A faint and sorrowful thought quietly surfaced in Denato's mind — a thought filled with subtle sadness and a tinge of guilt that he could not quite put into words. He was fully aware that he was no longer in his old world, and what made it worse was the realization that he now inhabited the body of someone he did not even know. Someone who once lived here, in this orphanage — a boy who had his own memories, his own dreams, his own story.
Denato stood still for a long moment inside the silent room. The sunlight filtering in through the window fell softly upon him, its golden beams tracing the line of his cheek and shoulder as though gently urging his heart to calm down. Yet beneath that quiet glow, the weight of melancholy lingered — a mixture of confusion, guilt, and the painful truth that could not be undone.
He looked down at his hands — hands that were no longer his own. The slender fingers of a young boy of about sixteen trembled slightly as he examined them. Every movement reminded him that this was not his body. He had taken the place of someone else, unknowingly, and without consent. He did not wish to "steal" another's life, but fate had left him with no other choice.
A deep sigh escaped his lips. "There's nothing I can change now," he thought wearily.
He shook his head, dismissing the thought before it could grow heavier. He did not want to drown in guilt or chase questions without answers. What mattered now was moving forward — continuing to exist, even within a life that was not originally his.
He took a slow step out of the room. The wooden floor creaked softly beneath his feet, the faint sound echoing gently through the long, narrow corridor beyond.
Outside, the atmosphere was entirely different from the room he had just left. The hallway stretched far ahead, appearing endless in its stillness. The wooden walls were old and pale, with faint cracks running along the surface, each one carrying traces of time. Light streamed through the row of windows lining one side of the corridor, casting streaks of gold across the dusty air. Each mote of dust shimmered like floating fragments of sunlight.
The air was slightly warm and heavy, filled with the smell of wood and old soap — the kind used to wash linens and blankets that had seen better days. It wasn't an unpleasant smell, just simple and unrefined, like the scent of ordinary life itself.
Denato walked slowly forward, his eyes drifting from side to side. Both walls were lined with wooden doors, each one bearing a small wooden plaque hanging from its center. The plaques were aged and covered in dust; the edges had darkened with time, and the writing upon them was faded in places, barely legible.
He leaned closer, squinting to read the letters carved upon the nearest one — and frowned.
"What language is this…?" he murmured silently to himself.
The script looked vaguely familiar yet foreign at the same time. The shapes of the letters had curves and crossings that seemed almost familiar but not quite. He tried to sound them out in his head, hoping to recognize even a fragment of meaning, but the more he looked, the more alien it seemed.
He stared for a long time, as if hoping that by sheer concentration, the symbols might reveal their meaning to him. But in the end, he only sighed softly and stepped back.
"Why was the journal written in English, then?" the thought struck him suddenly.
It was strange — in fact, deeply strange — that the notebook he had read earlier was written entirely in English, a language from his own world. Yet the names on these plaques, here in this very same building, were written in something completely different.
What could that mean? Did this world also have English as one of its languages? Or had the author of that journal — the one who lived in this body before him — come from somewhere else, just like he had?
The questions spiraled through his mind like a whirlpool, pulling him deeper into thought. For a few long seconds, he stood still in the middle of the quiet corridor, surrounded by sunlight and dust, listening to nothing but the faint sound of his own breathing.
Then he exhaled and shook his head. "Now's not the time for this…" he told himself silently.
With that, he continued forward.
He began to count the doors as he walked. On his left, there were four rooms — each door old and nearly identical to the next, yet subtly different in character. One bore long scratches across the surface, as if something sharp had once scraped against it. Another had a faint water stain near the corner, the color of the wood fading where moisture had seeped in. A third door had a crack near the handle, as though opened and closed more often than the rest.
On the right side, there were four more rooms. These looked slightly more worn — the walls around them marked with faint smudges, fingerprints left by children who might once have run their hands along the surface while playing. The corridor felt alive with echoes of the past — as if the laughter of those children still lingered, woven into the air like an invisible melody.
Denato moved quietly, his footsteps slow and deliberate. As he passed each door, he let his fingertips brush along the rough wooden wall beside him. The texture was uneven, slightly cool to the touch. The physical sensation grounded him — reminded him that this was all real, not a dream or illusion.
When he reached the end of the hallway, he stopped and turned back for a moment. The long corridor stretched behind him, bathed in soft light. The view felt strangely nostalgic — like looking back at a place that was both foreign and familiar, a hallway that led not to rooms but to memories of a home he never had.
"This floor… has eight rooms," he thought quietly, turning again toward the stairs ahead.
He recalled the view from his window earlier — how the city had seemed distant and small, how the air had felt thinner up there. He could see rooftops, the gleam of floating vessels in the distance, and plumes of smoke rising gently into the sky. Judging by the height, he must be on the fourth floor of the orphanage.
If that was the case, then each floor probably had the same layout: eight rooms, four on each side, one for each child.
"Four on the left, four on the right… eight per floor," he whispered inwardly.
His gaze shifted toward the staircase. The wooden steps descended into shadow, narrow and uneven with age. A faint beam of sunlight shone through the window on the landing, illuminating the dust that drifted lazily in the air.
He stepped closer. The quiet creak of the wood beneath his feet echoed softly down the stairwell — creak… creak… — the rhythm steady, gentle, almost alive. Each sound resonated through the stillness like a heartbeat inside the building's chest.
He gripped the railing lightly. It felt rough beneath his palm, splintered in places, covered in a thin layer of dust. The faint scent of aged timber rose with each movement, mixing with the faintly metallic tang of the air.
Though the orphanage was silent, it was not an empty silence. It was the kind of quiet that felt full — filled with echoes of the past. Denato could almost hear them if he listened closely: the faint laughter of children playing in the halls, the tired voice of a caretaker calling them in for dinner, the soft whimper of someone crying in the dark. All those moments seemed to linger here, suspended in the air he breathed.
His heart beat steadily as he began to descend, one step at a time. The earlier unease — that strange feeling of being an intruder in another's body — was still there, but it no longer frightened him. Instead, it had turned into something quieter, something closer to acceptance.
The sunlight grew stronger as he neared the bottom of the stairs. A golden glow spread across the last few steps, warm and bright. It reflected faintly off the wooden surface, painting his shadow long and thin. The light felt like a gentle voice whispering: Keep going.
Denato inhaled deeply. Then, without hesitation, he stepped onto the final stair.
The sound of that last footstep echoed through the hall — louder, clearer, almost deliberate. It was the sound of movement, of transition. The sound of something beginning.
And as the dust around him shimmered briefly in the light before fading back into stillness, Denato moved forward once more, quietly but with purpose — down into the unknown depths of this world that was not yet his, but perhaps one day would be.
Denato descended the staircase of the orphanage.
The faint sound of his footsteps echoed softly along the quiet corridor, each step breaking the heavy stillness that blanketed the early morning air. The chill of dawn crept through the cracks in the old windows, brushing against his skin like a whisper. The stairway stretched down before him, made of old, solid wood that carried the deep, resonant tone of age. The color of the planks was dark—almost black in the dim light—polished smooth in some places from years of use, and rough in others where time had bitten into the grain. Each step emitted a gentle creak beneath his feet, a tender voice of the wood murmuring its years of endurance.
He soon realized that the staircase extended not only downward but also upward beyond what he had first assumed. It wasn't limited to four floors.
When he tilted his head back, his eyes followed the spiral of the steps vanishing into the darkness above. The shadows layered upon the grayish walls, which bore small cracks like fragile veins of age. Yet, despite its years, the staircase stood strong—remarkably clean and sturdy. There was no thick dust, no mold creeping across the beams. It was as though someone constantly cared for it, keeping the heart of this building alive through small acts of maintenance.
The realization puzzled Denato.
This section should have been the dirtiest, most worn part of the building, constantly trodden on by countless feet every day. But no—here, everything was meticulously maintained. Then it struck him.
Where people walk the most, there must be hands that clean the most. Perhaps the caretakers here were diligent, or perhaps they simply respected this place. The thought gave him a subtle warmth. His hand brushed along the railing; it felt smooth and cool to the touch, faintly smelling of oiled wood. Even in silence, he could sense the invisible presence of those who tended this home.
Yet, the walls beside the staircase told a different story. They weren't perfect—small cracks traced along the plaster, and faint stains of dampness spread like pale shadows near the baseboards. It was not ruin, but a mark of life and time. In certain corners, spider webs hung lightly, trembling with the faintest current of air. Denato brushed one away absentmindedly before continuing his descent, careful and slow.
When he reached the third floor, he noticed it mirrored the one above: eight rooms total, four on each side. The wooden doors, thick and painted white, were chipped and peeling at the edges. A narrow window at the far end of the corridor let in a gentle stream of morning sunlight, and the dust particles suspended in the air caught it like flecks of gold, swirling lazily in its beam. The atmosphere was quiet—so still that Denato could hear the faint rhythm of his own breath echoing in the corridor.
He stopped before one of the doors and looked at the small wooden plaques affixed above each one.
The carvings etched into them formed strange symbols—foreign, flowing letters that didn't belong to any language he knew. Denato furrowed his brows, trying to make sense of them, but the shapes were too complex, their curves too unfamiliar. It wasn't English, not like the diary he had read earlier.
A fleeting thought passed through his mind: Why was that diary written in English? Could it be that this world shared that language by coincidence, or was it a bridge left for him alone to understand? The question lingered without an answer. He stared at the symbols for a while longer, then sighed quietly and continued down the corridor.
The floor remained silent—eerily so.
No doors creaked, no voices echoed. It seemed that everyone was still asleep, or perhaps the day had only just begun. A faint blue-gray light filtered through the high windows, hinting that dawn had barely touched the horizon. Denato glanced around for a clock, hoping to tell the time, but saw none. In this place, time itself seemed to stand still—neither rushing forward nor retreating backward.
Returning to the staircase, he began to descend again. Each step resonated softly beneath him, a low wooden note that marked his progress downward. He could feel the chill seeping up through the soles of his feet with every step, the air growing slightly cooler as he went lower. The rhythm of his footsteps was steady and calm, like a heartbeat pulsing through the stillness of the building.
When he reached the second floor, he paused only briefly to glance around. The layout mirrored the third floor exactly—eight rooms, divided evenly on both sides. He didn't linger, instead continuing downward without hesitation.
Upon reaching the first floor, the air changed.
The faint scent of dry timber that had lingered in the upper levels was replaced by a subtler, fresher aroma—a mix of clean soap, damp stone, and something mineral, like the air near water. The structure of this level was different, too. There were only five rooms now, each larger and more purposeful. The symmetry of the upper floors was gone, replaced by wider doorways and a more open layout.
He took a slow breath, feeling the moisture in the air cling lightly to his skin.
The first room he approached appeared to be a bathing room—or perhaps both a bathroom and a washroom. The echo of his footsteps against the smooth tile was sharper here, bouncing back at him in clear, hollow tones. The walls were coated in pale white plaster, faintly glimmering under the dim amber light of a hanging bulb. Gone were the old wooden ceilings of the upper floors—here, everything was constructed from solid plaster and stone. The tiled floor gleamed faintly under the light, cool and clean, the chill seeping through the soles of his shoes.
Denato paused to look around, quietly admiring the contrast.
The space felt sterile yet peaceful, a small sanctuary of order within the aged building. He could understand now why this level was built differently. Wood would have been too fragile for a place that met water daily—it could rot, warp, and creak under moisture. Stone and plaster, on the other hand, offered both privacy and permanence. A wooden wall could be peered through; this could not.
He moved on toward the next pair of rooms—the men's and women's baths. Naturally, he entered the men's section. Inside, the air was heavier with steam and the faint scent of soap. The same plaster walls surrounded him, smooth and faintly warm from the humidity. In the center of the room lay a large, pale-gray bath pool. The water shimmered faintly, catching reflections from the light above. Ripples stirred softly across the surface, disturbed by the gentle breath of air filtering in through a high window. The faint sound of dripping water echoed in the distance, creating a rhythm that blended with the silence like a heartbeat of the room itself.
Denato stepped closer. His reflection wavered in the water's stillness—blurred, unfamiliar. For a brief moment, he almost didn't recognize the face that looked back. Then he turned away and walked toward the smaller stalls along the wall. There were five of them in total, each containing a toilet that looked surprisingly clean. The faint scent of detergent hung in the air, sharp yet oddly comforting.
He wondered whether those punished or assigned chores were made to clean these areas often. That would explain the pristine condition—the polished metal, the spotless floor, even the paper neatly hung in its holder. Everything felt maintained, alive.
He checked the remaining stalls, finding them all nearly identical in order and cleanliness. The tiles reflected light softly, and the faint echo of dripping water added a sense of rhythm to the space. When he stepped back into the main hall, the air felt different—lighter, freer, touched by a soft draft flowing through the open window above the bath.
Outside the bathroom, Denato stood quietly, breathing in the cooler air of the corridor. It was broad and open, more spacious than he had imagined. The openness made the building feel less confining, almost serene. He took a few steps toward the back area, where another pool lay—a larger one this time, deeper, its water still and clear. It looked less like a utility bath and more like a place meant for soaking and rest. The scent of water was stronger here, mingled with the faint earthy smell of stone. A single droplet fell from the ceiling into the pool, the sound delicate and pure, rippling across the surface.
He stood there for a while, simply listening.
The rhythmic dripping of water, the faint hum of silence—it was oddly peaceful. For a moment, the orphanage didn't feel like a place of confinement but a quiet refuge, a small world insulated from the chaos beyond.
Finally, he turned away, deciding there was no reason to intrude further. The women's bath lay beyond another door, but he had no intention of stepping inside. A small, almost amused smile crossed his lips at the thought. He left the room quietly, the sound of his footsteps fading into the still corridor once more, swallowed by the vast, sleeping calm of the orphanage.