He awoke to the sound of a ticking clock.
Not the clean, proper tick of a gentleman's pocket watch. Not the noble, ancient chime of a grandfather clock. No—this tick was wrong. Every second came half a beat too late, as if time itself had fallen out of sync.
He opened his eyes to a ceiling stained in sepia light. An oil lamp on a nearby desk sputtered against the gloom, casting a syrupy, amber glow across the room's wooden panels. Dust drifted in the air like ash, suspended mid-fall—as if time didn't quite know how to move forward.
Where am I?
No answer.
He sat up. Every joint ached, not from pain, but from disuse—like his limbs had been waiting for his mind to arrive.
The bed was hard. The sheets were rough, brittle. Stiff blotches marked the fabric—ink, or dried blood, he couldn't tell. Beside the bed, a porcelain kettle sat cold and unused, next to a chipped teacup. The water inside looked untouched.
He didn't remember drinking it.
He didn't remember sleeping.
He didn't remember his name.
Think. Think. Who are you?
...Nothing.
He tried standing. His knees trembled. Muscles stiff. Like he hadn't moved in days. Or years.
A tall mirror leaned against the opposite wall, partly obscured by a curtain of dust and shadow. As he stepped toward it, his own reflection came into view—sharp and unfamiliar.
A man in a dark high-collared coat, silver buttons gleaming dully. A cravat fastened at his throat. Black gloves on his hands.
Is this me?
His face stared back, unreadable. Grey eyes. Deep circles beneath them. Pale skin like old paper. He leaned in, searching for something—a scar, a birthmark, a reason. Anything that might say: this is who you were.
But there was nothing.
Just an echo.
A vague impression.
The feeling of being watched through fogged glass.
Then—he noticed something behind the mirror.
His hand moved before he could think. The glass was cold. Fingers slid along the edge until they found it—a sliver of yellowed paper.
He pulled it free.
A letter.
Thick parchment. Heavy. Sealed with red wax, marked by a symbol—an eye encircled by twelve thorns. Or were they spokes? The lines bled into each other the longer he stared.
His heart beat louder.
This is important. You don't know how. But it is.
He broke the seal.
The wax crumbled soundlessly. He unfolded the letter.
There were no words.
Just symbols. Shifting, spiraling shapes. Not letters, not numbers—not anything real. They writhed softly on the page like worms under moonlight. His vision blurred. His head throbbed.
Then—click.
The door behind him closed.
Hard.
He turned.
Nothing there. The handle didn't budge. He looked back at the letter.
It was gone.
Gone.
His hands were empty. He dropped to his knees, scanned the floor. No trace. No scrap. Nothing.
Did I imagine it? No. I felt the paper. I opened it. I saw those... things.
But then—
The mirror was gone too.
In its place: a narrow hallway. Its edges rippled slightly, like a painting stretched too thin. At his feet lay a ticket:
First Class — Thorne Railway
Carriage 7. Seat 46.
Date: 13·III·XIII.
No year. No departure time. Just that cryptic sequence.
His legs moved without permission.
Down the hallway. Dim lights buzzed overhead. The wallpaper peeled in slow curls. As he passed a window, he paused.
Nothing outside.
Just white. Thick fog, endless and pale.
Where am I? Is this a hospital? An asylum? Some kind of test?
His gloves were tight. Too tight. He hadn't put them on.
The hallway bled into a staircase. It went down. And down. And down.
Until he stepped out.
The air was cold. Gas lamps flickered on iron posts. The street was old—too old. Cobblestone. Tall buildings loomed like forgotten statues.
He stood at a train platform.
Train. That's what it's called.
He didn't know how he knew that.
A low rumble shook the ground. Then a hiss. A long, metallic serpent slid into the station, its sides marked with bronze numbers and a crest he couldn't read.
A voice echoed softly in his skull:
"Carriage 7. Seat 46."
He stepped forward.
Into the fog. Onto the platform. Through the open door.
Velvet-lined halls. Warm yellow light. And that same ticking—off-beat, dragging seconds behind them like dead limbs.
He passed carriage after carriage, the numbers fading in and out of view.
Until—Carriage 7.
He entered. Found Seat 46.
Sat down.
Across from him, a figure already waited.
Tall. Wrapped in dark cloth, face obscured. On the mask: a stitched golden circle.
He stared. "Do I know you?"
"You read the letter," the figure said calmly.
"But it didn't say anything."
A pause.
"Didn't it?"
He looked down at his hands again. The gloves itched. Were they his? Was anything?
He looked out the window. Nothing but fog.
"What is this place?"
The figure tilted its head. "A beginning."
The train jolted. A horn cried out.
Beginning of what? he wanted to ask.
Then the figure moved. Removed the hood. Folded back the cloth.
A face emerged—sharp, clean-cut. Cold eyes gleaming with calculation and something older.
"I go by the name Victor Grimwell," he said, in a tone that could dissect a soul. "Detective of the Tristan District. And you…"
He tapped a gloved finger on the window as the train began to move.
"…you are going to help me find the truth."
The train rumbled forward.
And for a brief second, deep in his chest, the man felt something shift.
Truth? Whose truth? Mine?
But that was the problem.
He didn't even know who he was.