Itsuki still sat upright on the bed, the bandages he had taken off, the pocket watch, and the clothes from the stand all resting on his thighs. His thoughts ran wild as he tried to piece everything together.
It's insane but possible… it would explain what I saw in that void—and what I'm seeing now. But it's still too much to even process.
He glanced down at himself.
This body must belong to the silver-haired person in the photo. Though, that picture must be old since this body feels bigger than the one in it.
He reopened the pocket watch with a quiet click, staring again at the family frozen in the small photograph.
They must be his family. And if I'm here right now… then he must've died.
He closed the watch again, its metallic snap echoing faintly through the room. Pushing the bandages and clothes off his lap, he shifted to sit at the edge of the bed.
He must've been brought here for some sort of treatment… and passed away while they thought he was recovering. Looking at this place, there isn't any equipment to tell if someone's actually getting better or not.
He reached over the stand beside him, took the blazer first and slipped it on, then threw the weathered coat over it, adjusting the collar as he exhaled softly.
But if he's dead here, and I somehow transmigrated into his body… does that mean he transmigrated into mine?
He shook his head slightly. It's insane—but it still makes some kind of sense.
Leaning forward, he let his bare feet touch the cold floor, the chill grounding him. One by one, he pulled on the worn-out shoes before putting them on and straightened up again. His eyes scanned the modest room—the cracked modest but wooden frame, the thin curtains, the faint smell of disinfectant.
This room looks decent enough… but judging by all this, this must be some third-world country.
He rose from the bed and walked toward the door at the far end of the room, to his right. Once there, his hand gripped the handle slowly. He took in a deep breath, as if steadying himself for whatever might lie beyond those walls.
The lock turned with a faint click. He pulled the door slowly toward himself and stepped out.
The hallway beyond was dim, narrow, and quiet enough that he could hear his own breathing. His footsteps echoed softly against the wooden floor as he made his way toward another door at the end of the passage. The air smelled faintly of dust and old varnish.
As he moved, his eyes drifted along the walls, tracing the uneven texture of their surfaces—aged paint, faint cracks, and a few dark patches that hinted at the wear of moisture and time.
When he finally reached the end, he grasped the next door's handle, twisted the lock, and pushed it open. The hinges creaked softly as light spilled through the narrow gap and he stepped outside.
As he did, his mouth nearly fell open at the sight before him.
At first, he'd thought he had been transported to some underdeveloped country, but now… he wasn't even sure if he had been sent to any country he knew at all.
Right in front of the hospital, parked by the edge of the cobblestone street, stood a car—an antique machine that looked like it had driven straight out of the 1900s. Its brass headlamps glinted faintly under the morning light, its body painted in deep forest green with narrow, spoked wheels and a polished hood that gleamed despite its age. A scent of oil and iron lingered faintly in the air around it.
His gaze shifted to the people walking along the sidewalks. The men wore tall top hats and long wool coats that brushed against their knees, polished shoes clicking rhythmically against the pavement. Others sported fitted blazers like his, matched with flat caps tilted neatly forward. The women moved gracefully in ankle-length dresses cinched tightly at the waist, the fabrics heavy and rich in tone—deep navy, soft beige, and faded wine-red. Some wore shawls or knitted sweaters, their hair pinned beneath wide-brimmed hats adorned with small ribbons and feathers. Every detail around him looked as though he had stepped into a living black and white photograph but even more beautiful since it was all color.
Carriages being pushed by traders rattled faintly in the distance, mingling with the low hum of a few automobiles gliding down the road. The strange part was the quiet—the engines purred softly, producing no smoke or exhaust, only the smooth sound of motion.
Still trying to process it all, Itsuki stood frozen in the middle of the pavement. A man brushed past him, bumping his shoulder.
"Dégage du trottoir !" the man snapped over his shoulder.
Itsuki turned instinctively, about to apologize, but the words caught in his chest.
What he had just heard echoed in his head.
Was that… French?