A breeze of cold air laden with a hint of dust passed through a small hole in a wooden wall belonging to an old, dilapidated house entirely made of wood that had started to decay due to its age.

The house wasn’t large inside, consisting of a very spacious room on the left side, which housed a hearth filled with cold ashes and burnt wood that had stopped burning hours before. On the opposite side of the wide room, there was a slightly large table filled with various books and paper scrolls, some worn and torn while others were new and preserved, holding the scent of fresh paper that lent an air of knowledge.

Cough!

Cough!

A dry coughing sound spread from a small, short door across the wide room, filling the otherwise silent space with an eerie coldness and gloom.

In a slightly smaller room adjacent to the wide room, which occupied most of the space in the old house, there was a wooden bed upon which a young man in his late twenties lay. His face was ordinary—not beautiful nor unattractive—but seemed pallid due to his very pale skin and the large dark circles under his closed eyes, which twitched slightly in a strange manner as if he were suffering from a disturbing nightmare. Suddenly, the young man opened his eyes to reveal pupils of a faint, brownish color devoid of the life that typically glows in the eyes of the young, making him appear like an old man who had endured the harshness of life.

Exhale!

The young man let out a long sigh as his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling of the room, which emitted a faint, almost imperceptible cracking sound. After a short moment of stillness, the young man moved slowly, pulling himself into a sitting position. He then scanned the room with a look filled with melancholy, finally stopping at a wooden wheelchair near his bed. With great effort and slowness, he extended his hand and grasped the armrest of the wheelchair, pulling his frail body with difficulty.

The old, tattered mattress sagged and a part of it fell to the cold floor, but the young man didn’t mind. He continued his struggle until he managed to pull himself fully onto the wheelchair. His breaths were harsh, and his face was taut, showing the difficulty of moving from the bed to the wheelchair.

Huff!

The young man let out a long, strained sigh, and his tense expression relaxed slightly. He adjusted his sitting position and placed his hands on the wheelchair’s wheels, ready to push himself, but the fallen mattress blocked the path of the small front wheels.

*Hmm...*

The young man emitted a soft, mocking grunt, bending slightly despite his immobile legs. He was used to it, but he didn’t care. He leaned down, picked up the fallen mattress, and arranged it a little before gripping the wheels of the wheelchair again and pushing himself towards the wide room. The wheelchair wheels emitted a harsh, creaking sound as they rolled over the worn wooden floor, and the chair itself wobbled slightly, making a squeaking noise due to its age. Despite everything, the young man’s gaze remained calm and clear as if he felt nothing.

“The place is so messy…”

The young man sighed wearily as he looked at the scattered books and items throughout the room. He didn’t bother trying to do anything about it. He guided his wheelchair towards the cold, unlit hearth and picked up a small wooden board that he placed across his immobile lap. He grabbed some wood shavings and flint stones beside the hearth and began striking them together, producing tiny sparks that fell onto the shavings and ignited slightly.

After gently blowing on the tiny flame, it grew to life. Quickly, he tossed it into the hearth and added more shavings to sustain the flame. He then placed small wooden pieces beside the hearth, and as soon as they touched the fire, they ignited, causing a puff of gray, acrid smoke due to the poor quality and cheapness of the wood. Nonetheless, warmth began to spread throughout the room, reducing the chill and loneliness of the grim old house.

The young man’s gaze froze for a moment on the fire consuming the wooden logs, growing bigger and spreading more heat, smoke, and a foul odor. Yet, his eyes remained fixed on the flame, the flickering tongues of fire reflecting in his dim, cloudy eyes. In that moment, fragmented memories surfaced in his calm mind.

His name was once Sollivan Duskwraite, from a family of some noble standing. His family had served under the wing of the Golden Lion Empire for generations, achieving great honor that earned them respect and admiration from the citizens of their previous city. Sollivan himself was a talented fighter, surpassing both his father and grandfather in martial skills, making him the pride of the family with high hopes pinned on him. His grandfather had hoped Sollivan would outshine all his ancestors and become an imperial knight, achieving the highest degrees of glory and honor, directly serving the imperial family.

“The Golden Eye...”  

Sollivan muttered softly, words barely audible, as the reflection of the fire in his eyes dimmed strangely, unlike the rising flames in the hearth. He then let out a long sigh and pushed his wheelchair towards a nearby wooden chest by the hearth, containing sacks filled with grains and a few potatoes with mold-covered skins. He reached for a handful of potatoes, placing them beside his thigh on the chair, then attempted to grab a handful of thick wheat flour, but his hand halted suddenly. His distant memories stirred, awakening old sorrows within him, but he shook his head resolutely, pushing those troubling thoughts aside. He murmured with a sad tone, filled with bitterness:

"It's all over... everyone is dead... and I’m paralyzed... no point in thinking about the past. I can't do anything."

A look of sadness crossed his pale face, but he ignored it and picked up a handful of flour, placing it in a rusty metal pot filled with soot stuck to the bottom. He added a bit of water, mixing it into a loose dough, then set the pot on the hearth. Then he moved to the other side of the hearth, took a small knife and a wooden board, and returned to the large table. He began peeling the potatoes and cutting them into small pieces. After finishing, he added the potato pieces to the flour and water mixture, then sprinkled a little salt to cut through the bitterness of the mixture.

After a few minutes, the strange soup Sollivan prepared started to simmer. He took a ladle and a bowl, pouring half of it into the bowl for himself, then covered the rest with a round wooden disc to keep out insects and dust. After setting the ladle aside, he took a small wooden spoon and slowly pushed his wheelchair with one hand while holding the bowl with the other. Despite the difficulty of maneuvering the wheelchair in this way, he showed no anger or frustration. He focused entirely on guiding the wheelchair and protecting the soup from spilling and staining his tattered clothes.

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When he reached the table, he placed the soup and spoon on it and smiled a faint smile, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. He secured his chair in place and began to eat slowly, finding a quiet satisfaction in the meal despite its poor taste. For Sollivan, this simple meal was a luxury compared to his daily existence. He often spent his days subsisting on hard, black bread and water, rarely tasting fresh vegetables. Meat was known to him only on the rarest occasions.

After finishing his meal, Sollivan cleaned the table and returned the dish to its place after washing it with water.

Ring! Ring!

A loud bell rang out, jolting Sollivan’s dull gaze, which was immersed in cleaning the cooking utensils. He raised his head with a sigh of frustration, resigned:

"I’m late again."

He quickly pushed his wheelchair toward his small room, where he grabbed an old, slightly torn shoe. He struggled to put it on over his cold, helpless feet, then picked up a worn leather bag placed beside the bed. He pushed himself back toward the cluttered table filled with books and manuscripts and began sorting through the pile in front of him. He chose one new, clean book and an old, tattered one with its cover beginning to fall apart, then placed them carefully inside the bag to avoid wrinkling their pages. He secured the bag with a worn leather strap around his waist and attached it to the side of his wheelchair.

He then moved toward the wooden door of the house, which was locked with a large wooden plank. He glanced around his home one last time to make sure everything was in order. After confirming that the fire in the hearth had died down and only a little smoke was rising from the small metal chimney, he took hold of the door handle. But he hesitated for a moment, pausing.

He took a deep breath and opened the door. A light breeze from autumn hit him, carrying dust that irritated his eyes and a foul odor that filled the air. His face scrunched up momentarily at the smell, but he quickly pushed his wheelchair outside the house. Before him stretched a narrow alleyway, crowded with ramshackle wooden houses. Some were large, others small, while some jutted above single-story homes in disjointed arrangements. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the sound of barking stray dogs filled the air. A few domesticated chickens wandered here and there, pecking at the dirt-streaked ground, mixed with muddy puddles and remnants of human waste.

Bark!

Sollivan closed the door tightly behind him, then began to push his wheelchair through the narrow alley. The place teemed with passersby who had rough appearances and gloomy expressions. Most people wore faded gray clothes made of coarse linen, while a few were dressed in tattered or incomplete clothing. Some looked extremely dirty, with foul odors clearly emanating from them, indicating they were likely homeless, while others seemed more orderly despite the age of their clothing, maintaining a relatively acceptable level of cleanliness.

Sollivan pushed his wheelchair with difficulty through the uneven and muddy ground. Dirty water and sticky mud clung to the wheels of his chair, and some droplets splashed onto his worn shoe and the bottoms of his pants. However, he showed no interest in it, continuing to push his wheelchair. His eyes scanned the people around him cautiously. Some shot him disgusted looks, while others blatantly spat to the side when his wheelchair blocked their path.

'As usual.'

He continued his way without lowering his guard. He had been robbed several times, and his bag had been stolen by unknown people before, so he held onto it tightly. Whenever he spotted a suspicious person, he would slow down and place his hand on the bag, cautious and wary.

As he pushed his cart and scanned his surroundings, his gaze lingered for a moment on some dirty little children playing innocently, oblivious to the world around them. He smiled for a moment, but his mood quickly soured when he noticed one of those children who used to bother him, sometimes even provoking the other kids to steal from him or roughly push his wheelchair, causing him to fall once and injure himself.

"Hmph, damn child!" Sollivan pushed his cart faster before the annoying kids could notice him. After putting a good distance between them, he took a deep breath, relieved to have left the place. After several minutes, the dirty, narrow alley improved as the number of houses decreased and side streets increased. The ground became cleaner, making pushing the wheelchair smoother, and Sollivan’s pace quickened, as did the reduced, irritating vibrations.

Sollivan continued to push his wheelchair, and after several more minutes, he completely left the filthy area filled with dilapidated buildings and poor people. Finally, he reached a main street, where part of the ground was paved with stones. The sides of the street were lined with bustling shops displaying a variety of inexpensive and luxurious goods. There were also fragrant restaurants releasing tempting smells into the crowded street, filled with people from various social classes. Some were dressed in fine clothes made of the finest silk and cotton, while others wore simple linen garments.

From time to time, a line of guards could be seen, wearing thick leather armor reinforced with a layer of solid metal, and iron helmets protecting their heads and faces. Their armor was plain without any embellishments, indicating their low rank. Nevertheless, whenever people saw them, they made way for them with respect. Sometimes, some would move aside out of fear.

The guards' gazes were sharp, looking around with hawk-like eyes, capable of seeing everything. They didn’t take any additional actions other than patrolling, but that was enough to keep people calm, making no one dare to cause trouble in the main street of the city.

After half an hour of leaving his home, Sollivan finally reached his destination, a large shop with a huge sign hanging above its door reading "The Minor Library." He pushed his wheelchair and entered through the wide door of the shop, which was filled with the scent of books and old manuscripts. The large shop was filled with several big shelves full of different types of books and manuscripts, and there were some clean, well-arranged tables and chairs in the other part of the room. Near the entrance, there was a large reception desk where an elderly man in his late sixties was sitting, with a thick white beard and a small, pointed mustache, full of wrinkles beneath his eyes. He held an old book in his hands, reading it intently.

When the elderly man heard the sound of the wheelchair, he raised his head slightly and looked at Sollivan with a calm and relaxed voice, "You’re late as usual." He then folded the book and set it aside, looking at him with an expectant gaze.

Sullivan smiled faintly and replied with a chuckle, "And as usual, I'm sorry." He then opened his bag and pulled out the two books he had brought, handing them to the elderly man who took them and set them aside. The elderly man asked in a very friendly tone, with some excitement, "Did you read the book I gave you?"

Sullivan raised his eyebrows, holding back a faint chuckle, "It's very good. I have to admit, you've outdone yourself this time. All of your previous books seemed ordinary compared to this one."

The elderly man sighed with relief and looked at Sullivan with eyes that flickered with a bit of excitement, then spoke with a happy tone, "You know how to flatter this old man, but hearing your opinion really comforts me." This elderly man was Ellis Goodwin, the owner of the small bookstore where Sullivan worked. Despite being his boss and older by several years, Ellis treated him like a close friend. They would discuss many matters related to the store and their personal lives. Ellis's passion was writing, and he had authored several books and manuscripts, often seeking Sullivan's opinion before making them available in the bookstore.

Sullivan smiled and pointed to the two books on the desk, "By the way, I finished copying this book. I hope you'll review it."

Ellis looked at the two books with a complex expression, then sighed deeply before speaking with a gloomy tone, "Sullivan, you really overwork yourself. I understand winter is approaching and you need money for supplies." Ellis opened his mouth to say more, but then paused and sighed again, adding, "You know what? There's no need for me to say more. You're too stubborn, and my words won't change your mind."

Sullivan's primary work involved copying old books and creating new copies. He earned a few silver coins for each book he copied, sometimes a bit more if the book was lengthy or included detailed charts and illustrations. Although he earned a slightly higher commission, the job was demanding and time-consuming, often allowing him to complete only one or two books a week.

A faint smile appeared on Sullivan's face, full of gratitude, "Thank you for worrying about me, my friend, but don't worry, everything is under control." Despite saying that, a look of helplessness appeared on his face, and he felt a tense sadness. 'I really hope so, I'm exhausted, physically drained, and mentally shattered. I only have a few years left to live, yet I'm still holding on and trying to enjoy what remains of my life, even though it's just a messy piece of the puzzle.' His emotions mixed for a moment, causing him to lower his head and gaze at his motionless feet with a blurry look. 'Winter is coming, and business is about to slow down. I still haven't saved enough money. Also, peaceful winter is my most loved and hated season at the same time.' Due to his inability to walk and the snow piling up, making it difficult to navigate his wheelchair, Sullivan spent most of the winter indoors, reading books and historical records that he loved so much. They were the only things that made him feel and see things he could no longer experience, even though they were relayed from others' experiences.

...

"Anyway, Sullivan, you can take a break. It's still early, and the store won’t be busy for a while. I’ll handle the few customers who come in during this period." Ellis’s concerned voice snapped Sullivan out of his scattered thoughts. He then raised his head and looked at the worried elderly man, feeling a warmth in his heart and sincerely thanking him, "Thank you, my friend. I think I’ll be bothering you a bit. Haha!"

"No need to thank me!" Ellis laughed and waved his hand, motioning for him to go.

Sullivan pushed his wheelchair a few steps, and then he heard the sound of footsteps from a customer approaching. He turned his head slowly and glanced at the short person standing in front of the reception desk. His brows furrowed in annoyance. He felt his calm chest tightening and turning into a surge of anger, but these feelings only lasted for a moment before he returned to his usual calm, examining the face of the elderly woman with her wrinkled skin and the look of disgust in her eyes. The elderly woman didn’t give Sullivan a single glance and walked towards the reception desk, where Ellis greeted her with all due respect.

"How can I assist you, madam?"