Darkness.
It was not the suffocating kind of darkness that pressed against one's eyes, but the hollow emptiness of a place where nothing moved. No sound, no warmth, no life.
When his eyes opened, he was greeted not by the sun, but by a ceiling of cracked stone. Lines of faint light leaked through thin fractures, painting the air with dust that shimmered faintly. He lay there for a while, staring upward, not moving, not breathing heavily—simply existing.
Only when the stone's chill began to seep into him did he sit up.
His first thought was silence. His second, confusion.
He looked at his hands. Pale, long-fingered, smooth. They trembled slightly. Then his arms, bare and lean, his body clothed in plain dark fabric.
"…Who?"
The word left his mouth before he understood it. The sound startled him, echoing off the vast stone walls around him. He clutched his throat, frowning.
He didn't know who he was. Not a name, not an image of a past, not even the faintest fragment of memory. Nothing.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. His bare soles touched cold stone tiles polished flat, so clean they reflected faint shapes. His steps were unsteady at first, but his body remembered what his mind did not. He could walk.
The hall stretched endlessly. Thick pillars supported ceilings so high they disappeared into shadows. Tapestries of faded colors lined the walls, their patterns strange and unreadable. A throne of black stone loomed at the far end, untouched by dust.
He wandered.
Door after door revealed empty chambers. One was a dining hall, long tables waiting for a feast that would never come. Another, a courtyard under an unmoving sky, where flowers bloomed silently yet carried no fragrance. A fountain trickled in the center, though no water fell into it.
It was all… lifeless. Beautiful, yet hollow.
He returned inside. His footsteps echoed too loudly in the stillness, like a trespasser in his own home.
And then he saw it.
A door taller than the others, carved with symbols he did not know. It opened soundlessly at his touch.
The smell of parchment struck him instantly.
He stepped inside.
Shelves rose in towering walls, stacked with books that seemed countless. Ladders leaned against them, their wood unrotted despite age. The air here felt heavier, charged with something he could not name.
He reached for the nearest book, tugging it free. Its cover bore strange lines, words that meant nothing. He opened it, and his eyes narrowed.
Symbols. Letters. Marks. None of them stirred meaning.
He tried another. Then another. Then another.
All meaningless.
He flipped through pages with growing desperation. He stared, forced his eyes to move slowly, as if dragging knowledge from them—but it was like trying to breathe water. Nothing entered his mind.
Frustration hit him sharp. His chest tightened. He slammed the book shut and hurled it across the floor. Its heavy thud echoed like thunder in the silence, bouncing between the shelves.
His knees hit the stone. He pressed his forehead against the floor, clutching his head.
"Why…?"
No answer.
The silence pressed tighter, as though mocking him.
He did not know how long he remained there. Time slipped away, indistinguishable.
When his shaking hands finally loosened, his gaze drifted across the floor. And there—half-hidden beneath the shadow of a desk—lay a book different from the rest.
Small. Thin. Worn.
He reached for it. The cover was faded, but drawn upon it was a simple shape. A circle, with rays jutting out like childlike spikes.
The sun.
His lips trembled as he opened the book.
The first page showed the same circle, colored in yellow. Beneath it, a word. The letters were larger, simpler.
Sun.
His throat moved. The sound caught awkwardly as he whispered, "…Sun."
The word echoed, but it was not empty. It belonged.
Excitement, faint but sharp, lit in his chest. He flipped the page.
Another picture. A crescent shape.
Moon.
"…Moon."
More pages. Crude pictures, but clear. A tree, a river, a flame, a hand, a face. Each with its word written boldly beneath.
The words slipped into him, one by one, not perfect but real. He sat on the floor, cross-legged, reading aloud softly into the stillness.
"…Tree. Water. Fire. Hand. Face."
When he turned the next page, he froze.
A boy.
Drawn simply, but smiling faintly. The word beneath: Boy.
Slowly, he touched his own face. His fingers traced his features, uncertain.
He stood. His eyes searched until they landed upon a cracked fragment of mirror mounted on a wall.
The reflection staring back stole his breath.
Pink hair, faintly messy. Eyes unnatural—gold tinged with a pale blue that shimmered in the dim light. His features were sharp, almost sculpted, beautiful but unfamiliar. A stranger's face.
His voice cracked as he whispered:
"…Boy."
The silence lingered, but it no longer suffocated him.
For the first time since waking, he had a word that tethered him to existence.
He closed the child's book gently and held it against his chest. His lips moved, forming another word he had not read, one that had come unbidden from somewhere deep inside.
"…Hope."