Amidst the dull, aching ringing in his head, he awoke to the scent of candle-burned lavender...
A faint, sweet aroma quietly nestled into his nostrils, drifting on the air—laced with warmth, yet unable to chase away the cold it bore.
Delicate. Nostalgic. Uninvited.
His body, damp with sweat, clung to what felt like a cheap tunic shirt.
His fluttering vision adjusted upward—to a handcrafted chandelier, cradling deep-violet candles.
Their lavender-scented flames glowed phosphorescent in the gloom.
He craned his neck—a simple movement turned Herculean.
To his right stood a cupboard in ruins, a decayed vestige of former grandeur.
The wood gave off a faint mossy scent. Verdigris clung to its handles and hinges. More candles flickered there, coruscating quietly. Their small halos stretched into the void—a defiance against the obsidian veil of darkness.
The cupboard's left door hung open. Its wooden maw swallowed in shadow, its contents hidden beyond the reach of light.
Nothing else stood there.
The windows fractured the invading strands of outside light into a kaleidoscope, scattering a million hues across the crimson-hued floor.
The walls fared no better—veins of mold threading through the wood like sickly capillaries.
His gaze drifted forward.
An ornate writing desk rested in the corner—another victim, like all things here, to decay.
Its drawers were ajar, ruffled as if someone had ransacked them.
A quill lay sideways in a dried-up inkwell atop it. Beside that, a grimoire and a parchment.
He couldn't make out their contents from where he lay.
At the room's center stood a door. Quiet and still.
Candles burned at either corner beside it.
To his left: nothing—
Save for a stool. On it, the homely smell of soup... and a painting turned away from view.
He shifted under the blanket, muscles groaning in protest.
But instantly—Dysania.
A ghost hand gripped him, dragging him back into the bed.
He sighed.
---
Where am I...?
No—more importantly... who am I...?
---
Then it hit him.
A horrible, primal fear, clutching his throat, sliding down his spine like ice.
His hands trembled.
Breath thinned.
Eyes dilated.
But the fear slowly melted away—like snow beneath the morning sun.
He forced his body upright, defying the ghostly weight.
Grabbing the painting from the stool, he studied it.
It showed a smiling woman.
She wore a white-and-black Victorian frill gown, the high collar cinched with obsidian lace tight around her neck. Her sleeves ballooned outward before tapering to glove-like wrists, embroidered with silver vines. A black bonnet sat low on her head, veiling most of her hair.
But her face had faded.
Time had stripped it away—eyes, nose, the subtle lines of expression—all worn down to a blur.
Only the smile remained.
Painted in a soft rose-red, it hovered there on the canvas. Unchanging. Detached. As if it had outlasted the rest on purpose.
Beside her stood a child in a cream poet shirt.
Lace cuffs curled like mist at his wrists, fabric gently billowing.
Charcoal trousers, high-waisted and held by thin suspenders, clung to his frame with a ghost of order.
A violet ribbon was tied at his neck, faintly bruised by time but still blooming.
His feet wore scuffed black slippers—quiet, comfortable, and forgotten.The lad was undeniably handsome
The boy stared at the child in the painting.
The child who eerily seemed familiar .
The woman beside him—unknown. Unfamiliar.
Yet...
---
Creeaak—
He jolted.
The door creaked open.
And the woman from the painting walked in.
That same motherly figure.
Her face was veiled in shadow. No matter how hard he tried, his eyes couldn't pierce it—like something in the air itself refused to let him see her clearly.
Only the gentle contour of her features flickered into view
"Oh! You're awake!"
Her voice was calm, lilting—like a lull drifting along a riverbank.
She was clad in a dove-grey wool dress.
Simple. Dignified. The skirt brushed softly against the floor.
"Son?"
No reply.
Her grin faltered, replaced by concern.
She leaned forward, gently caressing his face.
"Is there anything wrong?"
His heart thundered.
Breath quickened.
Mind spiraled.
Her face darkened further.
"Ronald really did a number on you... The bishop said you'd have mild amnesia, but this is far worse."
Am...nesia?
He blinked, lips parted.
That word... like a pebble tossed into a still lake.
But then... why do I feel a strange sense of familiarity?
Amnesia... yet nothing feels familiar—not this place, not this woman...
She tucked him gently back into bed.
"Now hush. Enough talking. Close your eyes and just sleep, okay?"
He gave a faint nod.
She smiled warmly—calming him giving him peace like wind chimes ringing from a place far away.
She turned, opened the cupboard, pulled out a piece of chalk, and walked toward the window.
"Wh...what are you doing, ma...?"
She laughed softly.
"Silly. When did you get so formal, calling me ma?"
Then, frowning slightly, she added:
"Well, your journey to know yourself continues by the morrow."
She began drawing glowing sigils on the window.
They shimmered in contest with the stained glass.
"As for your question—this is to protect you. From nightmares."
Protect me... from nightmares...?
But sleep was already pulling at him.
Her kiss on his forehead sealed it.
"Good night... sweet dreams."
She exited through the door.
...
Shit. I didn't even ask for my name.
His eyelids drooped.
His body melted into the bed.
Warm. Calm. Safe.
But—
From the edge of lucidity,
he saw the chalk on the window
begin to melt,
oozing down the glass like tears...
And the comforting feeling he once felt—from that fragile bridge to the dreamworld—
began to crumble.