The blaring alarm shattered the silence, yanking me from sleep like an icy shower. With a groan, I rolled over, fumbling to silence the cursed device. My body clearly remembered the events of the previous evening — headache, dry mouth, and blurry memories. I should have skipped that trip to the bar.
After a moment, I got up and shuffled to the kitchen, still half-asleep. Yawning, I quenched my thirst with two glasses of water. Once again, I promised myself: never again. For the next five minutes, I busied myself making toast, ignoring everything around me. Only when I opened the fridge did I realize I was out of food again. My shelf was as empty as always.
I glanced at the two remaining shelves, occupied by Piotr and Ezekiel — my roommates. We weren't exactly close friends, just cohabitants for convenience. Piotr didn't care about his belongings, and Ezekiel… well, he had his quirks.
— Piotr, I'm out of ketchup, so I'm taking yours,— I yelled toward his door.
— Do you always have to wake me up on my day off? — came his groggy reply.
— I'm taking it. Deal with it, — I retorted, waving dismissively as if he could see me. But I didn't wait for his response — after all, I had my own problems to deal with.
Breakfast — toast with ketchup — wasn't the greatest idea, but I washed it down with coffee and got on with my morning routine. Keys, phone, wallet… and a pack of cigarettes. Sometimes it felt like nothing had changed for years, at least in that regard. Just another Monday. Another week at university.
Before leaving, I felt a light tap on my back.
— Hey, Julius! Still hungover? — I heard the voice of Magda, my neighbor. A brunette, shoulder-height, with hazel eyes, and bursting with energy even after pulling an all-nighter.
— Hi, Magda, — I replied, yawning, not bothering to hide my exhaustion. — Barely dragged myself out of bed.
— I almost died laughing when you walked straight into that street sign last night, — she said, her wide grin showing she was thoroughly amused.
— Very funny, — I replied sarcastically, trying to sound more playful than annoyed. — Is torturing hungover neighbors your hobby?
— Don't be so dramatic. Maybe you don't remember, but I was there too… and I didn't drink — she shot back, raising an eyebrow.
— Your loss. The best parties are the ones you can't remember, — I laughed, trying to find some meaning to the day.
— Haha, thanks for the tip, but then I'd end up looking like you, — she teased, winking before spinning on her heel and heading back to her apartment.
I shrugged, taking a drag from my cigarette. It might be worth grabbing some wine for the evening. You never know how these casual encounters could unfold. Maybe even some scented candles… small things could turn into unforgettable evenings.
Ten minutes later, I arrived at Lidl — a small convenience store that had become an extension of my daily life. Approaching the counter, I greeted Marcin, who was manning the register.
— Hey, Marcin, how's it going? — I nodded in acknowledgment.
— Same old crap, — Marcin grumbled, clearly not in the best mood. — The boss is on vacation, and I'm stuck with her morning shift on a Monday...
— Can't say anyone envies you, — I replied sympathetically.
— Marlboros and an espresso? — he asked, as if it were a daily ritual.
— You know me too well, Marcin, — I laughed, pulling out my wallet.
— 16 dollars, card or cash? — he asked, handing over the pack of cigarettes.
— Card — I said, tapping my phone to the terminal.
— Insufficient funds — he said, raising an eyebrow.
— Ugh… I love drinking in bars, but the prices are higher than med school tuition, — I sighed, memories of last night flooding back. — Hang on, I'll text my sister to transfer me some money.
Five minutes later, I left the store, holding a warm plastic coffee cup in my hands. On my way to the university, I lost myself in thoughts about the lecture I was heading to—Einstein's theory of relativity. An endlessly fascinating topic for physicists. The observer effect, Schrödinger's cat experiments… Time passed as I reached the university gates. Massive brick buildings, cherry-red with white trims. I admired the craftsmanship before a familiar voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
— Hey, Julius, can you spare a smoke? — called Bartek, a fellow student, always disorganized but full of energy.
— Hey, I was hoping you'd offer me one — I replied, holding out a pack of Marlboro Gold.
— Why? — he asked, rummaging for a lighter.
— Hmmm… last math test. Ring a bell? — I raised an eyebrow, waiting for his reaction.
— Ohhh… I thought buying you a beer last night made us even, — he smirked. — And besides, I only copied two problems.
— And how many were there total? — I asked, more amused than annoyed, knowing I'd allowed him to copy in the first place.
— La la la, can't hear you! — he yelled, covering his ears before running toward the building, leaving a trail of smoke and a half-finished cigarette.
— Uh-huh, — I chuckled, watching him disappear through the university doors.
Finishing my cigarette, my thoughts drifted back to an idea I'd toyed with months ago—categorizing students. At technical universities, there were two types of people:
The majority — those aiming for an engineering degree, planning to land a stable job managing small production lines. Their parents would be proud—"Our kid finished university." These students weren't particularly gifted, just scraping by to pass their courses. Bartek was a textbook example of this group.
The minority — those who truly loved physics, math, and chemistry. Analytical minds who absorbed knowledge effortlessly. They earned side money by letting others cheat or doing their projects. For them, university was a challenge, not a formality.
Tossing my cigarette butt into the ashtray, I headed confidently toward the lecture hall.
It resembled a Roman amphitheater — a semicircle of comfortable chairs descending to the center, where Dr. Trout stood, staring at us.
— Please take your seats, everyone. I'd like to start on time,— he said in a calm yet firm tone.
Looking at him, I couldn't help but think of… Santa Claus. Average height, white beard, a bald head gleaming under the lights, and a calming smile—though underneath lay the demon who crushed dreams of passing exams on the first try.
Two hours later
The lecture was fascinating. Physics is my favorite subject; it's no wonder it has captivated great minds throughout history. But not everyone was as engaged. Most of my peers were glued to their phone screens, scrolling Instagram or playing chess on their laptops.
After the lecture, I walked home, pausing at a crosswalk to wait for the green light. Suddenly, loud shouts caught my attention. I turned to see what had caused the commotion.
It all happened in a flash — a red truck barreling through the red light, the driver desperately trying to regain control and avoid an oncoming car. Swerving sharply, the truck veered toward me. Time slowed, but I was paralyzed. A rational person, yet I couldn't move a muscle. The truck slammed into me, pinning my body against the building wall.
"Is this how I die?" I thought, fully aware of what was happening. What about my dreams? So many things I wanted to do... so many experiences I never had.
Darkness.
Darkness.
Darkness, until finally… light?
It felt as if I was crawling through a wet tunnel. But it didn't bother me. With nothing to lose, I moved toward the brightness. Suddenly, I felt hands—large, powerful hands, or was I just that small?
My vision slowly sharpened as I tried to understand where I was. The room seemed to be some kind of chamber—not a modern hospital, certainly not. Had the people raising me embraced some eccentric, old-fashioned lifestyle?
The chamber I found myself in looked like something straight out of the Middle Ages. The wooden walls were rough and unplaned, full of knots and irregularities, as if the forest itself had shaped this room. The freshness of the wood mingled with a faint stench of rot that I couldn't shake. The air was thick with the scent of wax and candle smoke, their flickering flames illuminating various corners of the chamber. Candles... real candles, not electric lights or lanterns.
In one corner stood a tile stove, its base adorned with iron doors. The fire barely smoldered, and the warmth reaching me felt like an illusion—an unattainable comfort. The walls bore no trace of modern devices—no plasma TVs or computers—only wooden shelves laden with intricately woven baskets holding food and various odds and ends.
The entire room exuded a cozy yet slightly somber atmosphere. The ambient sounds were faint, as though time itself had paused in this chamber.
This was certainly not a modern hospital. The room resembled something from a bygone era, where no advanced technology or "magical" devices existed. I was in a world whose reality I couldn't yet grasp.
Two people were present in the room.
The first was my mother. Her appearance was still somewhat blurred, but I recognized her, even though she was entirely different from the person I had known in my previous life. Her face was youthful and warm, bearing visible traces of exhaustion from childbirth. She seemed about twenty-five years old, her long, light hair cascading down her shoulders in soft waves. There was still an air of innocence about her, as if every line of her face carried a story waiting to be told.
She was petite, but her presence radiated strength — not physical strength, but a quiet resilience reflected in her movements and a gaze full of care. Her large, intensely blue eyes seemed to conceal a tale I would never fully know. Her lips, slightly parted with effort, conveyed tranquility, even though her entire body was tense and worn. A gentle smile always graced her face, though now, after the childbirth, it was tinged with fatigue. I noticed faint freckles across her nose — natural, as though they had been passed down through generations — and her skin had a warm, golden hue.
Despite her exhaustion, her presence gave me a sense of safety. Her warmth, her caring gaze, made me feel that in this strange world where I had awoken, I wasn't alone.
The second person was an older woman standing nearby, the complete opposite of my mother. Her posture was hunched, her back curved into an arch as if bearing the weight of a lifetime. Her gray hair was tied into a simple braid at the nape of her neck. Her face was rugged and deeply wrinkled, each line seemingly telling a story of hard years and experiences that no one would recount. Her eyes were dark, filled with a depth of knowledge I could scarcely comprehend. Within them smoldered an intelligence, as though all the wisdom of generations had passed through those eyes.
Although she was very old, her presence was undeniably strong. She moved with certainty, her hands — wrinkled and frail in appearance — were powerful and experienced.
Her gaze held none of the tenderness or empathy of my mother's. Instead, it was a mix of wisdom and sternness, like a life's teacher who had seen too much and knew that sometimes there was no room for softness. She was tough, but her presence seemed essential, a stabilizing force in this strange, ancient world I was just beginning to understand. She was certainly someone important — perhaps not only to me but also to this place, this life I was only starting to grasp.
They spoke, but I couldn't understand a word. It wasn't Polish, nor was it English.
I would have to learn their language as quickly as possible.
After a moment, the older woman reached out her hand and touched my forehead. Her finger glowed faintly, and I felt a warmth and joy spreading through my body, entirely unfamiliar.
Is this magic?
Did she just use magic?
Withdrawing her hand, she handed me to my mother. I understood only one word, which she repeated over and over.
"Balthazar."