Amidst the dull, aching ringing in his head, he awoke to the scent of candle-burned lavender.
A faint, sweet aroma drifted on the air—warm, yet unable to chase away the cold it carried.
Delicate. Nostalgic. Uninvited.
His body, damp with sweat, clung to what felt like a cheap tunic shirt. His vision fluttered, adjusting to the faint light above—an oil lamp, its flame sputtering like it was breathing its last.
He tried to crane his neck. A simple movement… that felt Herculean.
To his right stood a cupboard in ruins, a decayed vestige of itself.
The wood reeked faintly of moss, green corrosion gripping its hinges.
More candles flickered there, their halos stretching into the dark like defiant spirits.
The cupboard's left door hung open, swallowed by shadow.
Nothing else stood there.
The windows fractured the invading moonlight into a pale kaleidoscope, scattering muted hues across the crimson-stained floorboards.
The walls fared no better—mold crept beneath the oak panels and the faded floral wallpaper like sickly veins.
His gaze drifted forward.
An ornate writing desk rested in the corner—another victim of decay.
Its drawers were ajar, ruffled as if someone had ransacked them.
A quill lay sideways in a dried-up inkwell beside a grimoire and a parchment.
He couldn't make out their contents from where he lay.
At the center of the room stood a door. Quiet. Still.
Candles burned faintly at either corner beside it.
To his left—nothing.
Save for a stool.
On it, the homely smell of soup… and a painting turned away from view.
He shifted beneath the blanket, his muscles groaning in protest—
But instantly, something pulled him back, slamming him against the bed.
---
Where am I…?
No—more importantly… who am I?
Then it hit him.
A horrible, primal fear clutched his throat and slid down his spine.
His hands trembled. Breath thinned. Eyes widened.
But slowly, the fear eased.
He forced himself upright, defying the ghostly weight pressing him down.
Reaching for the painting, he studied it.
It showed a smiling woman.
She wore a white-and-black Victorian gown, the high collar cinched with obsidian lace tight around her neck.
Her sleeves ballooned before tapering to glove-like wrists embroidered with silver vines.
A black bonnet sat low on her head, veiling most of her hair.
But her face—had faded.
Time had stripped it away: eyes, nose, the subtle lines of expression—all worn down to a blur.
Only the smile remained.
Painted in a soft rose-red, it hovered there on the canvas.
Unchanging. Detached.
As if it had outlasted everything else on purpose.
Beside her stood a child in a cream poet shirt.
His hair—pale white.
Lace cuffs curled like mist at his wrists, fabric softly billowing.
Charcoal trousers held up by thin suspenders clung neatly to his frame.
A violet ribbon was tied at his neck, faintly bruised by time but still blooming.
He wore scuffed black slippers—quiet, comfortable, forgotten.
The boy was undeniably handsome.
He stared at the child in the painting.
The child who felt… familiar.
The woman beside him—unknown.
Yet…
---
Creeaak—
He jolted.
The door creaked open.
And the woman from the painting walked in.
That same motherly figure.
Her face was veiled in shadow. No matter how he tried, he couldn't pierce it—like the air itself refused to let him see her clearly.
Only the faint contour of her features flickered in and out of view.
"Oh! You're awake!"
Her voice was calm, lilting—like a lull drifting on a riverbank.
She wore a dove-grey wool dress, simple and dignified, the skirt brushing softly against the floor.
"Son?"
No reply.
Her grin faltered, replaced by concern. She leaned forward, gently caressing his face.
"Is there anything wrong?"
His heart thundered. Breath quickened. Mind spiraled.
Her face darkened further.
"Ronald really did a number on you… The bishop said you'd have mild amnesia, but this is far worse."
Amnesia…?
He blinked. The word echoed in his skull like a pebble tossed into a still lake.
She tucked him gently back into bed.
"Now hush. Enough talking. Close your eyes and just sleep, okay?"
He gave a faint nod.
She smiled—warmly, tenderly. Peace washed over him like the sound of faraway wind chimes.
Then she turned to the cupboard, pulled out a piece of chalk, and walked toward the window.
"Wh… what are you doing, ma…?"
She laughed softly. "Silly. Since when did you get so formal, calling me ma?"
Her smile wavered. Then she added, "Well… your journey to know yourself continues by the morrow."
She began drawing glowing sigils on the window. They shimmered, contesting the stained glass light.
"As for your question—this is to protect you. From nightmares."
Protect me… from nightmares…?
But sleep was already pulling him under.
Her kiss on his forehead sealed it.
"Good night… sweet dreams."
She left through the door.
…
Shit. I didn't even ask for my name.
His eyelids drooped. His body melted into the bed.
Warm. Calm. Safe.
But—
From the edge of lucidity, he saw the chalk on the window begin to melt,
oozing down the glass like tears.
And the comforting feeling he once felt—from that fragile bridge to the dreamworld—
began to crumble.