The first light of dawn slipped through the small gaps in the roof, touching the dust floating in the air like faint gold. The crimson hue of the night had faded, leaving behind a gray calm. A rooster cried somewhere beyond the fog, and the scent of damp earth crept into the room.
The man stirred in bed. His body felt heavy, as though it belonged to someone who had lived too long in pain. His eyes blinked open, slow and unsure. The ache was still there, but softer now. The bandages on his chest itched; the skin beneath them pulsed with life again.
At the doorway stood James, already dressed for work. His uniform, though neatly buttoned, had the dull look of a man's last good set of clothes. A satchel hung over his shoulder, its strap frayed at the edges. The metal badge of the Silvarian Government Service caught the pale morning light as he adjusted it.
"Don't push yourself too hard today," James said, his voice quiet but steady. "There's bread on the table. I'll be back by sundown."
He gave a small nod before stepping out. The door shut softly, leaving behind the faint echo of boots against the muddy road.
Silence filled the house once more. The man—Johansanth, though he barely remembered that name—sat up and looked around. The room was even smaller than it had seemed the night before. A chipped mirror leaned against the wall. A single chair stood beside a cracked window. The wood stove in the corner was rusted but still usable, and a faint pile of coal sat beside it.
He pressed his hands to his chest. The warmth there felt… alive. The body he had woken in responded differently now, as though it had accepted him. He stretched his fingers, flexed his arms, and felt the dull ache of muscle returning to life.
He rose slowly and walked toward the small kitchen space. The table was uneven, made from mismatched planks. On it lay a loaf of coarse brown bread wrapped in cloth, a small jug of goat's milk, and a few eggs resting in a chipped bowl. There was also a bunch of wilted herbs tied with thread.
He set a pan on the stove and coaxed a small flame to life. The firelight warmed the room with a faint crackle. The smell of burning coal mixed with the scent of bread and herbs. He cracked two eggs into the pan; the sound was soft but comforting. The yolks spread golden, and he sprinkled a bit of crushed salt from a wooden jar.
The edges hissed and turned crisp. He tore a slice of bread, warmed it over the flame until it browned slightly, and placed it beside the eggs. He poured a cup of milk, slightly sour but drinkable, and sat down to eat.
The meal was simple—warm bread, fried eggs, a hint of herbs—but to his tongue, it was rich. It filled the small house with a sense of calm he hadn't felt in what seemed like years.
After eating, he cleaned the plate, poured water from a clay jug, and wiped the table with the corner of his sleeve. The air outside grew brighter, carrying the distant chatter of merchants and the ring of a church bell.
He lay back on the bed for a while, letting his eyes close. The sounds of the world drifted around him—the neigh of horses, the crunch of cartwheels on gravel, the faint whistle of a passing train somewhere beyond the hills. Sleep took him again, gentle and deep.
When he woke, the sun was already leaning west. The air had grown cooler, and faint shadows stretched across the room. He sat up slowly, rubbing his neck, then looked toward the window.
His thoughts wandered to the river. James had said he was found there, barely alive. The image of cold water and moonlight flashed through his mind, but no memory followed it. The space in his head where answers should have been was silent.
Still, curiosity pushed him. He stepped outside, the wooden door creaking behind him. The world of Silvaria spread out in quiet rhythm—narrow stone streets, chimneys breathing pale smoke, houses pressed shoulder to shoulder like tired friends. Children played near puddles, their laughter thin but bright. Women hung clothes from ropes tied across narrow alleys. A carriage rolled past, wheels clattering against cobblestone.
The air smelled of coal, bread, and iron. The old city, though worn, moved with a slow heartbeat. Lanterns hung from iron posts, their glass cracked and fogged. A cathedral's bell tower rose far in the distance, its spire cutting into the gray sky.
He followed the dirt path beyond the town's edge, down toward the river. The water was calm now, its surface painted by the afternoon light. A wooden bridge crossed it, worn and leaning, and reeds whispered along the banks. He knelt beside the water, staring at his reflection—the face that wasn't his, yet somehow felt like it should be.
The memories refused to return. Only the sound of the flowing river answered him.
By the time he walked back, the light was fading. Mist gathered low around the streets. The city lamps began to glow one by one, their faint gaslight spreading across the stones.
When he reached home, the door opened just as he approached. James stepped inside, a faint trail of fog following him. He held a small gas lamp in one hand and a folded envelope in the other.
"You're awake," he said, setting the lamp on the table. "Good. The week's income has arrived."
The warm light filled the room again, soft and flickering. Outside, the crimson moon was just beginning to rise.