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 up there, in the sky, the proof that he was in another world 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; then said, looking up:

“I’m in another world aren’t I?”

The statue in the middle of the plaza did not reply: memorial of some royal personage of yore who proudly looked 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 hands his own; yet, nothing felt more real, intimate, and corporeal than the body he was now in.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

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 a 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; 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.

Dry tears stuck to his cheeks flowed again, and he wiped it off with the heel of his palm.

Suddenly he remembered where he was: in the middle of a public-square, out in the open with tears in his eyes.

He looked around him, startled, as well as a little embarrassed, 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 just how long he had been sat here under the sun for. He looked around him for somewhere else to sit, somewhere with a shade, but found none where he could have his privacy at the same time.

Then he looked down beside him.

The leather satchel was still there, leaning on his thigh; the same one he had up on his shoulder when he first opened his eyes. He had yet to open it, see what was inside it, and now that he had calmed down somewhat he reached for it, put his hand in, and pulled out what he knew was a letter. To his surprise, stained red.