window could be heard clearly.
It was as if no one had lived there for years, completely cut off from the outside world.
There was no scent of life—no warmth, no trace of presence—only the faint, musty odor of dust and aged wood drifting quietly in the stagnant air.
Morning sunlight, brilliant and golden, crept through a grimy windowpane streaked with dust and faint fingerprints. Thin beams of light fell across the room, brushing over the face of a man lying motionless upon an old bed.
The gentle warmth of dawn that should have brought comfort instead pierced through his dreams and dragged him into an uneasy awakening.
He lay upon a bed made of plain, natural wood—worn, cracked, and brittle with age. The planks beneath him emitted the faint scent of dryness and decay. Dust clung thickly in the seams, dulling the wood's color to a lifeless gray. The smell of old wood mixed with dust filled the air, making the atmosphere heavy and close. The bed seemed untouched for years.
The pillow beside his head was flat and stiff, unpleasantly rough to the touch, with faint yellow stains at its corners. The sheet, though faded and old, appeared to be the cleanest object in the room—a remnant of someone's effort, long ago.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The sunlight streaming through the window stabbed at his vision, and the first sensation that came to him was pain—dull and throbbing at his temples, like unseen hands squeezing his skull.
It seemed that only a short while had passed since night ended, yet the quietness made every ache sharper. His head swam; the world around him spun. He squinted, trying to adjust to the light.
He was not yet fully awake from his slumber.
His body felt heavy, unwilling to respond. His mind, blank and hollow, could not recall a single fragment of memory. The emptiness frightened him in a way he could not describe. The bright light seeping through his eyelids irritated him, forcing him to turn his head away.
He shut his eyes tight, but the sharp pain only grew. He tried to sit up, but his legs were numb—as if he had been asleep far too long, and his body had forgotten how to move.
"Ow… it hurts… it hurts so much…"
His voice trembled, fragile, soaked in pain. Every movement sent waves of agony rippling through him, like needles piercing every muscle.
His hands were covered with small cuts, some scabbed over, others still faintly red.
He drew a strained breath and reached out, blindly searching for something to hold on to—something solid that could help him rise.
His fingertips brushed against something cold and hard—
a table lamp standing at the side of the bed. The lamp's pale gray surface was thinly coated with dust, yet its dim yellow bulb still glowed faintly, as if someone had recently turned it on.
When he gripped it, the dust lifted in a tiny cloud, making him cough softly.
He felt the dry particles cling to his skin, their texture gritty and unpleasant.
With effort, he slid his hand along the edge of the table beside it, grasping at the rough wood to pull himself up.
The table was old—its edges chipped, its surface marked by years of scratches—but sturdy enough to bear his weight.
He used both hands, trembling and half-numb, to push himself upright. The effort made his arms shake, every muscle crying out in protest. His legs felt like lead, heavy and useless, but he forced them to move.
He rose slowly, unsteadily, as if defying gravity itself.
At last, he managed to stand—barely.
He wavered, vision blurring, the world swaying before him.
As his eyes adjusted, shapes began to emerge from the haze.
He could now see the room clearly: an old wooden chamber, worn and fragile with time.
The ceiling had small holes through which sunlight streamed down like thin threads of gold.
The wooden walls groaned softly with the wind.
One wall bore a long crack, darkened with damp stains.
The floorboards were layered with dust and faint footprints—proof that someone had once been here, long ago.
He looked around, puzzled and uneasy.
His heartbeat quickened.
He didn't recognize this place. He had no idea how or why he was here—or who might have brought him.
"Where… is this place?"
His voice came out hoarse, dry, and barely audible, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
The sound echoed faintly in the empty room, before fading back into silence.
He tried to walk, to explore, but his legs were weak and his body exhausted.
After only a few steps, he collapsed back onto the bed.
The wood groaned under his weight with a tired creak.
He sat there quietly for a long moment, staring toward the window where a narrow shaft of light cut across the room.
The emptiness in his mind was replaced by a rising unease.
He tried to think—tried to remember who he was, where he came from—but his mind was blank.
All that filled his ears was the sound of his own breathing and the rapid beat of his heart.
He kept reaching deeper into the void of his memory, over and over again—
until at last, something began to surface.
"His name… was Denato…" the thought echoed faintly within him.
"He came from a distant country…"
Faint images began to flicker before his eyes: a city of smoke and steel, the clanging of metal, the rumble of machinery, and the sharp voice of a foreman calling orders.
"He was just a laborer… from another land…" he murmured softly, eyes trembling as fragments of his past returned.
"He came to another country in search of work…
He worked day after day, until he could finally afford to rent a small room…
And then, one night, he lay down on his bed…"
Denato began to remember…
This place—
it wasn't familiar to him at all.
The first thing that surfaced in his mind was confusion. He looked around the room again, his eyes now adjusted to the light filtering through the window. The more he saw, the more certain he became—this was not the room he knew.
The silence inside was so thick that he could hear his own breathing echo faintly. His gaze drifted across every corner of the space: the wooden walls, cracked and darkened with damp stains; the corners, where water had once seeped through and left pale traces behind; the floorboards, covered in a thick layer of dust with his own footprints freshly pressed upon it. Everything here felt wrong—too cold, too foreign.
The room in his memory, though small and simple, had always been clean, with the faint warmth of a place someone called home.
But this one… this one felt lifeless, as though time itself had abandoned it.
A dull ache spread behind his temples. His thoughts scattered, tumbling over one another in a blur. Where is this place? he asked himself silently, again and again—but the room gave him no answer.
He took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady his body. The numbness that had gripped his arms and legs began to fade little by little. He flexed his fingers, closing them into a weak fist before slowly releasing. Warmth began to return to his limbs, and he could finally feel the strength creeping back into them.
His eyes wandered toward the table lamp still glowing softly beside the bed.
Its faint yellow light flickered slightly, casting uneven shadows across the rough wooden surface. The warmth of the bulb seemed to fill the room, yet it also revealed every flaw—every crack, every speck of dust—that defined the room's decay. The longer he looked at it, the more uneasy he felt, as if that gentle light were too harsh, too revealing.
He reached out, his hand moving carefully toward the switch at the lamp's base.
A soft click broke the silence.
The light went out.
Instantly, the room dimmed, leaving only the pale, cool sunlight that seeped through the window. The color of the air shifted—from golden warmth to a subdued silver-gray. Shadows of furniture stretched long across the floor, merging slowly into one another.
He was beginning to realize…
This world was not the same one he once lived in.
The sound of his own breathing echoed faintly in the emptiness of the room, as though it were returning to him from the depths of a hollow cavern. Each inhale carried a strange chill, sharp and foreign, seeping quietly through his skin. The cold crept deep into his bones, winding through his chest and spine, until even his heartbeats seemed to slow beneath its weight. Every pulse thudded against his ribs with a dull, heavy rhythm — the rhythm of confusion, the sound of a man caught between memory and reality.
He tried to move, but his body refused to obey. His muscles felt as if they were bound by invisible cords, his limbs weak and sluggish. The blood in his veins hadn't yet remembered how to flow. He clenched his jaw, breathing through the discomfort, and shifted his weight slightly on the old wooden bed.
The surface beneath his palms was rough and cold. The blanket — if one could call it that — was coarse and filled with dust. The instant he pushed himself upright, his vision spun; the world darkened at the edges. For a moment he saw nothing but blurred shadows.
A sharp sting shot through his temples. He winced, bringing a trembling hand to his head. The other hand groped for stability, pressing down on the creaking mattress for support. The old bed groaned beneath his touch, the sound long and weary, as though complaining of being disturbed after a long, dreamless slumber.
The wood felt uneven and cracked under his fingers. Faint grooves ran along its surface, remnants of years that had passed in silence. The smell of old dust and dry timber filled the air — thick, heavy, and ancient. Occasionally, a thin draft slipped through a narrow crack in the window, stirring the dust into faint, glittering clouds that drifted lazily in the sunlight. The whisper of the wind against the frame sounded like a voice too soft to understand, murmuring words from another time.
Denato braced himself again, gathering the fading strength in his arms. His hands trembled, but he forced them to hold. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself upward until his spine straightened and his weight balanced on his feet. A low groan escaped him — not of complaint, but of effort. His back ached as though the very air pressed down upon him.
For a moment, he stood still, eyes shut tightly.
He breathed in deeply — once, twice — and steadied his thoughts.
Then, slowly, he opened his eyes again.
Sunlight streamed through the cracks of the window. The golden glow spread across his face, chasing away some of the chill that clung to his skin. His eyes squinted against the brightness, but soon, his vision began to clear.
He looked around the room.
It was, without question, a place he did not recognize.
Not a single thing matched the world he remembered.
The walls were made of dark, uneven planks, the color faded and cracked. Thin lines of moisture had crept between them, leaving pale, irregular stains that told of many long, damp nights. Above, the ceiling sagged slightly, its beams scarred and warped. Through one of the cracks, a sliver of daylight filtered in, falling as a thin shaft that danced among floating dust.
There was little furniture — an old table with uneven legs, a small cabinet with a broken hinge, and the bed he had just risen from. All of them were covered in a soft layer of gray dust, thick enough to mute the color of the wood beneath. It was the kind of dust that only gathered when time itself had stopped visiting. Every step he took made the floor groan softly beneath him, a creaking voice echoing through the stillness.
He tilted his head upward, studying the ceiling. The cracks ran like the veins of dried roots, spreading outward in crooked lines. Cobwebs hung between the beams, shimmering faintly in the sunlight. He stared at them for a while, trying to find some meaning in their delicate patterns — but all he found was silence. A silence so deep it seemed to swallow even the sound of his breathing.
He blinked slowly, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with his thoughts.
Perhaps, he told himself, this was just a dream.
Perhaps he was still asleep, caught in some vivid illusion.
He clung to that fragile hope as if it were the only thing anchoring him.
But deep down, he knew better.
Everything around him felt too real — the smell of the wood, the cold against his fingertips, the sound of the air itself. Dreams did not feel this heavy, this precise, this utterly tangible.
He exhaled softly, lowering his gaze toward the faint light spilling in from the window. The air outside glowed a warm gold, the kind of light that hinted at late morning. He hesitated, then began to move toward it. His footsteps were slow, deliberate. Each step sent up a small puff of dust that shimmered in the sunlight like drifting motes of glass.
When he reached the window, he placed a hand against its frame. The wood was cold and rough beneath his skin, worn smooth in some places and splintered in others. He pushed gently, and the old hinges resisted for a heartbeat before yielding with a long, dragging creak — a sound like a sigh released after years of stillness.
The window opened.
And with it came a rush of air — cool, fresh, alive.
The wind brushed across his face, carrying with it scents unfamiliar and strange: a hint of smoke, a trace of oil, the faint metallic tang of heated machinery. There was something alive in the air, something that hummed with energy and yet felt impossibly distant from the world he remembered.
He lifted his hand to shield his eyes and peered out.
What he saw made his heart stutter in his chest.
Above the city skyline floated a massive airship, its vast shadow drifting across the rooftops below. It moved slowly, gracefully, like a creature of the sky. From its sides trailed long streams of white smoke, curling lazily upward as the engines beneath it pulsed and hummed. The deep mechanical rhythm mingled with the steady rush of the wind — a strange harmony of sound that filled the world with motion.
The sky itself was a muted blue-gray, brushed with wisps of pale clouds. Sunlight poured through the gaps in soft, golden beams, illuminating the airship's hull. The polished metal glinted like silver, flashing with light every time the ship tilted with the breeze. It was beautiful — too beautiful, almost — a sight that seemed to belong to a story, not a life.
Below, the streets stretched far into the distance, paved with smooth stone. The cobblestones gleamed faintly beneath the sunlight, worn smooth by the countless feet and hooves that had passed over them. A row of horse-drawn carriages rolled along at a steady pace, the rhythmic clop, clop of hooves echoing in the open air. The wooden wheels rumbled softly, producing a sound like the low beat of an ancient drum.
People walked along the sidewalks — men and women dressed in unfamiliar styles.
The men wore long coats and tall hats, their shoes polished to a dull shine. The women moved gracefully in layered skirts that brushed the ground as they passed, soft fabrics of cream and gray flowing with every step. Shawls and ribbons fluttered in the wind, catching the light like drifting feathers.
Their laughter carried faintly through the air, mingled with the murmur of voices and the calls of merchants. The entire street seemed alive with a gentle pulse — not chaotic, but rhythmic, as if the world outside was breathing in harmony.
Denato leaned closer to the window frame, his eyes following every movement below.
On either side of the street stood rows of brick and stone buildings, each one shaped with old-world charm. The walls were painted in warm earth tones — red, brown, beige — some chipped and weathered by time. Narrow windows glimmered with glass that reflected the sky. From a few chimneys rose thin ribbons of smoke that curled upward and vanished into the light.
There was a faint smell of bread wafting through the air, warm and comforting, mingled with the smoke of burning coal. Somewhere nearby, a bell chimed — one, two, three notes — clear and resonant. The sound hung in the air for a moment before fading into the distance.
Everything about the scene felt impossibly real.
Too real to be a dream.
He blinked again, his chest rising in quiet disbelief. Every sense in his body was awake — every smell, every sound, every flicker of color in the world outside.
His heart began to beat faster.
The fear that had bound him moments ago was dissolving, giving way to something else — curiosity, wonder, and a strange exhilaration. His lips parted slightly, forming a faint, involuntary smile.
What is this place…? he thought.
He had no answer, but his heart was already beginning to lean forward, reaching toward the unknown. There was something magnetic in the air — a pull, subtle but undeniable.
For a long while, he simply stood there, letting the wind brush through his hair, letting the light paint his skin with warmth. His clothes stirred faintly against him, rustling like paper in the breeze. He inhaled deeply, and for the first time since awakening, he felt something shift inside him.
It wasn't peace, nor certainty, nor fear.
It was something else — something new.
It was the quiet thrill of beginning again.
The world beyond that window, with its floating ships, its cobblestone streets, its people clothed in the colors of another age — all of it was foreign to him, yet deeply alive.
To Denato, this new world was not merely strange.
It was fascinating.
So fascinating that, for a moment, he forgot to wonder whether he would ever return home.
Instead, he simply stared — eyes wide, heart pounding —
and let the wonder of that unfamiliar world draw him in completely.