Brother! Brother!
Can you hear me?
The peculiar dream of a young man replayed like a broken film reel, slipping out of place. The man's distorted face unceasingly repeated the same words.
"Believe in God and the Other as well."
Silas, still asleep, felt a throbbing pain behind his eyes. The dizziness came out of nowhere—not the twirling kind, more like the world tilted sideways for half a second and something kept crawling at the back of his mind.
'F**k it hurts so bad!'
Silas tried to roll over and tug his jacket over his ears, hoping to muffle the distant, disoriented ringing in his head. But no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts kept slipping—drawn back to the vague image of his older brother. The dream was like paper: fragile, cracked, and thin. He was finally starting to see through the fold lines!
A sharp, burning pain tore through his body as if he had been struck by a hammer continuously, each blow landing without pause or pity. The agony scrambled his thoughts, forcing him to slam his head against the table again and again, desperately trying to nullify the pain.
'Sh*t, my head hurts!'
'Am I still asleep? Still dreaming?'
'It doesn't hurt as much as before… I still have to finish my work.'
'Damn it—now's the perfect time to wake up, Silas. I can't be slagging around.'
After a long minute of struggling, Silas finally—painfully—peeled his eyes open. He could only move his neck and right hand; no matter how hard he tried, the rest of his limbs wouldn't even budge.
His vision was blurry, like looking through a bottle glass view. Then, with a soft tinge of light, everything slowly came into view. He saw the wooden desk his face was resting on, an open book near his hand, and a pen stained with ink beside it. The pages were scribbled over in dark lines, the article he had been writing vaguely visible at the top.
To the right of the inkpot was a vintage photo frame—his brother grinning as he lifted him up in front of their old house, back when he was nine years old. On the left, his pile of books was stacked in a haphazard heap.
A rusted golden pocket watch, circular in shape with a small square crown at the top, leaned against the stack of books. Its four slender metal hands ticked softly as they moved counterclockwise, over a face marked with Roman numerals from I to XIII. It was a gift from his brother, given to him on his 17th birthday.
'Counterclockwise? XIII? What the hell is going on with this watch?' Silas swallowed hard, rubbing his hand over his eyes, blinking at the unfamiliar and misaligned clock spinning beside the books.
Silas could not make sense of what was happening to him. He gathered whatever immaterial strength he had left and glanced at the window—the curtains were embroidered with number patterns, flapping roughly against the cold wind.
His eyes shifted slightly toward the night sky. The crimson moon hung high above, and misty clouds drifted slowly around it.
"The moon looks beautiful today... How long was I asleep? The sun was bright just a while ago."
Silas squinted up at the sky, watching the clouds drift toward the moon, thickening by the minute. A dull gray slowly blanketed the sky. The air grew colder than before, and tiny flakes of snow began to fall.
'What? Snow?' In his confusion and disbelief, a sudden jolt ran through Silas. Before his thoughts could catch up, he stood up abruptly. It was mid-July—summer—and snow shouldn't be falling at all.
He straightened his back and curiously scanned the room, but just as he was catching up, a sudden excruciating pain shot through his body. It felt like his sciatic nerve had been sliced clean with a sharp blade. By the time he realized what had happened, he had already slammed against the table.
Thud!
October 14, October 15, October 19… December 17, December 19… January 1...
The dates and months inexplicably circled inside Silas's head, spinning in a slow, hypnotic loop. Each one drifted, orbiting closer and closer until they began to collapse inward, merging toward a single point.
(March 12.)
'Could it be schizophrenia?'
'Whatever this is, it's really messing up my mind.'
'Damn it!'
With that thought, Silas jolted awake, breathing heavily. The brisk air made every breath visible—a wisp of fog escaping his lips. The thin shirt he wore clung to him like a second skin, and the moisture in the fabric was already starting to stiffen from the cold.
He let out a long breath, trying to steady his racing mind. The pain had begun to mellow—just enough for him to move. Gripping the back of the wooden chair for balance, he pushed himself up and began scanning the room again.
A faint smell of old wood and oil lingered in the air. The room felt off—arranged in a way he did not remember. His bed, now oddly horizontal, was not where it should have been. Silas always kept it vertical near the table, positioned just right so he could write his articles comfortably. But now, it sat far from its usual spot, stationed beside a brownish, polished wooden closet.
The closet had a vintage style, twice the size of his own. A Western lamp sat on a stool near the bed, glowing faintly with a yellowish-red light that lit up the corner in a soft warmth. Its shade was made of delicate paper, supported by a slender wooden stick at the center.
Just above the stool, two closely stacked shelves held books of various colors and sizes, all neatly arranged in perfect harmony. Silas stared at it, unable to grasp his situation. He never kept his books that way!
'What is going on?'
To the right of the shelves was a small square mirror, its base was made of metal. The black paint was peeling off like old skin. Silas's subconscious led him toward it, and he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Silas's eyes wide opened at the sight in front of him. His breath caught for a moment.
His hair shimmered faintly under the lamp's glow—white, mid-length. He never kept it that long. He always trimmed it short; cause it was easier to manage. Ashy brown eyes stared back at him from the mirror, reflecting a face he half-recognized. A white shirt clung to his frame, patterned with red-stitched flowers from collar to cuff.
It was Silas… but not him at the same time. His black hair, his usual brown eyes, even his average features—all of it had changed.
He leaned closer and prodded at his face. He was not seeing things, but he could not accept it as well. Silas blinked several times, hoping it would disappear. However, it remained the same, with a sigh, he drew back his right hand and harshly slapped himself on the cheek.
"Ouch! It's painful, so it's not a dream?"
"This is not my room... nor do I look like that! Have I reincarnated? Or transmigrated?"
Silas pondered for several minutes, still staring at his reflection. He was a writer who drank seven cups of caffeine an hour—it had probably spiked his blood pressure and killed him in his sleep.
Silas had read hundreds of novels where someone dies and wakes up in another world.
Shaking his head, he half-heartedly expected someone to show up any second and hand him magic or some overpowered skill.
Several minutes passed, and Silas could no longer maintain his composure. Earlier, he had just brushed it off like it was not a big deal—but it was.
Suddenly, Silas's consciousness lurched—as if his mind and soul were being peeled away and stitched into something else. A flood of unfamiliar memories surged in, like watching through someone else's eyes. They weren't his, yet everything was vivid, clear as a blue sky.
His ability to comprehend the memories was deteriorating. Silas's limbs trembled uncontrollably; it felt like his body was falling apart. The strength drained from him, and he collapsed back onto the bed. He clutched his chest and stared blankly at the old wooden ceiling as the fragments of a young man's memories floated through his mind. A throbbing pain slammed in his head.
But the pain was dull in comparison to the intense wave of memories and emotions—grief, wrath, yearning, and joy—all crashing over him at once, leaving him completely overwhelmed. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. He couldn't make sense of what he was truly feeling.
After several minutes, Silas felt his emotions settle, his thoughts growing clearer and calmer with each passing moment. A gentle warmth spread through his body, numbing the lingering cold. His thoughts deepened, and he began to comprehend everything fully.
"So, I've transmigrated!"