Darkness.
It was the first thing he felt.
Not the kind that comes with closed eyes, or the peaceful kind that comes before sleep. No, this was heavier—thicker. A darkness that pressed against his skin, sank into his lungs, filled his mouth like smoke and blood.
There was no light.
No warmth.
Only the faint, metallic scent of blood—old and stale, but still there, hanging in the air like a curse.
Was he dead?
The thought echoed faintly in the back of his mind, soft and far away.
It wasn't fear he felt. Not confusion either. It was something colder.
Acceptance.
Then suddenly—
Light.
His eyes snapped open too quickly, as if forced by instinct. The sudden brightness stabbed into them like needles. For a moment, all he saw was white. Blurred shapes and colors swimming like ghosts.
It took time for the world to settle. When it did, the first thing he saw was a ceiling—made of dark, cracked wood, old and uneven.
It looked handmade, maybe even rotting.
"…An old wooden ceiling?"
The thought formed like fog.
"Where… am I?"
He turned his head slightly, vision still clearing. His neck ached, muscles tight and unfamiliar.
The room was quiet.
Small. Claustrophobic, almost.
One bed, plain and narrow. A rough wooden table. A wardrobe that leaned slightly to one side. On the windowsill sat a row of potted herbs—lavender, mint, and something else he didn't recognize. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, dim and gray.
It smelled faintly of soil and dried plants. Of medicine.
His gaze settled on a single object resting against the wall—a mirror.
Something in his chest twisted.
Slowly, carefully, he sat up. Every movement sent a dull ache through his body. He raised his hand—and froze.
This… wasn't his hand.
It was pale. Too pale.
Soft, smooth skin without a blemish. No scars. No cuts. Not even a freckle.
He stared, breath shallow.
And then, with a mixture of dread and curiosity, he reached for the mirror.
The face that stared back at him wasn't his.
Golden-blonde hair fell softly around his face in loose waves. His eyes—large, glassy—shone a crystalline blue, clear and piercing. His lashes were long, almost unnaturally so, and tinted with the same gold as his hair. His skin was white as snow, with a soft flush to the cheeks. His lips were pale pink, full and curved slightly at the edges. Beneath his right eye, a small dark mole.
He looked… innocent. Ethereal.
"This isn't me," he thought, gripping the mirror tighter.
"What the hell is this? Whose face is this?"
He looked like a doll. Or worse—a painting of a child that never aged.
A face too perfect to be human.
Just then, the door creaked open.
A man stepped in. Late thirties, maybe older. He had a calm face, lined with faint wrinkles, and wore unfamiliar clothing—some kind of tunic with a leather strap across the chest. Simple, but clean.
His eyes lit up when he saw Auren.
—"Ah, my boy… you're awake."
His voice was warm, filled with a strange relief.
—"Are you alright? Does anything hurt?"
"My… boy?"
Auren stared, blinking slowly.
He didn't recognize this man. Not even slightly.
The man walked over, kneeling beside the bed.
Auren opened his mouth, hesitating.
"…Who are you?"
His voice was quiet, dry.
The man smiled, gently. There was something sad in it.
—"I'm not surprised you don't remember. But don't worry—memory loss is common after a fever like that."
Fever?
Was that what they thought this was?
The man offered his hand, but Auren didn't take it.
—"My name is Callan. I'm a physician. And… your father."
"Father?"
His mind reeled.
It didn't make sense. He didn't belong here. None of this belonged to him.
Yet, there was no panic. Only… a numb kind of quiet.
He sat up straighter, trying to compose himself.
"…If you're my father, then who am I?"
Callan's expression softened.
—"Your name is Auren. You're fifteen."
Fifteen?
No.
That wasn't right.
He remembered being older—maybe eighteen? Maybe more.
But those memories were slippery, fading like dreams after waking.
He said nothing. Just nodded slowly.
Callan let out a breath of relief.
—"You should rest. Here—this will help."
He handed him a small ceramic cup, filled with warm greenish tea.
Auren took it with both hands. The cup was warm. His fingers trembled slightly.
The tea tasted bitter, but strangely soothing.
Callan watched him for a moment longer, then stood.
—"I'll be outside if you need me."
And with that, he quietly left the room.
Auren sat there in silence, finishing the tea. He looked out the window.
The trees moved with the wind, and somewhere, birds sang softly.
Everything felt too calm. Too distant.
He rose from the bed and walked over to the window. The floor creaked under his feet.
Outside was a garden, overgrown but not wild. Rows of herbs, flowers, and wooden fences marked a simple life. Beyond that—a forest.
He touched the glass gently.
"It's peaceful," he thought. "But even peace dies."
He looked back at the mirror. His reflection waited, still and perfect.
"Who am I really?"
This face. This name. This "father."
None of it belonged to him.
And yet… he was here.
Alive.
Trapped in a world that wasn't his, in a body that wasn't his own.
As the sun drifted slowly across the sky, casting long shadows over the wooden floor, Auren whispered to himself:
"Even this place… will forget me."