In a certain place—
a place drowned in silence.
A silence so heavy it felt almost tangible, as though even one's own breathing could echo back from the walls. It was the kind of stillness where even the faint creak of dry wood or the whisper of wind slipping through the cracks of an old window could be heard clearly.
It was as if no one had lived there for years, completely cut off from the outside world.
There was no scent of life—no warmth, no trace of presence—only the faint, musty odor of dust and aged wood drifting quietly in the stagnant air.
Morning sunlight, brilliant and golden, crept through a grimy windowpane streaked with dust and faint fingerprints. Thin beams of light fell across the room, brushing over the face of a man lying motionless upon an old bed.
The gentle warmth of dawn that should have brought comfort instead pierced through his dreams and dragged him into an uneasy awakening.
He lay upon a bed made of plain, natural wood—worn, cracked, and brittle with age. The planks beneath him emitted the faint scent of dryness and decay. Dust clung thickly in the seams, dulling the wood's color to a lifeless gray. The smell of old wood mixed with dust filled the air, making the atmosphere heavy and close. The bed seemed untouched for years.
The pillow beside his head was flat and stiff, unpleasantly rough to the touch, with faint yellow stains at its corners. The sheet, though faded and old, appeared to be the cleanest object in the room—a remnant of someone's effort, long ago.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The sunlight streaming through the window stabbed at his vision, and the first sensation that came to him was pain—dull and throbbing at his temples, like unseen hands squeezing his skull.
It seemed that only a short while had passed since night ended, yet the quietness made every ache sharper. His head swam; the world around him spun. He squinted, trying to adjust to the light.
He was not yet fully awake from his slumber.
His body felt heavy, unwilling to respond. His mind, blank and hollow, could not recall a single fragment of memory. The emptiness frightened him in a way he could not describe. The bright light seeping through his eyelids irritated him, forcing him to turn his head away.
He shut his eyes tight, but the sharp pain only grew. He tried to sit up, but his legs were numb—as if he had been asleep far too long, and his body had forgotten how to move.
"Ow… it hurts… it hurts so much…"
His voice trembled, fragile, soaked in pain. Every movement sent waves of agony rippling through him, like needles piercing every muscle.
His hands were covered with small cuts, some scabbed over, others still faintly red.
He drew a strained breath and reached out, blindly searching for something to hold on to—something solid that could help him rise.
His fingertips brushed against something cold and hard—
a table lamp standing at the side of the bed. The lamp's pale gray surface was thinly coated with dust, yet its dim yellow bulb still glowed faintly, as if someone had recently turned it on.
When he gripped it, the dust lifted in a tiny cloud, making him cough softly.
He felt the dry particles cling to his skin, their texture gritty and unpleasant.
With effort, he slid his hand along the edge of the table beside it, grasping at the rough wood to pull himself up.
The table was old—its edges chipped, its surface marked by years of scratches—but sturdy enough to bear his weight.
He used both hands, trembling and half-numb, to push himself upright. The effort made his arms shake, every muscle crying out in protest. His legs felt like lead, heavy and useless, but he forced them to move.
He rose slowly, unsteadily, as if defying gravity itself.
At last, he managed to stand—barely.
He wavered, vision blurring, the world swaying before him.
As his eyes adjusted, shapes began to emerge from the haze.
He could now see the room clearly: an old wooden chamber, worn and fragile with time.
The ceiling had small holes through which sunlight streamed down like thin threads of gold.
The wooden walls groaned softly with the wind.
One wall bore a long crack, darkened with damp stains.
The floorboards were layered with dust and faint footprints—proof that someone had once been here, long ago.
He looked around, puzzled and uneasy.
His heartbeat quickened.
He didn't recognize this place. He had no idea how or why he was here—or who might have brought him.
"Where… is this place?"
His voice came out hoarse, dry, and barely audible, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
The sound echoed faintly in the empty room, before fading back into silence.
He tried to walk, to explore, but his legs were weak and his body exhausted.
After only a few steps, he collapsed back onto the bed.
The wood groaned under his weight with a tired creak.
He sat there quietly for a long moment, staring toward the window where a narrow shaft of light cut across the room.
The emptiness in his mind was replaced by a rising unease.
He tried to think—tried to remember who he was, where he came from—but his mind was blank.
All that filled his ears was the sound of his own breathing and the rapid beat of his heart.
He kept reaching deeper into the void of his memory, over and over again—
until at last, something began to surface.
"His name… was Denato…" the thought echoed faintly within him.
"He came from a distant country…"
Faint images began to flicker before his eyes: a city of smoke and steel, the clanging of metal, the rumble of machinery, and the sharp voice of a foreman calling orders.
"He was just a laborer… from another land…" he murmured softly, eyes trembling as fragments of his past returned.
"He came to another country in search of work…
He worked day after day, until he could finally afford to rent a small room…
And then, one night, he lay down on his bed…"
Denato began to remember…
This place—
it wasn't familiar to him at all.
The first thing that surfaced in his mind was confusion. He looked around the room again, his eyes now adjusted to the light filtering through the window. The more he saw, the more certain he became—this was not the room he knew.
The silence inside was so thick that he could hear his own breathing echo faintly. His gaze drifted across every corner of the space: the wooden walls, cracked and darkened with damp stains; the corners, where water had once seeped through and left pale traces behind; the floorboards, covered in a thick layer of dust with his own footprints freshly pressed upon it. Everything here felt wrong—too cold, too foreign.
The room in his memory, though small and simple, had always been clean, with the faint warmth of a place someone called home.
But this one… this one felt lifeless, as though time itself had abandoned it.
A dull ache spread behind his temples. His thoughts scattered, tumbling over one another in a blur. Where is this place? he asked himself silently, again and again—but the room gave him no answer.
He took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady his body. The numbness that had gripped his arms and legs began to fade little by little. He flexed his fingers, closing them into a weak fist before slowly releasing. Warmth began to return to his limbs, and he could finally feel the strength creeping back into them.
His eyes wandered toward the table lamp still glowing softly beside the bed.
Its faint yellow light flickered slightly, casting uneven shadows across the rough wooden surface. The warmth of the bulb seemed to fill the room, yet it also revealed every flaw—every crack, every speck of dust—that defined the room's decay. The longer he looked at it, the more uneasy he felt, as if that gentle light were too harsh, too revealing.
He reached out, his hand moving carefully toward the switch at the lamp's base.
A soft click broke the silence.
The light went out.
Instantly, the room dimmed, leaving only the pale, cool sunlight that seeped through the window. The color of the air shifted—from golden warmth to a subdued silver-gray. Shadows of furniture stretched long across the floor, merging slowly into one another.