Two weeks had passed since the change. Nothing strange had broken the pattern. Work filled the days, the small room waited at the end of them, and now and then a drink at the tavern eased the edges.
The quiet streets of the Fereom District had started to feel like something he knew by heart. Mrs. Callyst still called him over for dinner every so often. She had not forgotten how little he ate the first time and seemed set on correcting it. Mr. Callyst had been there the last visit.
The old man had not pressed about the accident, only grumbled once that young men were too soft these days and ought to learn how to throw a real punch. Percy had felt a flicker of interest at the idea, but there was never enough time between the shop and settling into the rest of it.
This morning he rode instead of walking the whole way. Money was steadier now, so the carriage made sense.
The leather seat was soft yet stiff with age, and across from him another passenger sat folded behind a newspaper, the paper rustling faintly each time the wheels hit a loose stone.
They paid each other no mind. Percy kept his eyes on the passing buildings, the way the light slid across brick and the occasional figure moving along the curb. Passengers got off one by one until the carriage held only a handful. When the tailor shop came into view he paid the single copper crown and stepped down.
Silia was already inside, as she always was. She did not look up when he greeted her. Her hands worked fast and sure over the dark fabric on the table, the stitches even and tight.
The cloth itself looked finer than the usual orders, smooth under the light, the kind that would cost five silver coins finished. That sum would have been impossible for Percy before the lottery three years back. He had won far more than five silvers then, yet the memory sat distant now.
The door opened while he was still thinking about it. He assumed it was Gracy or Benny arriving early, but a stranger stepped in instead. Seeing Silia busy, Percy rose and offered a greeting.
The man asked about a custom suit and when it might be ready. Percy glanced toward Silia; she had already heard and came over herself. He excused himself quietly and returned to his station while she handled the rest.
Work ended after sunset. Mr. Bram paid out the wages at the counter before locking up.
Four copper crowns, the usual amount, though sometimes a small bonus came at month's end if the shop had done well. Percy was grateful for that. Not every owner bothered.
He tucked the coins away and left, feet already turning toward the Shrewsbury Drunkard out of habit. A few minutes later he stopped in the middle of the street. His breath caught. Pedestrians looked at him oddly as he stood there frozen.
He lowered his head and moved into the narrow space between two dim alleys where the light barely reached.
Once he was alone his hands went to his head. The fingers shook hard. "No… no… no…" The words came out rough. A cold feeling spread through his chest and stayed there. "I'm Ronan." His voice was low, almost lost in the brick walls. "I'm Ronan." The shout came out louder than he meant, but no one answered.
Over the past two weeks something had shifted inside without him noticing. Percy's habits, the small worries about coin and cloth and the next day's work, had slipped into place so easily that they no longer felt borrowed.
The memories of Earth rose less often now. The days on this side had started to feel like the only ones that mattered.
Sometimes entire afternoons passed before he remembered there had ever been another life.
The realization would arrive suddenly, usually during some ordinary moment of sorting cloth, counting coins, listening to Benny complain about work.
For a second he would pause and think of apartments, phones, crowded roads filled with machines, things that should have felt impossible to forget.
Yet the memories no longer came with the same sharpness. Faces blurred at the edges. Conversations dissolved into fragments.
Even the sound of his mother's voice felt less certain than before. He could still recall it if he tried, but the effort bothered him in a way he could not explain. Worse was how natural that seemed.
Nobody here knew there was supposed to be another person inside this body. Nobody questioned Percy when he laughed, worked, ate, or slept.
Day after day the world accepted him as Percy, and some stubborn part of him had started accepting it too.
He leaned against the cold wall, breathing fast. "What the fuck am I doing?" The question hung there.
He had been dropped into another world and already the shape of someone else's life fit too well. That was not normal. He was settling in too fast, letting the old thoughts fade for hours at a time.
Each day Ronan felt thinner while Percy grew heavier and more solid. If it kept on, would there be anything left of the first man at all? The idea made the skin along his scalp tighten.
Ronan had never been the sort to chase change back on Earth. If he had been born here he probably would have ended up with the same narrow days Percy lived. That was not the point.
The point was that these days were not his. He could not keep sliding into them like this. He needed something different, even a small thing Percy would never have done. Something to mark that he was still there, still choosing.
The thought steadied his breathing a little. He pushed off the wall and turned away from the familiar route to the tavern. Instead he walked toward an alley he had passed many times but never entered, the shadows thicker there, the air cooler against his face as he stepped inside.