He felt a quiet sense of astonishment.
The image of the city he had just seen outside the window lingered in his mind—an image so vivid and surreal that it felt as if the world itself had been painted from someone's dream.
And yet, for Denato, it was far too real to be only a dream.
He slowly lowered his gaze, drawing in a long breath through his nose, exhaling softly as he tried to calm the tremor that still lingered within him.
"This world…" he murmured to himself under his breath, "it isn't the one I used to know."
The words left his lips like a quiet confession.
Outside that window—those airships floating across the sky, the horse-drawn carriages rolling along cobblestone streets, the people dressed in clothes that belonged to another era—it all confirmed what his heart already feared: this was a different world.
He lifted his hand to touch the glass window.
It was cold beneath his fingertips, smooth and solid—real.
That slight chill ran up his arm, grounding him in the moment, reminding him that this was no illusion, no fleeting vision.
He was here.
After a few moments, he turned away from the window, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim golden light that filled the room.
Sunlight streamed in through the dusty panes, scattering beams of pale gold that illuminated the faint patterns of age along the wooden walls.
Tiny particles of dust floated gently in the air, turning lazily as if suspended in time itself.
The room was quiet—so quiet that he could hear his own breathing, hear the faint sound of wood creaking beneath the building's weight.
It wasn't a large room, but it wasn't suffocating either.
The ceiling hung low, built from wooden beams that showed faint cracks where time had gnawed away at their surface.
The walls were made of old timber, dark and worn, etched with scratches and marks that spoke of years long past.
Denato let his gaze wander slowly from one corner to another.
Nothing seemed familiar.
No sight, no sound, no faint smell triggered even a flicker of recognition within his empty memory.
It was all new to him—and yet everything carried the weight of age.
It was a paradox he couldn't explain: a place that was new to his mind but old to the world.
He took a cautious step away from the bed.
The wooden floor groaned under his weight, a soft creak echoing in the stillness of the room.
He turned, scanning the surroundings again, until his eyes fell upon a small wooden table tucked neatly into the corner near his bed.
It was a modest table—its legs slightly uneven, its surface scratched and dulled by time.
A faint scent of dust and dry wood filled the air around it.
There, sitting quietly atop the table, was the same gray desk lamp he had seen earlier, the one whose faint light had greeted him when he first awoke.
Now it stood dark, unlit, its metal surface catching the sunlight and reflecting it in muted tones.
The thin layer of dust that clung to it shimmered faintly in the morning light.
He stepped closer.
Something about the table drew him in—as though it held some quiet promise of answers.
Leaning forward, he carefully studied its surface.
Resting upon it were a quill pen, a small glass bottle of ink, and a thin metallic bookmark lying diagonally across a stack of old papers.
He could smell the faint, sharp scent of dried ink mingling with the woody aroma of age and still air.
It reminded him of something ancient, something scholarly, like the faint memory of an old library from a forgotten past.
He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against the items, tracing their outlines as if they could whisper the story of this place.
After a moment, he noticed a small drawer built into the side of the table.
He pulled it gently—wood scraped against wood with a tired sigh.
Inside, he found little more than the remnants of someone's quiet life:
a few sheets of parchment filled with delicate handwriting, another quill pen whose feather tip had frayed, and a bottle of ink nearly dried to dust.
Whoever had once used this desk had been gone for a long time.
Curious, Denato opened the second drawer.
This one was heavier and slid out with a deep creak.
Inside, he saw a small stack of books—about ten in total—lined neatly, their spines faded and edges worn.
He reached for the one on top, brushing off a thin layer of dust with the back of his hand.
It was a journal, bound in dark leather.
Its corners were frayed and stained, the texture soft from age.
No title was carved on the cover, no initials, no mark—just a plain, unadorned surface that somehow felt significant, as though its simplicity held a deeper truth.
He held it carefully, his palms sensing the coolness of the leather.
It felt fragile, almost sacred.
Slowly, he opened the first page.
The faint scent of old paper and aged ink drifted upward—a scent that spoke of time, memory, and silence.
The writing on the first page was elegant.
Each letter was carefully shaped, inked with precision and patience.
The curves of the handwriting were smooth, flowing, the mark of someone who wrote not in haste but with thought.
Denato's eyes traced the words one line at a time.
"This place is an orphanage, located in the city of Tessalon, District 8, on 23rd Street. It's a quiet street, rarely crowded, mostly used as a shortcut toward District 12.
The city of Tessalon was founded centuries ago. It is vast and ancient, yet nearly devoid of nature. The sky is almost always dim, veiled beneath the smoke rising from iron chimneys of factories and machines that never rest. Trees are scarce—only withered shrubs cling to corners of old brick walls, or pale vines crawl feebly up the cold stone faces of houses.
District 8 is one of the oldest parts of Tessalon, long neglected by the city's council. The people here are mostly laborers—men and women who work from dawn until the dim hours of night. Their clothes are worn and patched, their faces marked by fatigue. The streets are narrow, damp, and lined with pipes carrying waste water beneath the city. Some days, a heavy stench rises from the drains, blanketing the whole district until breathing feels like swallowing dust and smoke.
This building was once a home for children without parents—a place founded decades ago by a group of philanthropists. They dreamed it would serve as a sanctuary for the lost and abandoned. But as years passed, donations dwindled, the building decayed, and the caretakers grew fewer. Only a handful of people now remain.
Among them, one woman still tends the orphanage—a gentle soul named Alenya Varinelle. She is kind and patient. Her hair is chestnut brown, falling softly to her back; her eyes, the color of clear water, reflect the dim morning light. She usually wears a plain gray dress and a white apron stained with flour from baking bread. The children adore her, for she tells them stories every night before they sleep. She often says, 'The world may not be beautiful, but we can still build a small corner of warmth for ourselves.
She chose to become the caretaker of this place because she herself once lived here as a child. She left at eighteen to find work, yet soon returned. She said this was her 'home'—the place that gave her life when she had nothing—and she vowed never to let it vanish like so many other forgotten things in this city.
There are no gardens around the orphanage, no trees to offer shade. Instead, high brick walls surround the grounds, their metal gates coated in rust. The earth is hard and dry, with only patches of brittle grass struggling to survive. Still, the children play there—running, laughing, their voices echoing against the stone walls. The sound is both bright and heartbreaking, carrying a fragile hope amid the decay."
He stopped reading for a moment.
The silence that followed was almost heavy.
The air seemed to thicken, filled with the lingering echo of those words.
Denato let his fingers slide across the inked letters, feeling their faint texture against his skin.
There was something strangely familiar about the handwriting—something in the way the words curved, in the rhythm of the sentences.
He couldn't explain why, but he felt it deep within him: this voice, the tone of these words, it felt like his own.
A quiet thought crept into his mind—
"Could this be me?
Did I write this?"
But that made no sense.
He didn't remember being here.
He didn't even remember his own face, or name, or what kind of person he had been before waking up in this place.
And yet, something about this journal called to him like an echo from another life.
He lifted the book slightly, studying it again.
The leather cover, the texture, the faint discoloration at its edges—it all spoke of long use, of hands that had turned its pages many times before.
Whoever had written these words hadn't done so recently.
The paper had yellowed, the ink had faded slightly, and yet the entries remained clear enough to read.
It meant that whoever the writer was—perhaps himself—had been here for quite some time.
But then… if he truly had written this, why could he not remember anything at all?
Why was his mind blank, as though every memory had been washed away by an unseen tide?
He frowned slightly, closing his eyes as he tried to recall even the smallest fragment of who he was.
Nothing came.
Only emptiness.
Only silence.
He opened his eyes again and stared down at the journal, feeling an odd weight settle in his chest.
The uncertainty was suffocating, but the mystery—
the idea that answers might be hidden within these pages—
sparked something deep within him.
He turned to the next page, his movements slow and deliberate, almost reverent.
The paper crackled softly beneath his fingertips.
The ink here was darker, newer perhaps, though still touched by age.
His hands trembled slightly as he held the book open.
His breathing slowed.
His eyes scanned the lines that followed, each word pulling him deeper into the story—his story, perhaps.
The faint sound of wood creaking somewhere above reached his ears, blending with the quiet rustle of the pages.
A cool draft slipped in from the window, brushing lightly against his hair and the side of his face.
Outside, the faint hum of distant life—voices, hooves, the rhythmic pulse of machinery—seeped through the walls.
But within this small room, there was only silence, only the sound of his heartbeat and the whispers of paper.
A faint, whispering wind drifted in through the window, brushing gently against the tattered curtain that swayed like a slow dancer following an unseen rhythm. Denato turned another fragile page of the old notebook with deliberate care. The scent of faded ink and aged paper filled the air — the kind of scent that carried memories of time long passed, fragile and mysterious, like the voice of someone long gone but never forgotten.
The handwriting continued seamlessly from the previous page — elegant yet trembling slightly, as though the writer had poured great emotion into every letter. Denato's eyes followed the script.
"Each district within the city of Tessalon reflects the class of people who live there. From District One to District Ten, the hierarchy defines not only the power of individuals but also the very air they breathe. This system of separation is strict — carved deep into the foundations of the city itself."
Denato paused for a brief moment. He slowly read on, his eyes tracing every curve of the ancient letters.
"District One is the heart of power — the highest among all. It is the residence of the royal family of Tessalon and the most noble bloodlines. The streets there are paved with white marble, polished so perfectly that the sunlight reflects off them in radiant gleams. Every building wall bears intricate carvings that tell silent stories of pride and lineage. The air itself feels cleaner, purer, as if filtered through silver. Even though the sky above Tessalon is dimmed by smoke and mist from the factories below, District One remains illuminated at all hours, for it has its own power generators. The houses are spotless — the streets untouched by dirt. The people wear clothing woven from fine silk, embroidered with gold and silver threads that shimmer under the ever-glowing light. It is a world apart, sealed away from the rest of the city."
The image formed clearly in Denato's mind — the gleaming streets, the tall spires piercing through the smog, and nobles walking elegantly without ever glancing at those beneath them.
"Districts Two through Five belong to the nobles and the upper class. They are not as powerful as royalty, but wealth and influence surround them like an invisible armor. Their streets are silent and orderly, paved with glossy stone. Private carriages move along smoothly, their wheels echoing faintly in the calm air. The houses are built from pale-colored bricks and crowned with metallic roofs that shimmer softly under the morning light. The people here speak in gentle tones, polite but distant, with the kind of arrogance that only comfort can breed. They rarely leave their own districts — and almost never step foot into the lower ones."
At this point, Denato began to feel the weight of contrast. The city wasn't merely divided by streets or architecture — it was divided by invisible walls of pride and indifference.
"Districts Six through Nine belong to the common folk — ordinary citizens who keep the city alive through their labor. The streets are narrow and worn, cracked by years of use. The buildings are built from rough brick and rusted metal, patched where they've begun to crumble. The people live modestly, dressed in simple fabrics dulled by dust and smoke. Yet their eyes carry determination — the quiet strength of those who endure. They are the unseen foundation of Tessalon, working tirelessly though few ever notice their existence."
"District Eight, where this orphanage stands, is filled with small factories. Their machines never sleep. Day and night, the air trembles with the steady hum of gears and pistons. Thick gray smoke rises from tall chimneys, merging into a sky that rarely knows the color blue. People wear cloth masks to protect themselves from the choking fumes. The ground is dry and cracked, with no sign of greenery — not even a single flower has the courage to bloom here. The buildings are cold to the touch, their walls slick with soot and steam from leaky pipes. The wind carries with it the metallic tang of oil and the faint echo of hammers against steel."
The description was vivid enough for Denato to almost smell the smoke, to hear the distant ringing of machines. He could almost feel the rough stone beneath his fingertips.
"District Ten… the lowest of them all. It is a place few dare to speak of — the land of the enslaved and the forsaken. Here stand the great industrial furnaces that never rest, their orange glow dim but unending. The streets are slick with mud and oil, littered with shards of metal. The people who live here have no names, no rights, no sense of tomorrow. They are shadows that move beneath the ceaseless rumble of the city's machinery. The sky above them is always dark, drowned beneath a sea of smoke. Light never truly reaches this place, and yet the furnaces keep burning, reminding everyone that Tessalon's power is built upon the suffering of the unseen."
The words carried a heavy weight — the kind of truth that pressed down on the heart. Denato could feel the despair of those streets, the lives swallowed by the city's hunger for progress.
He frowned slightly, breathing in as though the air in the room had grown heavier. He now understood the structure of this world — a system built on class, hierarchy, and distance. It wasn't just about where people lived. It was about who they were allowed to be.
He continued reading, turning the page carefully as the old paper rustled softly.
"Within this orphanage, there are several caretakers. One of them is an elderly woman named Venara Lysmòr. Though age has claimed her hair — now as white as snow — her spirit remains unbroken. Her eyes are deep black, calm but resolute, like ink that has soaked into the heart of paper. She dresses simply, in the plain garments of a commoner. No jewelry, no ornaments. The only thing she wears every day is an old scarf, faded from time but cared for dearly."
"Venara was once a noble from District Three. But she chose to abandon her comfortable life and status to work here among the lower districts. She said she could no longer ignore the suffering she witnessed — the hunger, the filth, the way people in District Ten were treated as less than human. She believed all people, regardless of district, deserved to live with dignity. That belief became her reason to act. She now spends her life trying to bridge the gap between the divided classes of Tessalon. 'The ten districts of this city should be one,' she always says, 'not ten cities turning their backs on each other.'"
Denato could picture her clearly now — an old woman standing in the smoky streets, the light of her resolve shining brighter than the dull gray sky. She wore no crown, no fine cloth, and yet there was something regal about her presence.
"Venara is responsible for managing the finances and documents of this orphanage. She arranges supplies, keeps track of donations, and oversees the needs of the children. Although she comes from noble blood, she never carries herself above anyone. Her words are always gentle, her tone patient. The children call her 'Grandmother Venara' — not out of duty, but affection. They run to her whenever she returns, tugging at her sleeves, asking her stories of the world beyond District Eight."
"She cannot stay here every day. Her duties extend far beyond this building — the affairs of her family, her own personal commitments, and the city projects she has taken upon herself. She travels constantly between districts, leaving before dawn and returning long after sunset. She rides in a small horse-drawn carriage through the dim, gaslit streets. When she comes back, her clothes smell faintly of smoke and cold air, but she always greets the children with a smile."
"No matter how exhausted she must be, she never complains. Every time she returns, she tells the children, 'We must endure. The world is not kind, but kindness must begin somewhere.' Then she goes straight to work — sorting papers, writing letters, and reviewing accounts until midnight, her face bathed in the soft glow of a single lantern. That light paints her expression gentle, almost celestial, like the moon resting in a darkened sky."
"I admire her deeply. Her sacrifice is rare in a city such as this. Venara Lysmòr is the breath of hope in a place long forgotten by compassion."
When Denato finished reading, he sat in silence. The candle beside him flickered slightly, its flame bending as if bowing to the weight of the truth he had just read.
He now understood more clearly the nature of this world — a city built in layers, each one suffocating the one beneath it. Yet, amidst the decay and disparity, people like Venara Lysmòr and Alenya Varinelle still shone — quiet lights in a land where light should not exist.
A faint warmth spread in his chest. It was a feeling of respect — tinged with sorrow — for those who dared to be kind in a place that rewarded cruelty. He thought to himself that Venara was someone he would want to meet someday, someone whose presence might make even this cold city feel a little less hollow.
He gently turned to the next page. The old book creaked softly, as though breathing — as though it too was waiting for him to discover what story lay beyond.