Pain…
A sharp, throbbing pain pulsed in my neck.
It hurt so badly that it felt as though someone had planted their foot on my throat and was pressing down with all their weight.
All I could see was darkness.
Perhaps because my eyes were still closed.
I tried to move my hand, even just a little, but the moment I did, agony surged through my entire body.
What was happening to me?
What disaster had befallen me?
The pain was unbearable, the kind that makes you want to cry out in despair.
I couldn't move any part of my body, not even the slightest twitch.
What had happened? Why…
I didn't know!
Why was I even talking to myself like this?
I really ought to see a therapist…
Wait a second… what even is a therapist?
Why did that word suddenly pop into my head?
This term…
What exactly was going on?
I struggled to open my eyes, and finally, I managed it.
But what I saw was nothing like what I had expected.
_______________________________________
White walls,
long curtains hanging gracefully from the ceiling,
a luxurious bed,
paintings elegantly adorning the walls,
a vast room so grand it felt beyond anything I could have imagined.
I could move my hand now.
The pain had faded, though my arm still shifted with difficulty.
When I brought my hand in front of my face, I drew a deep, steadying breath for my own reassurance.
Slowly, I found I could move the rest of my body more freely, yet every motion brought a sharp sting and tingling sensation.
Carefully, I sat up on the edge of the bed and once again took in the opulent room around me.
"Where… is this place?"
My gaze drifted to the pillows on the bed.
"This place… it feels both familiar and utterly foreign."
Gently clutching my head, I rose from the bed.
My legs trembled beneath me.
With each step, my confidence in them waned, and the fear of collapsing grew stronger.
The floor was made of cool ceramic tiles.
An eerie sensation washed over me—I felt a faint familiarity with this space, yet I couldn't place it.
But how? From where?
After a few cautious steps, the shaking in my legs began to subside.
My eyes fell on the large windows behind a wooden desk, their heavy curtains drawn shut.
Only a soft, diffused light seeped in from outside.
I walked toward those grand windows, approached one, and slowly pulled the curtain aside.
Perhaps this was something I shouldn't have seen.
"W-What… where is this?"
Deep down, the city felt somehow recognizable, yet the truth was that the only thing I truly identified was Big Ben towering in the distance.
The architecture,
the houses,
the people moving along the streets,
their style of dress—
the entire city felt both intimately known and completely alien.
Everything was new to me.
Not just a little—profoundly so.
I glanced back at the rich brown wooden desk and its leather chair.
A quill pen, several sheets of paper,
a map of Britain,
and a stack of books in the left corner.
I approached the desk slowly, overwhelmed by a strange mixture of smallness, fear of the unknown.
I didn't even know what exactly I was afraid of.
This place felt familiar, yet nothing about it came to me clearly or sharply.
Was my memory failing me?
If my memory was wrong, then why was London visible outside the window?
Was I truly in London?
These endless questions spun in my mind, driving me toward madness.
Then one of the sheets on the desk caught my eye.
I almost wished it hadn't.
"The Letter"
From the Duke of Manchester, Elias Montagu, to His Majesty King George V,
Regarding the continued industrial revolution following the years after 1860, by order of the late King George IV.
I must inform Your Majesty that the collection of taxes in Manchester has encountered difficulties.
At times, certain individuals offer bribes to silence the police and tax officials.
For this reason, please accept my humble apology for the reduced taxes remitted to you and the treasury this year, on this date of 18/2/1878.
I am deeply grateful and hope that Your Majesty will forgive this unworthy servant.
Duke of Manchester, Elias Montagu.
Sealed with an exquisitely ornate signature and wax stamp beneath.
A letter like this, in this very room.
The room where I had awakened.
My eyes widened in shock.
"This means… I… I'm a duke!? In the year… 1878!!!!!!!!!"
A short, nervous laugh escaped my lips as I muttered to myself.
"It's got to be some ridiculous joke…"
After all, 1878 didn't belong to George V, did it?
The year 1878 fell within the Victorian era, under Queen Victoria—not George V!!!
I was desperately trying to convince myself.
Perhaps this was all an elaborate theatrical performance.
But no matter how many lies I told myself, nothing could change the impossible words written in that letter.
Who even was Queen Victoria?
Why did I know that name?
I looked down at my clothes more carefully:
a white shirt with a detachable wing collar, brown trousers.
A golden pocket watch resting on the desk.
The lavish, sprawling room in which I had awoken.
Everything pointed to one logical conclusion: I truly was a duke.
My legs buckled beneath me.
Whether from fear or the overwhelming strangeness of it all, I collapsed to the floor.
I clutched my head tightly, and only one desperate word escaped my lips.
"Who… am I?"
Why could I remember nothing about myself?
If I really was the Duke of Manchester, Elias Montagu, then why did my past feel like an empty void?
Only one thought echoed relentlessly in my mind—born of terror, excitement, or something I couldn't name.
"You do not belong here."
And now, here I was—in Britain.
A Britain of 1878, altered or mistaken in ways I couldn't yet grasp.
As a duke.
That was the only truth I could cling to in this moment.