Amon's hand twitched as the last vestiges of the mark faded beneath his skin, leaving only a faint glow, like a dying ember in the ashes. His eyes dropped to his palm, then to the cracked floorboards beneath him. The stillness in his chest was an unfamiliar sensation, an absence of the constant dissonance that had plagued him since his return to this world. He exhaled slowly, letting the quiet settle in his lungs, the rush of power no longer a hum in his veins. For the first time in years, he felt... balanced.
His feet moved instinctively, carrying him toward the matron's office without thought, his mind focused on the one thing that gnawed at him, deeper than the hunger for power, more pressing than the hunger for vengeance: They were here. His parents.
When he entered the office, he didn't bother with the pleasantries. The matron looked up from her desk, her wrinkled face softening when she saw him.
"You wish to contact your parents?" she asked, her voice hesitant.
Amon's gaze was sharp, unyielding. "Yes."
She nodded, her lips parting as if she was going to speak further but thought better of it. Instead, she reached for the phone, the only link to the outside world, and dialed a number that he hadn't yet fully remembered but had recognized the moment the memory clicked in his mind.
As the dial tone filled the space between them, Amon turned away, his thoughts spiraling again. Was this really them? They had looked the same as they had in his memories, but it was a different kind of recognition now. Something distant, fractured, like seeing a reflection that didn't quite match.
The phone rang once, twice, before a deep voice answered.
"Amon? Is that really you?" The voice cracked, and the chill that ran down Amon's spine was like ice water poured over a wound. His father. There was an edge of disbelief, of longing, in the sound, but Amon didn't know if it was real. How could they—how could they be real?
"I want to leave," he said flatly, the words cold and harsh on his tongue, yet carrying the weight of an unspoken plea.
The matron glanced at him, her eyes flickering with concern, but she said nothing, letting the exchange pass.
"I'll be there soon," his father said. "Wait for us."
Amon dropped his gaze, feeling the same distance that had been between him and the world ever since he had awakened in this body. A distance that only seemed to grow the closer he came to understanding who he really was—or wasn't.
The phone call ended. Amon stood still for a moment, as if waiting for some kind of answer to emerge from the silence. His parents had arrived for him. But was it really them? Or was it just another lie in this fractured world?
The door to the orphanage creaked open slowly, the chill air biting through Amon's thin coat. As he stepped outside, he was greeted by a world that still felt foreign, despite his body being familiar with it. The towering grey walls of the orphanage's neighborhood loomed behind him as he stepped into the chaotic noise of the street. The city was alive with the usual hum of industry: the harsh scrape of iron against stone, the far-off whistle of a steam train, the grinding hum of mechanical automatons patrolling the streets. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smog, and the ground trembled beneath his feet as yet another massive vehicle rumbled down the road.
His eyes flickered to the sky, half-hidden by the thick clouds of pollution. For a moment, it was as if the heavens themselves were mocking him. A world above me, out of reach, suffocated by its own filth.
They walked in silence. His mother, constantly glancing at him, her face a mirror of anxiety, and his father, who seemed to tread carefully behind them, his steps heavy with uncertainty.
The streets of the lower district were a maze of dilapidated buildings, shattered windows, and flickering streetlamps. The cries of vendors hawking their wares echoed through the narrow alleys, where children, dirty and wild-eyed, played in the shadows.
Amon could feel the weight of the world pressing against him—the poverty, the brokenness of it all. But there was something else, something colder. This is where I was born, he thought. This is where I died. Yet, the city felt alien to him. He was no longer a part of it, no longer a part of anything.
As they crossed the first bridge, Amon's eyes caught the glint of metal, sharp and bright in the dim light. A Watcher, walking down the opposite side of the street, his coat flowing behind him like a shadow. His face was hidden behind a strange mask, but Amon knew what it meant. They were always there. Always watching.
It made his skin crawl.
The feeling of his parents' eyes on him was unbearable, like a weight pressing down on his chest. They had been silent for most of the walk, but their presence was suffocating. His mother reached for his hand, her fingers trembling as she brushed against his, but Amon recoiled just enough for her to pull back.
Her expression faltered, but she didn't speak, letting the moment pass. He could feel her hurt, but it didn't touch him. Nothing touched him.
They passed through the gates into the upper district. The air was cleaner here, the streets broader and lined with expensive shops, their windows gleaming with goods too rich for his blood. The houses were large, ornately designed, with intricate ironwork and marble statues standing like silent sentinels. Even the ground beneath their feet was softer, the cobblestones smoother, as if the world here had been crafted for comfort and ease.
Amon's stomach churned. Too clean. Too fake.
They reached his family's house, a well-kept but unremarkable structure wedged between two much grander estates. His father pushed open the gate with an almost reluctant motion, as if he expected the hinges to groan in protest. They didn't. The house looked just as he remembered it. But he didn't remember the feeling of it. The unease settled like an anchor in his chest.
The door opened with a soft creak, revealing the familiar interior: a fireplace crackling in the corner, the worn-out rug beneath his feet, the smell of aged wood and dust. It was supposed to feel like home, but all Amon felt was the overwhelming emptiness of it.
His mother made her way to the fireplace, placing a kettle on the stove. Her back was to him, but he could feel her eyes scanning the room, as though she were searching for something to anchor her in this world. It was odd. He was supposed to be the lost one. And yet here she was, the broken one.
"Kieran," his father called, his voice tight with an emotion Amon couldn't quite place. His oldest brother stepped into the room, his dark eyes narrowing when he saw Amon standing there, staring at the same walls that had once been his sanctuary.
Kieran didn't speak for a long moment. Instead, his gaze flickered to their mother, then back to Amon, as if trying to find a trace of the brother he once knew. But it wasn't there. There was nothing familiar in Amon's expression, just a blank slate.
"Bob's dead," Kieran said, his voice too calm for the words he spoke. "Buried in the cemetery."
Amon's stomach twisted. The words hit him harder than he expected. Bob. Bob, the gravedigger. The realization that he had killed his own brother—the one who had tried so hard to keep their family together—settled like a stone in his gut. He swallowed hard but didn't respond.
"Tell him, then," Kieran said to his father, his voice bitter.
His father's face was etched with sorrow. "Your brother... he was found dead in the cemetery. The Watchers came. They said it was an accident."
An accident.
Amon closed his eyes for a brief moment. Lies. They don't know. They don't know that I killed him.
His hands trembled, but he clenched his fists until the nails dug into his palms.
"Bob was always superstitious," Kieran continued. "He claimed to hear strange noises from the graves. Said the dead weren't staying buried. Said he saw things..." He trailed off, but his eyes were dark. "Did you hear about it, Amon?"
Amon didn't answer. His throat constricted, but there was no guilt. No sorrow. Nothing. He couldn't force it to come.
Kieran's eyes hardened. "I think the Watchers know more than they're saying. But we don't talk about it, not in front of Mother."
Amon felt something stir in him, like a quiet whisper in the back of his mind. The Watchers. There was something to them. Something that clicked in his thoughts, something dark.
His mother had gone quiet, the kettle whistling softly as it boiled over, the sound filling the silence in the room.
Amon's mind raced, grappling with the fragments of memories that hadn't yet pieced themselves together. I have to control this. His breath came in shallow gasps, and the realization sank in: this world was his to break. And break it, he would.
With the room closing in around him, Amon felt it again—the familiar pull in his chest, the sensation of being watched. But it wasn't just the Watchers. No. There was something deeper. Something calling. And for once, Amon knew exactly what it was.
It was his past.
It was Amon Grimveil—the man who had died in this world, leaving only a shadow behind.
But the shadow was growing. And it would not be forgotten.
His mother broke his thoughts, pulling him into a gentle embrace. "Promise me," she whispered, "you'll stay safe, Amon. This world...it's not kind to children."
Amon nodded against her shoulder, though his mind lingered on the implications.
As night falls, Amon retreats to his new room—a space filled with small relics of his childhood self. He sits at the desk, its surface littered with sketches of fantastical machines and notes written in a scrawled hand that he vaguely recognizes as his own. Picking up a pen, Amon begins to write, recapping his knowledge:
The Mist is entirely his own, a secret no one else seems able to perceive.
The eyes and voices within the Mist are fragments of Amon's fractured self, perhaps echoes of the boy whose body he now inhabits.
Transmigration remains a puzzle, but one he is determined to solve.
As he writes, Amon's resolve crystallizes. He mutters to himself, "If I am to escape this world, I must first understand it. To understand it, I must survive it. And to survive, I must play my role."
He stood up and went to bed.
Amon lies in bed, staring at the faint glow of a single etheric lamp on his desk. For the first time, the boy's room feels eerily familiar, as if the memories of Amon Grimveil are beginning to bleed into his own.