"… mmhmmh… mmhmmh…"
Whispers pierce the veil of darkness that surrounds me.A thick, complete blackness, swallowing me like a bottomless sea.
I try to call for help, but no sound comes out.My body refuses to obey, paralyzed by an invisible force or bound by imperceptible silk threads, impossible to break.
"Come on, move, damn it!"
The voice echoes somewhere, but my limbs remain frozen in time. I have only one option: to listen, sharpening my hearing to make sense of these garbled words.
I close my eyes— as if that could change anything— and focus on every breath, every word.
Voices. Yes. Maybe two?One deep, rough.The other higher-pitched, almost sharp.
Caught up in the momentum, I try to reach out to another sense—touch.A faint breeze brushes against my skin, sliding from right to left.Then the scent. Subtle, faint, yet present: a fresh fragrance, like rain. In this suspended state, that simple aroma feels vivid, almost too real.
I struggle to tear away the black veil covering me, but my efforts are in vain. Nothing moves.I feel condemned to stare at this infinite darkness, a frozen canvas painted just for me.
Anger rises in me.Is this some cruel joke?Or… have I committed a sin to be trapped in this prison of mist?
Eventually, I give in, abandoning all hope of escape.
Then, a kaleidoscope of colors bursts before my eyes.A brilliant, unreal moment… and then,
…
Nothing.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a completely different world, utterly unfamiliar.He lay on a canopy bed, a silky purple comforter molding to the shape of his back. Around him, the air felt heavy, almost frozen, as if time itself had stopped.
He slowly regained his senses, clearing the fog that dulled his mind. His hands caught his attention. He stared at them, turning them frantically, as if they didn't belong to him. Overcome by sudden panic, he leapt out of bed. His hurried footsteps echoed strangely in the room, in stark contrast with the still air.
To his left, a small table waited. On it, a tray of fruit—mostly apples—carefully arranged. He barely paid attention. His gaze was immediately drawn to a large mirror resting on a carved wooden pedestal. After a brief hesitation, he approached, breath shallow.
What he saw froze him.A young man, in his twenties, stared back at him from the mirror. A classic suit from another era, a tired face marked by faint dark circles, hair tousled and brilliantly white.
"Wh-What… the hell is this?!" he exclaimed, stepping back. "Is that… me?" he cried, breaking the silence that filled the room.
He did not recognize his reflection. Worse: he remembered nothing. Nothing, except a single name. Dris. But the name felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. With no choice but to cling to it, he made it his own.
Seeking answers, he moved toward the door. He saw a corridor stretching from left to right, seemingly endless. A shiver ran down his spine.
"I must be dreaming… this can't be real," he whispered, his lips dry.
He approached a window. Outside, there was nothing. Nothing but a blank canvas waiting for a painter's brush, an absolute void. He grew tired of trying to find an explanation before even starting.
So, Dris chose to walk. Hand pressed against the cold, weathered wall, he advanced into the infinite corridor. His steps echoed like a death knell, accompanied by the growing weight of stifling solitude. The mansion seemed alive, slowly swallowing him.
Then, he stopped abruptly.In front of him, a door unlike the others. Without thinking, he opened it… but instead of progressing, he found a room as black as ink. One step back, and his heart sank. Behind him, the corridor had changed. The door he had entered through had vanished.
Logic collapsed. The walls seemed to toy with him. He had a strong sense of being watched by the mansion itself.
Overcome with panic, he quickened his pace. His steps became a run, guided by a distant sound, a movement, a presence. Finally! Someone else?
"Damn… does this ever end?!" he panted.
Yet he arrived sooner than he expected. A door, resembling the one in his room. He pushed it violently, the crash echoing through the frozen air.
Another corridor. It looked exactly like the one he had been walking through, yet it differed in a single detail that gave hope to our protagonist. At the far end, a figure. A young girl, back turned, hair white as snow, standing still in front of a window. In her hand, a red apple.
Hope, sudden and unexpected, flooded Dris, briefly sweeping away the suffocating anxiety.