The plaza outside the train station was sparse of any passersby, while the surrounding arcades lined with stores bustled with life; soothing music played in the background and came to him with the distant chatter; and behind his back, faint rumble of cars arose down a short flight of stairs where three boulevards intersected to form a busy thoroughfare.


    The day was cool, pleasant, and the sky mild and scenic. Everything seemed suffused with an incorporeal aura of a dream; and even now, he still could not believe it, truly believe it, that he was here, and not there, back at home, still asleep.


    He looked up, and up there, in the sky, proof dangled right before his very eyes.


    A celestial body of dawn blazing in all its brilliance. At first he thought it was the sun, but the undeniable fact that it was imprisoned inside seven concentric rings of radiant runes brooked none of his askance.


    Briefly blind from squinting at it again, Satou looked away, and rubbed his teary eyes.


    “I’m in another world aren’t I?”


    The statue in middle of the plaza did not reply, instead proudly looking past him with his deep-set furrowed eyes.


    Elbows rest on his thighs, Satou looked down at his still slightly trembling hands, and again felt that jarring dissonance that these lithe fingers were really not his. He felt conflicted, perturbed, just to see it, precisely because for the life of him he could not call these his own; yet nothing felt more real, intimate, corporeal to him than the body he was now in.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    An hour had passed by since he had been sat here, parsing out his thoughts; and an hour more since he had seen himself in front of one of the storefront’s mirror. He recalled that face—that tousled jet-black hair, hazel eyes, lips parted to see him—and again he felt his heart skip a beat.


    “What a beauty,” he murmured, and blushed when he realized who he had repeated. He laughed, embarrassed; he could not help himself but laugh, embarrassed; and he found that his own gaily laughter did not fail to enchant him.


    What a beauty indeed…


    Never in his life had he felt this giddy, yet so utterly confounded at the same time. Vertigo—that sinking feeling which he so dreaded coursed through his entire body, his heart raced, but he did not shun it. How could he, when the discomfort which had first brought him here now imbued this precious moment of his with a glint of indelible beauty.


    His wish had been fulfilled. By all appearances, his wish had been fulfilled. He was in another world. Where am I, how am I here, why am I here—such metaphysical questions were distant and irrelevant. Sat here under a tall post that fluttered the flag of a nation foreign to him, whatever ploy or machination or act of nature had brought him here, all that mattered was that he was here—here, in another world—in another world! And he was the happiest soul alive for it.


    Dry tears stuck to his cheeks flowed again, and he wiped it off with the heel of his palm. A warm breeze brushed him, and all of a sudden he remembered where he was: a public-square, out in the open, with tears glistening in his eyes. He looked around him, startled as well as a little embarrassed, coyly, and sighed in relief when he saw no one stare.


    His body loosened, go less taut, and he felt a cold dampness underneath his shirtsleeve: sweat, he realized, his own; and also realized only now just how long he had been sat here under the sun for. Somewhere else to sit, with a shade—he looked around for it, but found none where he would have his privacy at the same time. Then he looked down beside him. The leather satchel leaning next to his thigh—He had it on his shoulder when he first opened his eyes. Now that he had calmed down somewhat, he reached for it… and pulled out, to his surprise, a letter, stained with blood.