A sudden crash of thunder jolted the man from a deep sleep, his eyes snapping open as a sharp gasp escaped his lips. Pain surged through his skull, a splitting headache that pulsed relentlessly.
Akin to that of a worm squirming within his cranium, he grunted heavily under this pulsating pain. And there inside his mind, a chain of tangible colors sped by amidst this train of sensations.
*Mirrors?*
*Death?*
*Who are you?*
It was a bunch of flashing images, he couldn't tell. And by the time he knew it, he was half awake, trying to push upwards and gaze about to where he was. His clothes were soaked in his sweat, with his hair trailing off some droplets of it, latched against his glasses and some pulled behind the rear.
His hand partly trembled as he half-supported his body, fingers digging into the dirty white sheet beneath. The bed was stark, devoid of pillows, a stark indication of his preference—or perhaps necessity—for simplicity.
The room around him was swallowed by darkness, thick and oppressive, barely disturbed by the faint sliver of moonlight that seeped through a crack in the wall, illuminating a single spot amidst the inky blackness of the place.
Headache lingered, refusing to fade as quickly as one might expect, its persistence hinting at something, but he couldn't tell what it was. Gradually, the pain ebbed away, as if time itself was seeping slowly through the cracks alongside it, allowing him to reclaim some senses.
His hand, which had jolted before, now steadied, fingers tightening around the quilt beneath him. The fabric was rough and worn, its texture rasping against his skin. He shifted, and the bed beneath him groaned in protest, the sound of old oak plank creaking through the stillness of the night.
And oddly enough, from the very beginning, no words were muttered from his lips. An odd silence, deafening and yet quiet. The silence was almost suffocating, an eerie quiet that mirrored the man's strange disposition. His eyes flickered with a mix of confusion and alertness, a look that betrayed a mind conditioned to explore, yet always ready. Or perhaps, a subtle sense of superiority over complexity.
He moved again, a sluggish shift on the bed, and the wood beneath him creaked once more.
This time, he froze. His gaze settled somewhere on the bed, his focus sharp and intent, before he finally muttered something under his breath, his voice deep and crisp, as his hand seemed to reach for something unseen.
"What is this?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with curiosity as his hand closed around a silver cube that had somehow eluded his notice until now.
It lay on the bed before him, striking in its difference from everything else in the room.
Especially the contrast between the white of the sheet and the silver of the cube. The cube was sleek and smooth, adorned with intricate black lines and patterns, meticulously etched into its surface.
Slightly deeper of centimeters to create a deep line. The design was crude, with the words "Aku" inscribed below and "Diam" above, their meanings hovering just out of reach in his mind.
He was certain he had encountered these words before, but try as he might, he couldn't recall where or when. It was as if a certain part of his memories were wiped out deliberately. He didn't realize this.
His gaze grew distant and thoughtful as he allowed himself to be drawn deeper into the silvery, slightly tarnished surface, his thoughts swirling in a quiet eddy. For several minutes, he was lost in this silent contemplation, his fingers absently caressing the intricate lines embedded in the cube.
It felt slightly heavy in his palm—not to the point of being ungraspable, but with a weight that conforms to its size. There was something undeniably strange about it, a sense of familiarity that tugged at the edges of his mind, though he couldn't quite place where these emotions originated.
"This body of mine... " He muttered, his voice barely a hum as his eyes traced the contours of the cube, his hand turning it over with the care one might reserve for a precious artifact.
The cold metallic surface glinted faintly in the sliver of moonlight, casting an eerie glow as it reflected off the side. As he leaned back against the bed's wooden frame, his thoughts deepened, spiraling into a murky sea of uncertainty.
It was peculiar, he realized, that he hadn't questioned why he was there, how he had arrived, or anything else that might seem far more pressing.
Instead, this strange object had consumed his attention entirely, as if it alone held the answers he sought. He let the cube rest on his lap, his fingers lingering on it, while a pensive expression settled over his features.
The world around him faded into insignificance as he stared down at the object, lost in thoughts. It was reckless, almost absurd, to remain in this state of detachment given his circumstances. Yet, as the man slowly regained his composure, his gaze sharpened, and a faint smile curved his lips. "I understand," he whispered to himself, though the meaning of his words remained elusive to anyone else—perhaps even to him.
With a deliberate movement, he trudged to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the side until his feet met the cold, black wooden floor. Dust stirred at the contact, rising in faint wisps that were barely noticeable, but in the moonlight filtering through the cracked wall, the particles became momentarily visible, swirling in the air like tiny specters.
Standing upright, he took a long, measured look around the room, seeking to orient himself in this unfamiliar space. The room was modest in size, perhaps barely medium by conventional standards.
The old wooden bed he had risen from stood in the center, its age betrayed by the creaks and groans it emitted. To the right of the bed, a set of shelves leaned slightly, weighed down by time and neglect. An old-era lamp, the kind powered by fuel, was mounted on the wall, its glass chimney fogged and dull. Across from the bed was a small working table, its surface cluttered with what appeared to be papers and tools, remnants of whatever task had last been undertaken there.
The scene was one of quiet decay, a space that had long since fallen out of use, yet somehow it still held a lingering sense of purpose, an antique of time despite its usefulness. "No matter," the man murmured to himself, his voice a low base as he made his way over to the shelves.
He paused for a moment, his eyes tracing the peculiar design etched into the wood. The craftsmanship was intricate, with faintly visible sculpted figurines carved into every corner of the shelves, each one meticulously detailed.
"A believer of a certain sect?"
"Odd" he muttered under his breath, the thought flickering through his mind as he bent down to his knees, aligning himself with the height of the shelves.
His fingers brushed against the aged wood as he carefully pulled open the first drawer from the top. Inside, nestled among the dust and forgotten memories, was another cube.
He picked it up, the cold metal familiar in his hand, though this one differed from the first. He turned it over, his eyes narrowing as he examined the carvings on its surface.
The words "HIDUP" were inscribed at the bottom, while "MATI" was etched at the top, their meanings unsettlingly clear. He glanced back at the bed, where the first cube still rested on the sheet, deliberately left behind.
"A second one," he mused, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration as he struggled to piece together the puzzle forming in his mind.
How could he, of all, forget something so significant? "I'm sure I've seen these words before…" he pondered, the nagging sense of familiarity gnawing at him as he turned the new cube over in his hands.
"Time sure took a toll on my memories"
He stood up, the floor beneath him creaking in protest, a sigh slipping from his lips. Whether it was out of genuine confusion or a faint attempt at pretense, even he wasn't sure.
"I'm usually a good actor," he muttered, a wry smile touching his face as he pushed the rim of his glasses tighter against the bridge of his nose. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed the second cube onto the bed, letting it land beside the first with a soft thud.
His attention then shifted to the second drawer. He pulled it open, revealing its contents—stacks of parchment, old and wrinkled, their edges dotted with yellow, signs of age and decay. The papers bore the huge title "Guidance", the once-crisp sheets now brittle and delicate.
"This is it," the man muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he carefully lifted the old, wrinkled parchment from the drawer.
He straightened up, bringing the fragile paper closer to his face to examine it more closely. Dust clung to its surface, and he blew it off gently, a few quick breaths followed by a careful pat with his hand.
He moved with deliberate caution, mindful of the paper's delicate state, fearing it might crumble under too much pressure. Holding his breath, he began to read the faded words, his eyes narrowing as they traced the uneven lines of ink.