The lights from the buildings lined in rows flooded the city, reflecting the glimmer of memories from kiosks once familiar to him. Each step he took, every path he trod, was like opening an old, dusty book, where every page felt intimately familiar in his memory.
Relentlessly, he looked left and right, sweeping his gaze over every corner of the streets that were no strangers to him. At this moment, he ran, relying solely on his instincts.
Statues along the roadside, relics from the Wetlands folklore, showcased formidable merman figures, standing as guardians through the ages. The streets he navigated were packed with crowds and a tight array of old buildings, leaving little room to breathe. The large pillars supporting some of the older buildings stood strong, yet the once pristine white and cream marble facades had long since lost their luster and now bore silent witness to the decline of an era. The buildings stood closely packed, allowing only a narrow space between them, with only every six or seven buildings having a small alleyway to the side.
The majestic past has been eroded, now the buildings are cluttered with patches from industrial remnants; scrap metal and glass repurposed as permanent cladding that wraps around every corner, turning the urban face of the Wetlands into a gloomy painting that has lost the radiance of its former glory.
Bright yellow light paints the silhouette of Fionn and casts shadows over this urban town, which grows ever dimmer with marble colors eroded by haphazard patchwork done by the inhabitants, further compounded by the geographic conditions of the Wetlands situated beneath the sea. Visibility often restricted to just a few meters makes artificial lighting in the city vitally important, augmented by coral light that hides in the city's crevices. Neon lights, glowing in shades of bright yellow and deep blue, cut through the darkness, drawing bold lines and curves against the backdrop of the city. This new layer of construction, made up of glass steel and composite plastics, attempts to heal old wounds but fails to capture the original essence. These materials, though less noble than marble, are more adaptable to the harsh marine conditions, towering high, creating skyscraper structures that strive to scratch the belly of the dome.
For Fionn, this city is now nothing more than a collection of relics from a past long lost in sparkle, far outstripped by Tytoal-Ba. The Wetlands now rely solely on the leftovers from the city above and are slowly torn apart by the encroaching influence of industry.
Fionn's memory was abruptly interrupted when he accidentally bumped into someone, tumbling down with a surge of panic. The person, tall and clad in unique attire, appeared as a striking figure. Their clothes, made from recycled materials, were adorned with distinctive ornaments of iron, silver, even gold, creating the illusion of belonging to an intimidating elite. Yet, the outfit remained elegant and had become a trend among the Wetlands residents, far removed from any notion of shabbiness.
"Watch where you're going!" the person exclaimed in a sharp tone, remaining unyielding in their stance as they continued on their way, indifferent to Fionn still seated on the ground.
Without hesitation, Fionn stood up straight, quickly patting the back of his pants to ensure no dirt had clung to him. His gaze then fixed on a towering structure in the center of the city, constructed from remnants of iron which, despite clearly being recycled components, still formed a structure piercing the sky. The tower, about 50 meters high and as wide as two buildings from Fionn’s perspective, featured four spires symmetrically protruding from the rim of its crater-like top. Above it, a glowing orb hung, capable of illuminating the entire city, touching just the tip of the city's sky dome.
The Artificial Sun, as the Wetlands residents called it. Since natural sunlight never penetrated the depths where the city lay, the ancestors had decided to create a synthetic sun using magic. No one knew exactly how they did it, but what was certain was that this Artificial Sun had lit up the Wetlands for over a century before the industrial age arrived.
Fionn continued his run, his mind focused on a single goal: heading to a place he certainly knew. Now, he trusted only in the pace of his feet, allowing his eyes to study the dome that sheltered the city.
He looked up, observing the colossal ribcage-like structure that covered the city from one end to the other, as if it were an eternal bond protecting the Wetlands. According to his knowledge, the dome made of giant bones had been there since the day Wetlands was founded. The transparent magical barrier it created shielded the city and its inhabitants, holding back the water, the pressure from the vast ocean, and the threats from sea monsters lurking nearby.
Without the Orcicea Dome, the Wetlands would not have survived to this day. This dome is the pride of the Wetlands residents.
Fionn's pace slowed to a halt when his eyes caught a street sign labeled "Deep Rotorua." Coral light illuminated the sign, making its lettering clear and stirring something within him. The panic that had once clouded his face now gave way to a look of relief.
"My home is around here," he murmured softly, his voice barely audible. He began to steal glances, trying to recall and confirm which street seemed to beckon his memories. However, as he prepared to move forward, a strange feeling overtook him—a sense of discomfort that gnawed at him, warning him not to pass through the front door as usual.
This time, it wasn't memory that provoked him, but an intuition urging him to find an alternative way to his home.
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Quickening his steps again, his eyes darted around, searching for a staircase. Instead of taking the usual path, he chose to climb the stairs. His hands deftly scaled each iron step mounted on the side of a beverage vendor's building. Fortunately, no one noticed him, allowing him to reach the roof without any obstacles.
With every muscle screaming in protest, Fionn continued to forge ahead, pushing himself beyond the brink of exhaustion. Each smokestack he encountered on the rooftops posed its own challenge; he vaulted over them with the agility that reminded one of a wild cat weaving through obstacles. It wasn't just one or two, but every chimney in his path was conquered with swift, precise movements that were nothing short of spectacular.
As his momentum peaked, he inadvertently crashed into a pile of laundry. The clothes flew off, dancing in the wind like kites freed from the hands of children, creating a kaleidoscope of bright colors against the gray city air. With quick reflexes, Fionn jumped onto a clothesline, balancing perfectly as he walked across it.
Not satisfied with just that, he continued his run, swiftly scaling building walls using pipes and other available structures. Building after building, he conquered, sliding from one rooftop to the next, running along edges, and leaping across gaps that could only be crossed with daring jumps.
Fionn kept running, ascending a large ventilation shaft, and with a powerful leap, he soared across an open space, landing smoothly on a lower surface. Relentlessly, he moved on, navigating the urban labyrinth at an astounding speed, each movement merging with the rhythm of his racing heart—ten minutes that felt like an eternity.
Finally, he arrived in front of his bedroom window. Almost disbelieving that he had made it, he paused momentarily, staring at the window with a deep sense of satisfaction.
Carefully, Fionn searched for a gap to open the window. The moment he found his chance, he slid in without further delay. His exhausting run had finally paid off—his sore legs forced him to collapse onto the floor, his body and wet clothes spreading moisture around him, his breaths coming in gasps as he lay on his bedroom floor.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs shattered the silence. Fionn started, hastily rising to his feet, though his head spun slightly from the slow return of blood to his brain. With quick reflexes, his hand grabbed his clothes and tossed them under the bed, attempting to hide any trace of his presence.
Right after, he began to perform some stretching exercises, raising his arms above his head and bending forward, making sure his body appeared as if it had been sweating from intense physical activity.
As he heard the footsteps drawing nearer, Fionn swiftly dropped to the floor and began a series of quick push-ups. He made his breathing intentionally heavy and rhythmic, creating the illusion that he had been engaging in strenuous exercise before the arrival of the person climbing the stairs.
The door to his room opened with a decisive sound, and in front of it stood a middle-aged man, imposing in stature. He wore a black fedora atop his head, complemented by an elegant black suit and a crisp white shirt underneath. Further adding to his mysterious aura, he donned a cloak, the bottom of which split into four segments. In his hand, he held a walking stick topped with a carved Orca, enhancing his aura of wisdom.
"Why aren't you wearing a shirt?" the man asked, his tone more curious than angry.
Fionn, momentarily startled by the man's appearance, quickly recognized him. It was Paris, the eldest brother in the house, whose return from work at this time should indeed have been expected, so his presence didn't overly surprise Fionn.
"Workout," Fionn replied softly, trying to sound convincing even though he wasn't entirely sure about his makeshift excuse.
"Why didn't you come out after I called you from downstairs?" Paris asked, his tone laden with expectation.
"Eh, you called, bro?" Fionn responded, feigning surprise.
Paris raised his eyebrows, clearly not fully convinced by Fionn’s delayed response. "Yes, I called a few times. Didn't you hear me?"
Paris stared at Fionn for a moment, as if trying to dispel the earlier question before saying, “Go take a shower and come down quickly, I've brought dinner.”
Paris then closed the door and headed downstairs. Fionn exhaled a sigh of relief, grateful that his brother didn’t probe any further. Nonetheless, a profound fatigue enveloped him; although he was freed from further questioning, a truly peaceful rest seemed far off.
Fionn grabbed a towel hanging on the left side of his room, but his eyes were immediately drawn to a book lying on the table. It wasn’t his—a seemingly plain object, adorned only by a single sheet of paper with elegantly scripted writing, the loops and swirls of the letters dancing gracefully across the page, drawing him in with their beauty.
Driven by deep curiosity, he picked up the paper, his eyes widening in astonishment. He should have remembered if he had ever penned such beautiful calligraphy, should have recognized the existence of this book, but no memory came to him at all.
He clearly read the writing in that paper, a message seemingly meant specifically for him:
"To my other self."
Spurred by overwhelming curiosity, Fionn quickly opened the first page, then rapidly turned the subsequent pages one after another. His expression of astonishment grew more pronounced with each page turned.
However, what he found only deepened his confusion—there was no writing at all within the book. It was completely empty, from the first page to the last he viewed.
Frustration and bewilderment rolled through Fionn's mind like waves. Why was there a book without content labeled "To my other self"? Was this some kind of joke?
Next, Fionn took the book to the window, where the artificial sunlight of the Wetlands illuminated each page, hoping to discover some sort of ink that would only appear under a specific type of light. Still, the pages remained blank, devoid of any hidden messages or instructions.
Fionn then looked for a pen, determined to fill the empty pages of the book with his own story if necessary. However, when he tried to write the first words, not a single drop of ink could stain the book's paper. He was shocked, almost disbelieving that the ink left no trace on the paper at all.
Confused, he grabbed another sheet of paper from his desk to prove that the pen he was using still worked properly. With a swift movement, he dragged the pen across the paper, and as expected, the ink flowed smoothly, forming lines and words without any obstruction.
"It works here," Fionn muttered to himself, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Fionn exhaled deeply, feeling stumped. "I better eat something," he said softly, thinking that filling his stomach might help dispel the fatigue and confusion swirling in his mind. With somewhat heavy steps, he moved toward the bathroom, planning to freshen up before eating.