There was a heaviness in my limbs, a sense of inhabiting something unfamiliar. As I took a step toward the far side of the room, my legs responded with a slight hesitation, like they were waiting for permission. It was subtle but enough to make my breath catch. My body was mine, and yet it wasn't. The way my fingers curled, the weight of my steps, the pull of muscle and bone it all felt slightly wrong, like wearing a coat that had been stitched for someone else.
I needed a mirror.
The door to the room creaked as I opened it, the hinges groaning like a voice long unused. Beyond lay a hallway of stone and wooden beams, dimly lit by slivers of daylight leaking through narrow windows. I moved through it slowly, the air damp with the scent of moss and time.
The corridor turned, then opened into what might once have been a bath chamber. A cracked basin sat atop a carved pedestal, and beside it, a tarnished mirror framed in iron. I approached with caution, heart hammering harder the closer I came. I already knew I would not see the face I remembered.
And I was right.
The reflection was both familiar and entirely alien. The man in the glass had high, sharp cheekbones and bloodless skin, like marble washed in moonlight. His eyes glowed faintly red, not with menace but with a tired sorrow. Black hair fell in strands across his brow, so dark it seemed to drink in the light. There was blood on his face, dried and cracked like old paint.
I stared at him, and he stared back. Neither of us moved.
Was this me?
I touched my cheek. He did the same. I stepped closer. So did he.
It was me. Somehow. And yet, I had never seen this face in my life.
I looked down at my hands. They too were wrong. Thinner. Pale. Fingers long and calloused from a labor I had never performed. On my left wrist, a faint scar ran up toward the elbow like a faded lightning bolt. I had no memory of it, but it belonged to me now.
The blood on my head made me wince. I searched through the small cupboards beside the basin until I found a cloth and dipped it into cold water. The sting of wiping my skin was oddly comforting. Pain was proof. Proof I was here. That I still felt.
Once the blood was mostly gone, I looked again. Still not my face. But less like a stranger. More like a possibility.
I returned to the room and searched through the wardrobe. The clothes inside were plain but well-kept: linen shirts, worn trousers, a dark coat with silver buttons. I chose a set that fit well enough and changed quickly. The act of dressing in this unfamiliar body felt like claiming it, piece by piece.
On the small table near the bed, I noticed something I had missed before. A revolver, old and heavy, lay partially hidden beneath a folded cloth. It was not modern a relic from another era. I picked it up carefully. The barrel was cold. When I opened the chamber, I found it empty.
Why was it here?
Why would someone leave a weapon unloaded, as if it had served its purpose already?
I searched the coat I had put on and found a small pouch with several bullets. So the owner had ammunition. But chose not to load the weapon.
The idea crept into my mind like a shadow under the door.
Was this gun meant for me?
Or had I already used it?
I shook the thought away. Speculation would do me no good now. I needed answers.
With the revolver hidden beneath the coat, I stepped back into the hall and moved toward the stairs I had seen earlier. The building groaned with age but held together. When I reached the ground floor, a wave of stillness met me. Dust clung to every surface. No sounds came from outside.
I opened the front door slowly.
Beyond it lay a world both alien and achingly beautiful.
Fields stretched into the distance, golden and green beneath a sun that looked softer than the one I remembered. Trees lined the hills like sentinels, and a dirt path wound lazily through the landscape.
There were no people. No signs of smoke or machines.
Just earth and wind and sky.
And me.
A stranger with no past.
A name without a history.
But a beginning, nonetheless.