The Call of Moses
When the Young Man finished his work, in a pure white ruin, he met an [Angel] who was not an [Angel]... It seemed his spirit had finally been dyed the color of this world.
Snow was falling.
Tiny snowflakes drifted silently from that perpetually gray sky, which hung like a dirty curtain. They covered the collapsed building remains, the long-withered roadside trees that had lost their color, and the cracks in the fractured asphalt road beneath his feet.
The entire world was a woodcut print composed of black, white, and countless shades of gray.
The Young Man walked alone in this deathly silent [Achromatic Area].
The cold stung his skin like a knife; his white breath was swallowed by a deeper cold as soon as it was exhaled. He pulled the collar of his trench coat higher, trying to resist the pervasive chill.
There was no sound here.
No birdsong, no sound of cars; even the wind seemed to have been stripped of its will by this monotonous color, leaving only an emotionless flow.
Then, he saw it.
Not far ahead, under a deserted platform, stood an [Angel].
A Young Girl.
In that instant, the Young Man's footsteps stopped.
The girl wore a complexly structured black and white dress, as if the purest white and the deepest black had been splashed directly onto her body. Her strange hair, neither gray nor white like fine silk, fluttered slightly in the cold wind.
She just stood there quietly, as if all the remaining thin light of the entire world naturally converged upon her.
It was a beauty that transcended the limits of human aesthetics. It wasn't simple exquisite features or a well-proportioned figure, but a more fundamental absolute perfection, as if a certain [concept] itself had been given form. It was as if she were born to be loved by everyone, even by this long-dead world.
He forgot where he was, forgot where he was going, and forgot that this world was supposed to be [achromatic].
At that moment, only the silhouette of that girl remained in his eyes.
Time seemed to have passed for a long while.
Yet it also seemed like just an instant.
So, was this indeed an illusion that only he could see?
Just then, the girl slowly turned her head.
Those blazing golden pupils pierced through the falling curtain of snow and landed accurately on him.
Then, she smiled.
"Good evening."
The girl bowed with a smile.
"————."
...What?
The Young Man's consciousness snapped back.
He looked again.
The girl was still standing there.
Re-examining the girl before him. In this state, to say she was an illusion was indeed quite fitting. That white figure was too beautiful, out of place in this colorless world.
"What exactly are you? A survivor?"
"I am everything (Kosmos), everything (Kosmos) is me, and after that, I am myself."
She didn't say she was a survivor, nor did she say she was anything else.
This answer was more baffling than any known answer.
"World (Kosmos)... then is it because I killed you that you've come for revenge?"
"No, I am not human; the concept of 'death' does not exist for me. So, the idea of revenge does not exist."
"...Then let me ask you why you are here. And why you know that name."
"Hmm... how should I put it?" The girl tilted her head, seemingly thinking seriously about the question. "I could say I've been waiting for you all this time. How's that for an answer?"
"Then, there's still time. For your own good, leave now."
"That won't do."
The snow seemed to be falling harder.
The girl reached out and caught a falling snowflake. The snowflake stayed in her palm for a few seconds before slowly melting into a crystal-clear water droplet.
"Snow..."
She whispered, her blazing golden pupils gazing at that fleeting, cold crystal.
"It's very white."
Then, she looked at the Young Man again, revealing a smile like an illusion.
"Oh, right."
She said with a smile.
"Then, you can call me—"
_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-__-_-_-_-_-
"Color is long dead."
This is an axiom.
Like "water flows downhill" or "all men must die," it's a self-evident truth etched into the deepest layers of everyone's cognition in this era, requiring no proof.
The sky is a canvas repeatedly smeared and ultimately abandoned by some entity, a chaotic, dirty mix of grey, black, and white; you can't discern the shape of clouds nor the outline of the sun.
Gigantic isolation walls, their height immeasurable, cut the city into isolated cages, like an unhealing scar.
"The world is long destroyed."
For those living in this black-and-white world, "this" has long been common knowledge.
In the Retention Area of Lenovo City, there exists an "alternative path" forgotten by maps.
The asphalt road surface has long since weathered and cracked under the erosion of years, wild grass aggressively piercing through the cracks, rustling dryly in the wind, greedily vying for the sparse grace that was once called sunlight.
The trees on both sides of the road, untended for so long, stretched their branches in an unhealthy manner, intertwining into an impenetrable net that completely obscured the sky.
Occasionally, a few thin rays of light struggled to squeeze through the gaps in the branches and leaves, casting mottled patches of light on the ground, like the last breaths of the dying.
Far from human habitation, and far from rules.
Following this road, almost re-swallowed by nature, in the direction of rising terrain, and passing through a forest whose boundaries are difficult to define with the naked eye, an old-fashioned two-story villa will unexpectedly appear in your sight.
An anachronistic dream, stubbornly standing on this forgotten land.
On the second floor of the villa, a study enveloped in dim yellow light.
The light wasn't bright, yet it carried a reassuring warmth, as if from centuries ago, coloring the rows of hardcover books on the walls with a suitable warm and nostalgic hue.
A unique scent of old paper and leather mixed and permeated the room; it was a smell forgotten by time, not belonging to the modern era.
A man sat in the old swivel chair in the center of the room, his fingertips turning the pages of a book with a yellowed cover—"Dark Alley."
He looked very young, perhaps in his early twenties, with soft black hair falling to his ears.
The contours of his face possessed the delicate beauty of a classical Greek sculpture; if one ignored everything else and judged solely by appearance, he was undoubtedly a handsome man who could be associated with words like "artist" or "philosopher."
Yes, provided everything else was ignored.
With just one glance, this impression would be utterly shattered.
He wore a simple long trench coat, but the coat was like a mad painter's palette, with large swaths of countless colors wantonly smeared across it.
If one had to describe it, placing it in the grey world outside the villa would be nothing short of a provocative declaration of war.
The man occasionally gently pushed the old round-rimmed glasses on his nose with his fingertips, and at other times leaned back, making the swivel chair beneath him creak.
On the floor of the room, a dozen or so timers of various designs were scattered casually.
There were apple-shaped alarm clocks, bird-shaped wall clocks, and several oddly shaped industrial timers whose original purpose was unclear.
Their hands raced at different frequencies, jointly producing a "tick-tock, tick-tock" ensemble.
The man seemed oblivious to the sound, his page-turning rhythm even subtly in sync with the "tick-tock" sounds.
The next second, he performed a baffling action.
Without any hesitation, he tore off the last page of the novel in his hand, the sound of tearing paper crisp and abrupt.
Without even looking at the torn page, he casually crumpled it into a ball and accurately tossed it into the wastebasket in the corner.
With a "thud," he contentedly closed the incomplete book, took off the old round-rimmed glasses from his nose, and placed them on the table piled with various strange parts and tools.
[Creak.]
The door hinges gave a slight protest, and the door was pushed open.
A young girl entered the room.
She was dressed in black and white, her long hair, the same colors, flowed like ink and snow down to her waist.
Her beauty was not the harmony of human features, but a perfection closer to a "concept," as if describing her with the word "beautiful" was, in itself, a desecration.
But what truly severed her from the human world were her golden eyes.
Not the color of gold, but a purer, fiery gold, like that of a deity.
At this moment, those eyes scanned the chaotic room with interest, finally resting on the man who had just completed his "book-destroying" feat.
The girl didn't speak immediately, but slowly walked closer, her fingertips gently brushing a still-moving timer.
Her movements were like confirming the flow of water, the blowing of wind, confirming whether the texture of "time" was still the same as she remembered.
"Watching you like this, it always feels very interesting."
Her voice was very soft, clearly carrying a hint of a smile, yet no emotion of joy could be heard.
"You are a creature as fragile as a bird, yet you insist on wrestling with things like this." She looked up, directly at the man, "So, Creator. What are you doing this time?"
The man called "Creator" suddenly rose from the swivel chair, clapped his hands together in front of his chest with a "snap," and a smile, a little too brilliant, bloomed on his face, like a child eager to show off the results of a successful prank to a parent.
"Good morning, Mashiro!" His voice was full of vitality, strikingly out of place in this dreary world.
Creator picked up an oddly shaped timer from the table and shook it.
"I'm just trying a small challenge—setting a time limit for everything."
"For example?" Mashiro tilted her head.
As if given permission to perform, Creator enthusiastically grabbed an apple-shaped alarm clock.
"This one is for me to re-number all the cabinets in the kitchen in ten minutes."
He then picked up a blue bird-shaped timer.
"This one is for optimizing the photosynthesis efficiency of the backyard vegetable patch within twenty minutes, and by the way, assembling a square-wheeled cart from discarded parts—"
"Hmm... you're very diligent. But," Mashiro said softly, "have you never thought of stopping?"
Her gaze seemed to penetrate Creator, seeing the heavy, unspeakable burden behind him.
The smile on Creator's face stiffened for a moment.
He put down the timer in his hand and scratched his slightly messy black hair.
"...That's a tough question."
Turning around and walking towards the window, the man seemed to want to avoid the question.
"Well, after all—" His voice suddenly deepened, as if coming from a very profound place, "I am the one who created the world, besides that—"
He paused again, turned around, and once again met those fiery golden eyes.
"I hate 'eternity'."
She seemed to have anticipated this answer.
Mashiro slowly stepped forward, picked up the copy of "Dark Alley" with the ending torn out from the table, her fingertips gently caressing the rough spine.
"Is forgetting a gift?"
"The past is important, I admit," he responded softly, "but if all memories were eternal... that wouldn't be a gift, it would be a curse."
"Have you heard that story, Mashiro?" His gaze again avoided her, as if unwilling to see any trace of possible sympathy in her eyes. "Once upon a time, there was a king