AGGHHH! A man woke up. What… in the world… is this place…?!
He shot upright, looking at an unfamiliar ceiling.
He didn't belong here, or so he thought.
Why am I here…? His voice trembled inside as he quickly stood up to check these new, unknown surroundings, only to fall back down upon feeling the sudden jolt of pain shooting through his chest
He felt a sudden sharp pain in his heart. He could barely resist it; and so he fell down on his bed.
He soon felt something wet trickling in his chest. As he tried to walk, his eyes lingered on the broken, shattered mirror hanging on the wall on his left.
Without any second thought, he decided to walk over to that mirror.
Each step felt weightless.
The candles around him flickered twice, then thrice.
A cold breeze came from the only window in that room, covered with a pale-red cloth – it had tiny stains in it.
The sky outside wasn't blank, it was stuffed with chaos and intensity. Stars bloomed with dignity, the moon looked terrifyingly real to even be called 'fake.'
A heavy-cold breeze came again from the window, and then the candles became dim.
As he marched towards the mirror, the wind got heavier — colder, pressing against him restlessly. Even in this, the candles regained their light and spark.
He looked at the shattered but aligned pieces of mirror.
Why the hell do I have blood stains on my hair? Makes me look like a psycho.
But out of nowhere, his eyes lingered on a faint dark spot near him, but his eyes were too blurry to even detect what it was.
Soon after the dark spot started to move, but not just move — it felt real.
And when the "dark spot" lunged at HIM, he recoiled and swiftly closed his eyes. However, when he opened his eyes again, the "dark spot" was nowhere to be seen.
Was he even alive? Or…
He noticed a book lying on the desk near him, the room was surprisingly small. A bed, a desk with drawers and a chair, a lantern, a cupboard and a shattered mirror.
Seeing the brown book, his curiosity grew even bigger. He had an uncontrolled urge to open the book.
He calmed himself and relieved his body, and took his first step towards the book, it was pale-brown in colour. As he approached nearer and nearer, he realised that it was no book but a notebook.
His footsteps were making no sound. Yet, the silence made him clench his hands. He tried to look straight and nowhere else.
As he reached the pale-brown notebook, he cleared his throat and grabbed the notebook, it felt heavy, and when he finally flipped the pages, it said:
Did you know…
A man dies twice: once, when he dies; twice, when he's forgotten.
"What does this have to do with me…?" He asked.
…
Be aware of the presentials. Especially… the audience.
What..!?
I warn you that knowing both: less, and more; would cause you trouble greater than ever before.
He slumped on his chair, firmly closing his eyes.
His eyes firmly widened shortly after. As if 'he' would never joke again.
…!
"Arthur… Feyn?" His brain stopped functioning, "I've heard this name before!"
It was the name of the author.
While he was vague about what was happening, he came across a letter devoured in black ink, roughly readable.
And when he opened the envelope, it was only a half burnt page with nothing except:
HELLO, STRANGER.
As he perused the letter, his hands trembled and a shiver went down his spine.
His pupils were so dilated that they looked unnatural. The weather outside was frigid.
The letter tumbled from his hands, falling on the floor.
As he could think of nothing else but what was happening, he felt a touch of a hand on his right shoulder, the hands felt unnaturally big to him. His body froze, he couldn't move even if he wanted to.
As "It" drew near his ears, he started feeling dizzy, as if he would've collapsed.
"Another one, huh? You should be on the other side of the planet."