Morning
The storm that night wasn't an ordinary one. In my old world, rain carried the scent of soil and memory; but tonight, it felt like a thin veil pulled down from the heavens, coating the window with a silver shimmer. I stared at the screen—the unfinished game—and the rows of characters I'd memorized like a prayer. Three nations at war: angels, demons, and humans; fallen cities; heroes with wings and horns; and between each battle, the quiet warmth that closed every chapter like a loose curtain. But the final page always froze with two words: No Ending.
I let out a hollow laugh—the kind a player gives after waiting too long. "What kind of story are you," I muttered to the screen, "that knows how to ignite a fire, but never how to put it out?"
The light in my room dimmed. I closed my eyes for a moment, resting my head against the chair. Rain tapped more insistently against the glass; in my pulse, the rhythm sank and rose like waves. When I opened my eyes again, the monitor reflected my face like a mirror—tired, older than I remembered.
I pressed Continue. The background music whispered softly. It felt as though someone on the other side of the screen placed a hand on my shoulder—not in words, but through a cool, calming sensation, like a stream of water.
Darkness.
Not fainting. More like being pulled through a curtain.
---
I woke to a scent I didn't recognize. Not my room. There was the softness of unfamiliar linen, the thick silence of peace, and a calmness no device could ever replicate.
Slowly, my eyes opened. A wooden ceiling—its carvings uneven but polished, reflecting the amber glow of an oil lamp. At my side, white curtains swayed with the breath of the wind. The rain outside still fell, but now it sounded like delicate needles dropping one by one onto carpet.
I tried to sit up. This body felt… light? No—fragile. Like freshly washed glass, smooth and easily broken. My breath caught, not from pain, but from realization: Where am I?
"Lucid?"
The voice was gentle, like cloth brushed by steam. I turned. Sitting at the edge of the bed was a young woman—shoulder-length black hair, pale skin reflecting the lamplight, warm hazel eyes. She wore a maid's uniform, neat and simple. Not fancy, just enough to mark her presence.
"Don't get up too quickly." She smiled faintly, stepping lightly toward me, adjusting the pillow behind my back. "Your body hasn't recovered yet."
"I…" My voice cracked, dry. "Who—"
"Aira," she said quickly but softly. "Your maid. Just call me Aira." She poured hot water into a clay cup; the scent of herbs filled the air, soothing both head and chest.
Aira. The name wasn't unfamiliar. In the game, there had been a character like that—not a main one, just a shadow at the edges of scenes: closing windows, laying down towels, then disappearing. No route, no stats, no chapter of her own. Yet now, she sat before me—real, like the fine line dividing dream from reality.
"Drink a little." She offered the cup. Our fingers brushed—warm, alive, not pixels.
I sipped slowly. The liquid traveled down my throat to my chest, like a narrow path lit by torches.
"Where… is this?" I asked carefully.
"Velmira Villa," she replied. "At the edge of the forest. The place you've rested since childhood, far from the city's noise." She looked at me for a moment. "Do you remember everything, Lucid?"
The name sliced through the air. Lucid. It should've been just a name on a character list, yet now it felt like a cloak draped over my shoulders—still loose, but fitting just right.
I took a breath. "It's… a bit blurry."
Aira didn't seem surprised. She only bowed slightly, tucking the blanket around my waist with care. "That's natural," she said. "You had a high fever last night. We were worried. But now…" She met my gaze, her hazel eyes clear. "You look different."
"Different how?"
"Your eyes." She smiled faintly, relieved. "Like someone who's just come home."
I didn't know how to respond. The ticking of a clock, the rain, and a faint hum beneath my skin filled the silence. I closed my eyes; behind my lids, a small light flickered, forming a symbol I couldn't recognize. When I opened them again, it was gone.
"I want to stand," I said.
She rose first, offering her arm. I took it—not to lean on, but to confirm that she was real.
My feet touched the cold wooden floor. Through the window, Velmira stretched before me—tall trees, fog at the forest's edge, a distant guard's lantern. Like a half-dried oil painting.
"You're trembling," Aira said.
"Not from the cold." I swallowed. "My head… feels too full."
She didn't ask further. Aira seemed like someone who knew when not to touch a wound. She took a thin coat from the wardrobe and draped it over my shoulders. Her movements were soft, rhythmic, calming the air around us.
"Thank you," I said.
She nodded. "Are you hungry?"
I thought for a moment, realizing my stomach was quiet. In my old body, hunger was rough; in this one, it felt gentle—like a letter slipped under a door. "A little."
"Alright." She lifted the lid from a dish on the table. Steam rose, carrying the scent of soup and freshly baked bread. "Eat slowly. The doctor will visit this afternoon. Lady Lucy will also drop by."
Lucy Dwellart. The name tapped at my memory. In the game, she was the main heroine—light sword in hand, her words firm, her route complex. Here… she was my sister.
"Aira," I called softly.
"Yes?"
"You said I seem different. If something strange happens to me later… will you stay?"
She smiled—a smile like candlelight in a cold room. "That's my duty, Lucid. It always has been."
---
We ate in comfortable silence. Sometimes Aira spoke of small things: wild rosemary in the garden, a gatekeeper who sang off-key when it rained, a rooftop cat in love with smoked fish. Little stories that made this world pulse with life. I listened, gathering the fragments missing from my mind.
Afterward, Aira sat by the window, embroidering with gentle, rhythmic motions like the hum of night insects. I lay back—not from fatigue, but to feel the simple things again: the weight of the blanket, the scent of air, the sound of rain.
Among them came another feeling—not desire, not shame—but a faint memory of human warmth. It didn't burn, only lingered, like a soft breeze through a window's gap. I let it stay, nameless.
"Lucid," Aira's voice was quiet. "May I ask something?"
"Go ahead."
"Last night, before your fever worsened… you called out a name. 'Aurelis.' Who is that?"
I looked at her. This world. That name—I had seen it on the screen before.
"I don't remember clearly," I said honestly. "Only a light spinning… and a voice saying there's something I must finish."
Aira nodded. "Then we'll finish it slowly. No need to rush."
"We?" I echoed.
She met my gaze gently. "If you'll allow it."
I nodded. "I allow it."
The rain eased. The fog thinned. From afar, a bell rang twice, reminding me that time kept moving even when the world felt still.
---
A knock at the door. A guard bowed. "Young Master, Lady Lucy will arrive before dusk."
Aira stood, straightening her apron. "Understood. Prepare the parlor."
She glanced back at me before leaving. I managed a soft "Thank you."
Aira smiled. "You're welcome, Lucid."
She left, her scent of clean soap lingering in the air.
Suddenly, something stirred beneath my skin—cold, swift, like the shadow of a passing bird. I looked up, and the mark reappeared: two intersecting curves—one like a wing, the other like a horn. It glowed faintly, then vanished.
"Lucid?" Aira reappeared, concern in her eyes.
"It's nothing," I said. "Just a bit dizzy."
She nodded, though her gaze lingered.
Outside, the clouds parted. Light struck the window frame. Velmira Villa held its breath. And I knew—this night would not end as it usually did. A door would knock. A name would be called. A secret would unfold.
I closed my eyes. In the hush, a whisper came—not rain, not a clock, not Aira's breath.
"Welcome, Lucid. Finish what was left undone."
I opened my eyes. Aira stood beside the bed, gently straightening the cover.
"Young Master?"
"Yes." I took a deep breath. "Let's wait for my sister."
She nodded—and within that nod was a silent promise.
Dusk stretched across the sky. Amid the scent of herbs, the hum of needlework, and soft steps on the wooden floor, the First Chapter came alive—not with swords or shields, but with a simple truth: the name that once existed only as text on a screen now breathed within my chest.
And for the first time, I believed—perhaps the story that never ended was finally ready to begin.