The soft rustling of palm leaves outside the window provided a calming background as the man—Zayn's father—lowered himself onto a wooden stool near the hearth. His wife, the woman Zayn now called Mother in his thoughts, reclined on a cushioned mat by the wall, gently rubbing her swollen belly.
The man exhaled deeply, the weight of unspoken thoughts evident.
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes soft but curious. "Why the long sigh?" she asked, her voice light but laced with quiet concern.
He ran a hand through his coarse hair, glancing toward the doorway where Zayn had disappeared moments earlier. "It's the boy... he's different today. More distant."
She smiled knowingly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "He's at that age, my love. Boys wander, they dream. You did the same."
He shook his head. "No, this was different. When I found him by the shore, he wasn't just daydreaming. There was this... coldness about him. When I put my hand on his shoulder, he looked at me like I was a stranger. Like an enemy almost. It was... unsettling."
She chuckled softly. "He just needs time. You know how he's been since you came into our lives. You're not his father by blood—he's still adjusting."
"It wasn't just me," he added, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "He looked at you the same way when you held his hand. I know what I saw."
Her hand paused mid-rub, her eyes flickering for the briefest moment. "Nonsense. He wouldn't look at me that way. I'm his mother." She waved it off with a light laugh. "You must be imagining things."
The man frowned, lowering his gaze to the ground. "I'm not so sure."
Sensing the weight his doubts placed upon him, she reached out and took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "Don't worry yourself too much. You're a good man. You've done right by him, even if he hasn't fully accepted you yet. Give it time. He'll see you as a father, eventually."
A faint smile tugged at his lips, though the concern lingered in his eyes. "I hope you're right."
"I know I am," she said softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "He adored his father, and you remind me of him in many ways. He'll come around."
The man exhaled, releasing some of his unease. "Maybe that's why he was by the sea. I found him just standing there, staring out at the horizon."
She nodded thoughtfully. "His father loved the sea, you know. Always said he would have been a wayfarer if the elders allowed it. Perhaps the boy was thinking of him."
The man's expression softened. "That does make sense."
He shifted closer to her, his hand moving gently over her belly. "And how are you two doing?"
Her eyes brightened as she placed her hand over his. "We're well. Kicking a lot today—perhaps as excited for the festival as the rest of the village."
He laughed quietly. "Let's hope the little one holds off arriving until after the festival."
She leaned into his touch. "I think we'll manage."
They sat in silence for a while, the warmth between them filling the modest home as the island breeze whispered through the open windows. The festival preparations continued faintly in the background, but for now, they were simply a husband and wife, waiting for their family to grow.
Meanwhile,
The midday sun hung overhead, casting its warmth over the village. Zayn, contrary to what the couple believed, was not exploring the village or off by the shore. Instead, he lay quietly on the thatched roof of their small home, his arms tucked behind his head as he listened intently to everything the two had said below. The filtered rays of sunlight flickered through the palm fronds swaying in the breeze, painting dappled shadows across his face.
His suspicions were confirmed. This body, whoever it belonged to, was the child of the woman inside. But the man—the father—was not his real father. Zayn now understood the delicate tension in the man's voice, the uncertainty behind his words. The mother's reassurances only underscored how new the relationship was.
As Zayn listened further, he took in the details like puzzle pieces slowly assembling into a clearer picture. The father, despite his awkwardness, wanted to connect. The mother held unwavering faith that, given time, the boy would come around.
Zayn, however, felt no connection to either of them. This wasn't his life. This wasn't even his body. As he mulled over their words, his gaze drifted across the horizon where the ocean stretched endlessly into the distance. The wind carried the faint sounds of festival preparations, laughter, and idle chatter from the nearby village square.
"So... the boy's father was passionate about the sea," Zayn thought. "And he died? Or disappeared?" He sighed quietly, shaking his head. None of this explained what he was supposed to do. What kind of story was this supposed to be? There was no conflict, no immediate threat, no impending disaster—at least not yet.
He grimaced slightly, flexing his fingers. This body felt different. The muscle was softer, less refined. Back in his old life, he was stronger, despite the poor living conditions. Manual labor from several part-time jobs had sculpted his body, giving him an edge most boys his age lacked. Here, his movements felt sluggish in comparison.
"I could probably take this kid in a fight." Zayn thought dryly, amused by the irony.
But what did that matter now? He wasn't back home. He didn't even actually have a home to go back to.
His gaze lowered as he mulled over the possibilities. 'Is this purgatory? Was the Librarian messing with me?' The thought lingered, gnawing at him. There had to be a point to this, right? Stories, from what little he knew, were dangerous, chaotic things. Characters—the only people capable of dealing with stories—weren't normal. And yet, nothing here seemed dangerous. Nothing seemed remotely threatening.
"Maybe I'm missing something. What do I even know about stories?" Zayn furrowed his brow.
The Empire guarded information about Characters and Stories fiercely. Even whispers about them were rare outside of the upper echelons of society. The only reason he knew anything at all was because of the school he attended—one of the more prestigious public academies. Children of government officials and high-ranking personnel filled its halls, and their careless gossip occasionally spilled invaluable scraps of knowledge.
Zayn made it a point to eavesdrop, soaking in whatever morsels he could. But even with that knowledge, this situation eluded him.
As the thoughts churned in his mind, a sudden sharp pain lanced through his skull. He hissed under his breath, clutching his head. "What the—?"
The pain was blinding, but as quickly as it came, it ebbed. Zayn's breathing slowed, and he gradually lowered his hand. But something rested in his palm.
His eyes widened.
In his grasp was the small notebook.
"How... did this get here?" Zayn muttered, flipping it over in disbelief. It was the same notebook he carried back at the school—the one taken from his body after he died. Yet here it was, as if it had always been with him.
He stared at it for a long moment, the soft wind ruffling the edges of its pages. Something told him this was no ordinary book anymore. And just like that, the weight of the story pressing down on him felt a little more real.
Zayn held the small notebook in his hands, turning it over carefully as if expecting it to disappear at any moment. The leathery black cover felt familiar, but there was something distinctly different about it now. Etched across the front in bold, crimson letters was his name: ZAYN. Just below it, in smaller script, was the word Outline.
Frowning, he traced his fingers over the letters, feeling the slight indentation in the leather. He didn't remember this detail. In fact, he was certain the book was blank the last time he held it. The sudden appearance of his name, paired with the splitting headache from moments ago, sent a cold shiver down his spine.
Looking around the roof to ensure no one was watching, Zayn flipped the notebook open.
For a moment, nothing happened. He stared at an empty page, wondering if the entire ordeal was just his mind playing tricks on him.
Then, without warning, the page pulsed with light. A swirling mix of colors burst forth, illuminating his face.
"Oh come on, not again!" Zayn groaned, squinting against the sudden brightness. It faded almost as quickly as it had come, leaving behind glowing runes sprawled across the page. The script looked ancient, foreign, yet somehow he could read it perfectly.
He leaned closer, reading the text aloud under his breath:
Character: Zayn
Rank: Mundane
Role: None
Core Purpose: Mundane
Qualities: [Blessed by Red] [Unfortunate]
Abilities: None
Story Purpose: [Village Boy]
Fragments: None
Wills: None
Zayn blinked at the strange entry, his brows furrowing deeper with every line he read. His gaze naturally drifted back to the section labeled [Story Purpose]. As if responding to his focus, the runes began to shift once more. The book trembled faintly in his hands, flipping to another blank page. Fresh runes crawled across the sheet, forming a more detailed explanation:
[Village Boy] – [A simple village boy living peacefully on the island, like all others of his age. His days are filled with play and learning, preparing him to grow into a responsible man for the village. To him and all others, the village is everything. Even death holds no meaning beyond the service of the village.]
At the very end of the description, a faint red rune flickered, adding a final line:
...But even among the boys who grow to serve the village, he saw something more.
Zayn's lips pressed into a thin line as he read the new addition. "I saw something more..." he repeated quietly. The words felt heavy, lingering in his chest, but he couldn't quite understand why.