He awoke with heavy breathing.
Pant. Pant.
He inhaled deeply, almost greedily, pulling in copious amounts of air. His body, soaked with sweat, clung uncomfortably to the cheap tunic that draped his upper frame.
"Shiiiiit…"
Get yourself together, he thought. Inhale… exhale.
This reflex—so simple, so natural—now felt like an oasis in the vast desert of his despair.
His eyes shifted to the window.
There, along the bottom edge of the glass, lay the melted remains of the chalk sigils. Once white, they had congealed into something dark. Black.Unsettling.
Light broke through the cracks of the stained glass, refracting into a thousand fractured colors, casting a kaleidoscope smeared across the floor and walls.
A festival of beauty, with the remains of failure beneath it.
His breath steadied. His gaze sharpened.
First things first...
The protective sigils that woman drew—they didn't work.
Secondly... I maintained lucidity in the nightmare.
Third… if I can control my thoughts while dreaming...
Can I explore the nightmare?
He held his breath, narrowed his eyes.
The grimoire I saw—maybe it's tied to my mind… my memories.
If I reach it again, maybe… just maybe, I'll remember everything.
But then came the mental backlash—
The statues… the fog… the altar… the chains…
None of it made sense. Nothing could explain what he saw.
Still—
If I can remain lucid… if this really is my dream—
I can control it. I can go deeper.
He lingered in bed, eyes locked on the chandelier above him, watching it sway.
Left… right…
He counted each movement, lost in thought. The faint scent of lavender still lingered in the air like a memory unwilling to fade.
He forced himself to his feet.
On the desk nearby lay a piece of parchment—aged, musky, and brown at the edges.
He picked it up.
The handwriting was so beautiful, so elegant, he froze.
It was the most beautiful penmanship he'd ever seen.
…Not that he could remember seeing anyone else's.
He lightly chuckled ,i don't remember seeing any handwriting but somehow i can still read it.
---
Dear Lucien,
Yeah, that is your name in case you've forgotten.
Hah, the relief I felt when I saw my beloved son open his eyes again after so long.
How long, you ask? Five months.
Five whole months of silence—no cheerful voice, no Principal Thorne calling to report your "escapades," no hearing you call me Mom...
That aside—Lucien, if you're reading this and I'm not around, don't panic.
I've just gone to inform our surviving relatives of your awakening.
If you're hungry, check the cabinets in the kitchen. You'll find something to tide you over.
When I return, we'll have a feast. I promise.
Love,
Seraphine Vael
Your mom
---
"Lu…cien Vael," he said aloud.
So that was his name. He chuckled lightly.
One down. A million more to go.
She mentioned a man—Principal Thorne.
So… I probably went to an academy?
Well, I hope I do. If not, that's when the red flags start flying.
But then he paused.
If I can't remember anything… I'll have to start all over again.
Names, people, places… likes, dislikes
Everything would have to be relearned.
He exhaled.
The floor was cold under his feet as he staggered forward, his body adjusting to motion after months of stillness.
He passed the ornate writing desk—his curiosity drawn to it—but hunger won in the end.
He opened the door.
The hallway stretched ahead—narrow and still.
The floorboards creaked gently beneath his feet. The walls, faded and cracked, spoke of time and neglect.
Yet… everything was immaculate.
As though someone had poured endless love and time into scrubbing away the decay.
A single oil lamp flickered overhead, casting amber light .
He reached the kitchen.
The door was already slightly ajar.
He pushed it gently.
Creaaak.
It opened into a sanctum bathed in fractured sunlight.
Colors spilled like shattered rainbows, scattered by the stained glass window above the sink.
Pans wrought from copper hung on the walls, their polished surfaces gleaming. Despite the evident age, the space was pristine—scrubbed spotless with almost obsessive care.
On the table sat a single teacup.
Steam still curled from its rim.
Lucien blinked.
Was she just here...?
The air smelled of thyme, lavender, and something heavier.
Old wood, maybe.
He stepped forward.
Every surface shone. Too clean. Too precise.
It was like walking into a stage play
Whatever that is he thought a random image flashed through his mind
His hand hovered over the cabinet.
A small note was pinned to the door.
---
Choose whatever you like, son.
There's bread and soup inside.
I hope your appetite has returned.
P.S. Stay inside. Do not leave the house.
– Mom
---
His stomach grumbled.
He opened the top cabinet.
Inside:
A sealed clay pot of soup.
Bread wrapped in linen.
And a single red apple, resting atop a folded napkin.
He picked up the apple.
It was cold. Too cold.
Like it had been plucked during winter .
He bit into it.
Crunch.
Sweet. Crisp.
A taste that bloomed in his mouth with familiarity.
He sat at the table.
Warm silence wrapped around him like a cloak.
Only broken by the occasional creaking of the wood and the soft groan of the house in the wind . Colored light danced quietly across the marble counters.
So this is what home feels like…
He didn't feel safe.
But for the first time in what felt like forever—
He didn't feel like he was dying either.