The rain fell softly, like fine needles dropped from a broken sky. In the distance, the heavens were not merely gray—they gaped open like a wound upon the canvas of the world, bleeding silence into the nameless land. The old station stood mute, its walls lined with moss and cracks that seemed to yawn wide, spilling the remnants of forgotten time.
He awoke among the rows of wooden benches, damp and mold-stained, arranged far too neatly—arranged not out of necessity, but as if placed by some invisible script. Every detail felt too precise, too perfect in its imperfection. As though this world imitated reality, but failed to capture its soul.
The ceiling peeled like old skin forcibly torn away. Above, a great clock loomed, its hands frozen mid-tick. It stared silently at the world that had long forgotten it. And he—the boy—did not know who he was.
No name.
No past.
No direction.
Only rain, mist, and a world embracing him in strange silence.
His hand moved without thought, reaching into the pocket of his damp, worn jacket. Something lay inside. Cold. Hard. Metallic. Slowly, he drew it out.
A card.
Pitch-black, gleaming, yet reflecting nothing. No words. No numbers. No owner's name. Only a single symbol etched upon its surface:
A closed eye embedded within the shape of a keyhole.
The moment his finger brushed its center, something stirred. Not in the card. Not in his pocket. But deep within his chest.
Like a memory struggling to rise, only to drown before uttering its first word.
✦ ✦ ✦
He stood, joints aching, his body feeling strangely foreign. The soles of his worn shoes pressed against the damp floor of the station. No trains. No attendants. No announcements. And yet, the schedule board still flickered, its lights spitting out impossible words:
13:66 – Destination: Beyond Everything
22:00 – Destination: Return
?:?? – Destination: Yourself
He stared blankly. His mind clawed for meaning, but found none.
Then—footsteps.
Not his. Someone else's. Many.
Shoes striking wet stone. Quick. Uniform. Drawing closer. He stumbled back one step, then two. The fog shrouding the station writhed, parting to make way for them.
Figures emerged from the haze.
Their faces were flat, cold, identical—like porcelain masks forced upon unwilling flesh. Their eyes fixed on him. And in unison, they spoke:
"There. The disruptor of reality's order."
His chest clenched. He had no idea why they called him that. He didn't even know who he was. But his body moved before his mind caught up. He ran. Through the crumbling corridors of the station, feet splashing through rainwater that streamed like coagulated blood.
✦ ✦ ✦
He burst onto the platform. No trains. No escape. But still, he ran.
The rain thickened. The fog deepened. His breath grew ragged. Yet their footsteps never faltered. As though the ground itself resisted his flight. As though the world knew he was not meant to exist.
"Restore balance," one of them droned, its voice void of life. "Or you will be erased."
"Erased? What… do you mean?" His words rasped, drowned beneath the thunder of rain.
No answer.
One raised a hand. Violet light flared in its palm—not like magic, but like a program executing itself. As though reality itself could be rewritten.
The light shot forward.
Instinctively, his fingers clenched around the black card.
A spark. Just a moment—but enough.
The card grew warm.
Not with heat. With life.
As though something long asleep had awakened. As though something was watching.
The violet light froze in midair. It flickered. Twitched. Then—vanished.
His pursuers fell silent. Some stepped back. Others stared at the card with a fear they had no name for.
And in that quiet rupture, a voice called from behind the pillar.
"Quick. This way."
He turned. Through the curtain of rain, a woman stood. A long gray coat draped her figure, and in her hand she carried a staff—not of common magic, but one crowned with a glass orb glowing softly, a lantern of gold piercing the fog.
Her face was calm. Her eyes sharp, but heavy with sorrow.
"If you want to live, follow me."
There was no time for questions.
He ran to her.
Together, they crossed the forgotten tracks, descended a flight of emergency stairs choked with wild vines, and slipped into a half-collapsed tunnel hidden beneath the ruins.
The air was damp. Only the woman's staff lit the way.
For long minutes, they walked in silence—the drip of water and their breaths the only sound. At last, he spoke.
"…Who are you?"
She did not answer at once. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, and her voice was quiet when it came.
"My name is Linaria. And I am no savior. Only someone too aware that this world is not what it should be."
His brow furrowed.
"This world?"
Linaria stopped. Slowly, she turned, her eyes meeting his.
"Do you really believe this is reality?"
He opened his mouth. No words came.
Because he didn't know.
Everything felt… false. Too precise. Like a stage built to appear natural, but collapsing under closer scrutiny.
Linaria's gaze shifted to the card in his hand.
"That doesn't belong to you," she said suddenly.
He froze.
Before he could ask, another voice seeped from the darkness. Hoarse, low, brimming with whispers that no human should hear.
From the shadows crawled an old vagrant, robed in tatters, eyes red and pale as though long deprived of sleep—or sanity.
"It isn't yours," the vagabond rasped, pointing a trembling finger at the card. "It belongs to something… that merely lent you life."
The boy tightened his grip on the card. For a heartbeat, his body didn't feel his own. Something clung to him. Something watching from beyond this world. From the fog. From the wounded sky.
Something waiting.
And he began to wonder—not only who he was.
But what he was.
And what had truly happened to this world.