The first breath of air always hurts a little more upon waking, but I’m sure the last one will be painless. 

My chest feels heavy, as if every breath is a reminder that I didn’t come out of the war unscathed. I don’t remember exactly when this weight began. Maybe it was in a forgotten trench, amidst the dust and screams. Or perhaps it was in the hospital, when the doctor with tired eyes told me I had survived something that should have taken my life. 

“It’s like chronic pneumonia or asthma on steroids,” they said. I just nodded, as if I cared to understand. 

The inhaler resting on the nightstand is a constant. I look at it every morning, but I don’t always use it. Lately, I’ve been rationing it, even though the government sends me a new one every week. It’s free, but nothing lasts forever, and I’d rather not depend on something that could be taken from me. So I push through, swallowing the coughs and wheezes in my breathing. Today will be one of those days without the inhaler.

My name is Ulises Twain. I’m thirty-three years old, but the scars of war on my face and the way my back has curved make me look older. I live in Hot Rocks, a small town hidden among the rocky plains of a state that seems to have been forgotten even by the wind. I work at the local library, a building struggling to stay upright as much as the elderly people who frequent it. In the silence of its shelves, I find strange solace, a sort of truce with the ghosts that visit me when I close my eyes.

I get up slowly, my muscles reminding me that I’m no longer twenty. Each morning is an echo of the last. I rise in my small apartment with walls yellowed by the relentless sun. 

I make coffee, though it barely has any flavor, and stare at the desert through the window while the radio hums old melodies. Routine is my refuge, a labyrinth without exits or surprises. Life moves at a slow pace here, as if the sun’s heat slows everyone down. The library where I work is small, a place with barely any visitors. It’s not an exciting job, but it’s peaceful, and after what I’ve been through, peace isn’t a luxury, it’s a necessity.

Today was no different. I washed my face, looked in the mirror, and saw the man the war returned: sunken eyes, a scruffy beard I lack the energy to shave, and dark circles that tell more stories than any book in my library. I dressed in comfortable, worn clothes and walked to work.

The morning air is thick with dryness, and as I step outside, I slip the lighter into my pocket. I quit smoking years ago, but I like carrying it with me. I suppose it’s a useless habit, like holding onto memories of a life that no longer exists.

Crossing the main square, I passed by the usual café, where I never enter because the coffee is expensive, and memories of trench coffee don’t wash away easily. My feet moved out of habit while my mind wandered elsewhere. I daydreamed about the world I never saw, the countries that remained out of reach because the war caught me before I could chase them. What I wouldn’t give for a motorcycle and a map, to lose myself on nameless roads and be someone else, someone who wasn’t Ulises Twain, a veteran without glory.

A desire I try to ignore: traveling. The war took that possibility away, or at least that’s what I tell myself to justify my cowardice.

The buzz of an old car passes by, kicking up dust. I stop for a moment to cough, trying not to think about the burning in my lungs.

When I looked up, I saw him.

He’s across the street. A man standing with the sun beating down on his back, casting a long shadow that almost made me doubt if he was real. But it’s him. It’s me. Across from me stands a man physically identical to me. Not just similar, but exactly the same. The same bone structure, the same sunken eyes, though his seemed to have a brightness that mine had lost. He wears a pristine black leather jacket and pants that look new. His brown hair, free of my prematurely gray strands caused by stress, is perfectly slicked back, and there’s no trace of the unkempt beard covering my jaw. He looks at me, but not like one looks at a stranger. It’s a gaze loaded with recognition, as if he’d been waiting for me.

Fear and surprise paralyze me.

“I don’t have any brothers, and it can’t be my nephew, my sister died long time ago.”

I quickly think of all the possibilities that could explain what my eyes are seeing. I try to say something, but my throat is dry. He watches me for a few seconds, and for a moment he seems surprised, as if something didn’t fit into his plan. Then he speaks:

-Wow, we thought you died alone…

His voice was mine, but there was something different about it. It was firmer, more confident. Before I could respond, he began walking toward the crowd.

The phrase hit me like a bullet. The world spun around me as I tried to understand what he had said. Die? What was he talking about? Who thought I had died? But before I could ask, before I could gather enough air in my lungs to respond, the man—my other self—smiled with a slight nod and headed toward the crowd.

-Wait!-I managed to shout, but my lungs betrayed me. A violent cough shook my body, stealing my breath. 

I leaned forward, resting my hands on my knees, trying to regain control. I fumbled for the inhaler in my pocket, but it was back in my apartment. Idiot.

When I caught my breath, I ran after him, but I tripped on the curb and collided with a woman pushing a cart full of oranges. The fruits rolled across the pavement, but I didn’t even stop to apologize. My eyes desperately searched for the man among the heads and bodies moving around me.

I lost him.

Who was that man? How could he be me? And above all, what did he mean by that phrase?

The distant sound of a train cut through my thoughts. I stood still on the sidewalk, my lungs burning and my heart pounding as if I were back on the battlefield. Something inside me told me this wasn’t over, that I couldn’t ignore it.

The rest of the day was a blur. At the library, I could barely concentrate. Every time someone entered, I looked up, hoping it was him. Customers spoke to me, and I responded automatically, without really remembering what I said. My mind was trapped in a loop, replaying that scene, that phrase. “We thought you had died alone.” What did it mean? Why did he look so much like me?

That night, after closing the library, I took a different route home, hoping absurdly to find him again. I walked through streets I’d never set foot on, my steps echoing on the hot asphalt that was cooling under the darkening sky. But he wasn’t there. It was as if he had never existed.

When I got home, I collapsed onto the bed without even taking off my shoes. My heart was still pounding, and my mind wouldn’t stop spinning.

I grabbed the inhaler from the nightstand and took a puff. I felt the weight in my chest disappear instantly, freeing me from both a physical and mental burden.

Even though the medication relaxed me, when I closed my eyes, I only saw his face. My face.

Something had changed inside me. It was as if the encounter had opened a door to a part of my soul I had forgotten. Or maybe to a part I had never known. I felt an urgency, a need to understand, to seek answers. Because for the first time in a long time, I felt something other than the weight of monotony and the burning in my lungs. I felt that my life was on the brink of something. So close...

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That I could breathe the fresh air of a place I once loved.

*

The next day, I woke up feeling more spirited. I washed my face thoroughly and even shaved, today was going to be important. I was determined to find that man, no matter the cost.

Before leaving home, I gathered the most important things I owned: my inhaler and my weapons.

First, I strapped on my Colt Woodsman, securing it at the back of my belt, hidden under my dark green trench coat. On the right side of my waist, I placed a model 1892 revolver. The most powerful weapon of all, though, was the poacher's rifle, completely wrapped in cloth and strapped to my back with a sling, a long hunting rifle that I still feared to free from its soft white bindings. But if necessary, I would.

Today, I wouldn’t go to work.

As usual, I left home early, but this time, I had no intention of opening the library. I would find him. I had to.

Walking through the streets, passersby gave me curious looks. Maybe it was because I was armed, but they couldn’t see through my coat, and the rifle was concealed. Or perhaps it was my appearance. Today, I had tidied myself up, styled my hair, shaved, and put on more striking clothes. Frankly, I looked even more like that man who bore my face.

Time flew by quickly. I had left home at eight, when the sun was not yet at its peak, but now it was clearly noon.

Still nothing.

I was about to give up. Maybe I really had imagined that man. It was a scorching day, and my chest had hurt badly. I must've been delirious.

Defeated, I began walking home with my head down.

Until suddenly, just before turning a corner, I heard a female voice behind me, unfamiliar but clear.

-Hey, boss! I've been looking for you all morning! Why don't you stay at the hotel while we get the supplies?

I spun around immediately, nearly drawing my gun by reflex.

The woman who spoke was tall, with long, flowing ginger-colored hair that reached her waist.

Our eyes met, and we both mirrored expressions of surprise. Mine, however, bordered on disbelief, while hers was more casual.

-Wow, boss! Nice new coat! And what did you do to your hair? Did it turn gray overnight?

I stood frozen. Who was this woman? Was my double her boss? What were they doing here?

As the seconds of silence stretched on, the woman’s expression gradually shifted to match mine. She realized her mistake—and who I was.

-You… We thought you were dead... What are you doing here?

She stepped toward me cautiously, as if approaching a rabid dog.

Instinctively, I took a step back.

-How is this possible?-She whispered, drawing closer.

Suddenly, my chest began to burn—but not because of my lungs. It was a feeling I hadn't experienced since my years as a soldier.

"If you want to keep breathing, run. Run and don’t look back..."

A memory of a forgotten voice echoed in my mind, though it sounded as if it was right behind me, rough and urgent.

And I obeyed.

Dash!

In an instant, I turned and sprinted with all my strength, ignoring the pain in my lungs.

-Wait! We're not going to hurt you!

I ignored her and kept running.

I quickly turned the corner to my right. Ahead was an empty street devoid of people.

"I can't run for long. I can't hide."

I scanned my surroundings desperately for an advantage. Looking up, I found one—a signpost mounted on the wall a few meters above the ground.

Hop!

With an agile leap, I grabbed the sign, hanging just over two meters high.

-Where did you go?!

The ginger-haired woman passed right beneath me, unaware of my presence. She stood there, frantically searching.

Now was my chance.

Drop!

Without hesitation, I pounced on her, catching her by surprise and knocking her to the ground.

-Augh!

I quickly twisted her arms behind her back, immobilizing her.

-Who are you?! Answer me! Who’s your boss?! Why does he look exactly like me?! Why did you think I was dead?!

I yelled so fiercely I thought my lungs would burst.

But she didn’t answer. She only began trembling. I could tell, though—it wasn't fear.

Crack! Creck! Crack!

Suddenly, a sound like a massive window shattering filled my ears.

Like lightning, a fleeting memory set all my muscles on edge.

“Get out of there!" was the feeling that surged through me.

I jumped back as far and fast as I could.

"A fragment of Eidolon?!"

The woman began trembling violently as the mark of a noose appeared on her neck. But within seconds, she froze.

She was dead.

My heart pounded relentlessly in my chest.

-What a shame. Claudia was very competent.

A male voice sounded ahead of me.

Standing there was a tall man with sleek black hair combed back, dressed in a black jacket and tight gray trousers.

-I bet it’s been a while since you've seen anyone use a fragment. Do you even still have yours?

Words wouldn’t come out of my mouth.

Only actions.

I quickly drew my gun and aimed it at the man’s head.

But he didn’t flinch.

-Whoa, whoa, let's not get tense. Don’t you remember me? It’s me, Heathcliff.-He said, raising his hands.

I shook my head slowly.

-You really don't remember…

-Who are you?! Tell me everything, or I’ll blow your head off!

-Don't worry, Ulises. I'll tell you everything you need to know...

-HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?!

-I already told you. Calm down, and I’ll explain; just listen carefully.-He said with a malicious smile.

Sweat trickled down my temple as I aimed directly at his head.

But I made the mistake of lowering my guard to listen.

Zas!

He lunged at me swiftly. I had no time to shoot. In a flash, his hand struck my wrist hard; pain shot through it, and the gun flew out of my grasp.

Pow!

I blocked his first punch, but his knee strike left me breathless. I twisted my body and pushed him against the wall, but with remarkable speed, he rebounded off the wall and landed behind me.

I quickly swung a punch at his jaw, but he dodged it effortlessly, twisting my arm into a lock that knocked the wind out of me.

With a roar of rage, I managed to twist around and shoved him backward with a palm strike to his solar plexus. His balance wavered for a second.

A mistake.

His guard dropped for just a moment, and my free hand found the second pistol behind my waist.

-Looks like you haven’t gotten rusty, huh?

-Who are you? Who are your people? Tell me.

Heathcliff smiled, staring directly at the barrel of my gun.

Crack! Creck! Crack!

Again, the sound of shattering glass.

In an instant, a massive shadow appeared behind the man.

The shadow quickly formed into the enormous head of a black wolf with jagged teeth.

-GRAAAAAAAAWWL!!!

I barely had time to leap away, but the wolf's jaws clamped down on my entire arm.

-Aaagh!

-As you can see, my contract with my Eidolon is still active.-Heathcliff said.

I could barely hear him; the pain in my arm was overwhelming—it felt as if the beast was about to tear it off.

Wasting no time, Heathcliff dusted himself off and picked up his companion's corpse, intending to leave.

But before that, he approached me.

-Ulises Twain…-His voice was so dark that it made my heart stop trembling and start shrinking in fear-It's surprising that you're still alive. So if I were you, I’d stay in this lousy little town and not cause trouble for the people who were forced to forget you...

Those were the last words I heard before I passed out.

Words that, both in mind and body...

Left me breathless.