A pained throb pulsed through my head, squeezing my temples as if someone had wrapped a tight band around them and never removed it.
I let out a groan as I tried to raise my hand.
The last thing I remembered was collapsing onto my bed after long hours of work—exhaustion dragging me under before I could even close the curtains. The distant hum of traffic. The faint glow of my phone screen.
It moved.
And that was the first thing that felt wrong.
My hand rose into view, but the weight of it surprised me. It felt heavier than it should have, disconnected from the motion I'd imagined.
But that wasn't the problem.
My eyes snapped open.
A ceiling of aged wooden planks stared back at me, darkened by years of soot and time. A faint smell of oil and ink lingered in the air.
I froze.
My breathing slowed—not from calm, but from instinct.
This wasn't my room.
I sat up and looked around.
The room was small, cramped, and unfamiliar. A desk stood against the wall, cluttered with papers written in a language I somehow understood. A brass pocket watch lay open beside an inkwell. A narrow wardrobe leaned slightly to one side, its door warped with age.
Rain tapped softly against a nearby window.
I looked down at my body.
Simple clothes. A linen shirt. Worn trousers. Slender arms—not weak, but lacking the familiarity I expected.
My heart began to pound.
Silence filled the room.
Then the memories came.
They didn't arrive like a flood.
They unfolded.
His name was Caelum.
Eighteen years old.
A resident of Valenrook City.
His father had died in an industrial accident years ago—a boiler rupture, officially ruled unavoidable. His mother worked as a seamstress, taking small commissions from neighboring shops and residents.
This body had grown up here.
School. Failed apprenticeship attempts. Long walks through rain-soaked streets. The smell of coal smoke clinging to clothes no matter how often they were washed.
Then the memories stopped.
They were complete.
Too complete.
There were no gaps. No contradictions.
Which made one thing clear.
These memories weren't being added to me.
I had replaced someone called Caelum.
I swallowed.
Moving carefully, I stood and crossed the room. The floor creaked beneath my feet as I stopped before a small mirror beside the washstand.
The reflection startled me.
Black hair, slightly long and unkempt. Sharp features dulled by fatigue. Dark eyes—too alert for someone who had just woken up.
It wasn't my face.
But it was now.
I stared into the mirror. The person in the reflection stared back.
After a long moment, I exhaled.
"Alright," I muttered.
My voice sounded right.
That was unsettling.
A knock sounded at the door.
Then a voice.
"Caelum?" a woman called, familiar even through the wood. "You're awake, right?"
My chest tightened.
I knew that voice.
His mother.
"I'm up," I replied.
The words came naturally.
Too naturally.
Silence followed. Then footsteps moving away.
I remained where I stood.
This world hadn't welcomed me.
It hadn't explained itself.
It had simply continued—
as if nothing had changed.
Which meant one thing.
Whatever had brought me here didn't care whether I was ready or not.