Mars yanked off his glasses and tossed them on the desk, massaging his eyes like a man who'd just survived a war with words. The glowing numbers on his alarm clock mocked him: 10:00 p.m.
"Great. Another night of reading absolutely nothing useful," he grumbled, glaring at the computer screen.
He had been at this for months. No—years. Searching for even the tiniest hint about that enormous cliff that once divided the Northern and Western Castles of Amarias. And what did he find so far? Useless trivia. Folk tales. A weird theory involving goats. (Don't ask.)
Amarias. A cute name for a town with a not-so-cute history. Once upon a time, it was four towns: North, West, East, and South. Each crowned their own ruler, built their own castle, and acted like they were special. Then history happened, rulers fell, and someone got the bright idea to connect everything with tunnels and bridges. United we stand, blah blah blah.
The problem? Nobody seemed to care about the cliff anymore. Which drove Mars insane.
"What happened after that?" he whispered, scrolling through another article that looked promising—only to find… nothing. No cliff. No answers. Just another historian flexing their vocabulary.
He let out a long sigh. "I should probably get some sleep." His eyes flicked to the clock again. Then back to the screen. "…Or maybe five more minutes won't kill me."
Famous last words.
---
Tomorrow was Sunday—his last free day before work started. Not that he minded. The Dean had called him last week with a very polite, "Mars, our Literary instructor is down sick. Could you cover the final semester classes?"
And of course, Mars had said yes. Because why not? He loved books. He loved history. And… well, his social calendar was emptier than a library at midnight.
The Dean had sounded genuinely relieved. "It'll be wonderful to have you back, Mars. Thank you."
Back. To West College of Arts and Music—his old stomping ground. Honestly, the idea of teaching made him a little excited. Maybe he could even sneak into the library, rope a few students into his research, and finally crack this cliff mystery wide open.
"Yeah… good plan, Mars," he muttered, smirking to himself. "Exploit college kids for free labor. Totally ethical."
The next thing he knew, the alarm on his desk blared, and his neck felt like someone had replaced it with a steel rod. Groaning, Mars blinked at the screen. He had passed out at his desk again. Classy.
---
Sundays were boring. Always had been, always would be. Mars spent the entire day in his massive home theater, half-watching old movies while stretched across the couch like roadkill.
His house was… well, ridiculous. Built in authentic antique style, every corner screamed money. The kind of place interior design magazines drooled over.
And yet, for all its grandeur, it felt empty.
Portraits lined the staircase wall—snapshots of childhood, family, pieces of a life well-lived. Except for one.
One photo that didn't belong.
A woman, her back turned to the camera. An old-fashioned robe draped over her frame. Her hair—a cascade of long, wavy locks—spilled like dark silk. She stood in a sunflower garden, frozen forever in grainy sepia tones.
The quality was so poor it looked more like a painting than a photo.
Mars had stared at that picture more times than he could count. Who was she? Why was the picture here? And why did something about it feel… wrong?
History books had given him nothing. No leads. No whispers. Just silence.
And that silence was what kept him digging.
---
History had always been his thing. His friends used to call him a "history buff," usually with the same tone people used when saying "nerd." He didn't care. He wore it like a badge of honor.
Three years ago, he had finished his PhD, riding the high of ambition. He still felt that same fire burning now—except it had shifted into an obsession.
Night settled again, and Mars found himself back at his desk. He slid his glasses on, stretched his fingers, and let out a deep breath.
"Alright… just one more try," he whispered, eyes locked on the glowing screen.
But even he knew that was a lie.