The first thing Soren Blackwood noticed was the silence.

Not the peaceful quiet of dawn. Not the dull hum of distant carriages or the muffled voices of passersby. This silence was thick, unnatural—a void pressing against his ears, as if the world itself had paused to watch him wake.

His mind felt heavy, thoughts sluggish and out of reach. The air smelled of old parchment, aged wood, and something faintly metallic.

He opened his eyes.

A dimly lit room stretched before him, bathed in the flickering glow of a gas lamp. Shadows stretched unnaturally against the walls, writhing across the faded wallpaper. The furniture was heavy, Victorian in style, well-kept yet exuding an air of age. A writing desk cluttered with books. A tall armoire in the corner. A mirror standing solemnly against the far wall.

None of it was familiar.

His breathing came faster. He pushed himself upright, the bedsheets rough and unfamiliar beneath his hands. The moment his feet touched the floor, a wave of dizziness struck him, disorienting and sudden.

Where am I?

The question should have had an easy answer. But his thoughts—his memories—slipped like water through his fingers.

A pressure built behind his eyes, something just out of reach. Then, his gaze landed on the writing desk.

There, resting atop a stack of papers, was a leather-bound journal.

The name Soren Blackwood was embossed in faded gold on the cover.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

A strange unease settled in his chest. That was his name. He was sure of it. But something in his gut told him… he shouldn’t be here.

Slowly, he reached for the book, fingers tracing over the worn leather. The moment he touched it, a dull pulse ran through his skin, like an echo of something long forgotten.

The pages crinkled softly as he opened them.

The first page was blank.

The second, too.

Then, on the third page, handwriting appeared.

His handwriting.

But he had never written these words.

> August 5th

I don’t remember writing this, but I know it’s mine.

The city feels wrong. Familiar, yet distant. I hear whispers in my dreams—someone calling my name, but it’s not my voice that answers.

I must not look too soon. The key is hidden where the veil is thinnest.

A chill crept down his spine.

Soren snapped the journal shut, heart pounding.

A knock at the door.

He jerked upright. The sound was soft, deliberate.

Then, a voice.

“Soren?”

A girl’s voice. Familiar. Too familiar.

The door creaked open, and Tia Blackwood stepped into the dim light.

His sister.

She looked up at him with wide brown eyes, hesitant yet relieved. Her dark hair was loosely tied, strands falling around her face in soft curls.

“You’re awake,” she said.

Soren opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. There was something wrong.

He knew her. Of course he did. But his memories didn’t fit together properly. It was as if someone had taken the pieces of his life and forced them into a shape that almost—but not quite—made sense.

Tia studied his face, her expression unreadable.

“You…” she hesitated. “You don’t remember, do you?”

His pulse quickened. “Remember what?”

A pause.

For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something else. But then, she forced a small smile.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You should come downstairs. Mother’s waiting.”

Then she turned and disappeared down the hall.

The air felt colder in her absence.

Soren remained still for a long moment, the journal clutched tightly in his hands.

"You don’t remember."

What had he forgotten?

His gaze drifted back to the journal, to the words that shouldn’t exist.

The key is hidden where the veil is thinnest.

A slow unease coiled in his chest. He didn’t know what it meant.

But something told him he was about to find out.