CHAPTER 1; TO THE DAYBREAK.

02.02.XX. 

Mid-Autumn. 

Could it lie in one’s power for today to be a final breath?

Those miseries cannot be remedied; the truth laid in ##### … ??? Wait what??

Why did I push him away?

We could have succeeded in many things together.

How ignorant… 

The sound of the rain hitting the glass of a window was beautiful. Pattern always brings a sense of comfort to someone who’s sense of self has grown white mold. A sigh released an enamoring pattern of smoke held in his mouth, and slender, sullied fingers holding a cigar had, for once, tapped out. 

The cigar fell to the ground, along with the hand that held it. His arm limply holds close to his emaciated figure. The anxiety-panacea fizzes out eventually as a book, worn but clearly well loved, sits open on the desk next to his standing body. 

“Really?”

A dry, weeping laugh seeped out of his aching throat. His once limp hand reached up, holding his slender neck with difficulty. This body was so weak and tired that he could barely even use any force. 

The rain's beautiful song seemed to fade away in the distance despite its presence, because the man could not listen to that melody without his sorrowful tears only fading away in the sound. 

He stood, looking at the victorian-steampunk medieval world through his glass window. 

The crowds outside his window were so large it seemed like he was in some sort of megacity. He was likely in some sort of steampunk world based on the olden style of buildings but steam-based machinery. He was a fan of such before, so of course he’d notice.

Men who weren’t of the homeless or stall owners are garbed in elegant business attire, and women similarly although with more variety in style. Perhaps a growing trend, perhaps natural during the weekday. 

He finally walked away from the window, his steps loud yet quiet. The cigar lays untouched on the floor, its ashes only a few centimeters away. The scent was comforting, his eyes closed as he sat on a cushioned chair facing the desk.

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The dreary man has no memory of the caliginous atmosphere plaguing his surroundings. The dark atmosphere of dawn does not match with the bright red of his dawn in the memories he tries to recall. The gothic, winsome infrastructure was not resplendent of the basic architecture of his home. 

His fatigued, odd gaze seemed to harden at sight of the open book, more specifically at the date written at the top of the rough paper. 02.02.XX.

Shouldn’t the month of February carry along the bitter snow? Only the scent of cigars and faint humidity remain in this room. He recalled touching the windowpane earlier, and it indeed had not even a little chill to it. 

The only coldness he felt present rests in his mind, and perhaps his eyes. Regardless, he doesn’t feel the most comfortable reading one’s personal diary. An invasive action, he concurred. But then again, this is technically his diary. 

It didn’t feel the best to admit. He doesn’t have anything he particularly wants to escape from, or needs to. He had some friends, and a father too. He left them behind, right? Perhaps forevermore?

He didn’t particularly need any of them, nor did they need him. Perhaps it is simply this bit of melancholy that leads him to think about them. 

The strange heartbeat that followed his every breath seemed to come to a sudden harmony. His hand raised to hold his chest, before turning to the first page of the diary. 

His previously unfocused eyes were now alert. His languid, slouching body was hunched over the book with an intense expression. The contents of the book could be described as mesmerizing for someone like this man. 

The body he holds now is a prophet, essentially. He sees the eventuality of this world and its future, and despite having mortality, can talk to ‘The World’ itself. But he died from unknown reasons. The last page was written on the date previously mentioned; 02.02.XX.

Although his throat throbbed and ached, he had no choice but to read aloud. His voice was hoarser than before, and since there was no mirror he couldn’t see if there was an external cause for the pain. Perhaps someone strangled this body, he thought.

And apparently, he was also planning on creating a cult. This idea had practically no attraction to him, yet he decided to indulge in that idea. This guy had a good reason for it too.

Although he wanted to stop some of these events, he needed a lot of power to do so. In this world, power and control over others meant everything. Cults were rare because Gods warned their Apotheosis’, otherwise known as Incarnations. 

But as someone who could see the eventuality, and the destined fate of everything around him, how could a God’s tampering mean anything to him? The World had agreed with the original man’s decision anyhow. 

It was tiring to continue thinking about this, felt the man. He didn’t know this body’s name, nor did he want to worry about a name. This body isn’t alive, but it’s living. How can he mourn for someone who is living? 

He sighed and hid his face in his hands before groaning quietly. He wasn’t even making sense right now. Organize your thoughts, he told himself. The way to use the ability is described in great detail in the beginning. 

Close your eyes and imagine a beautiful, starry sky. Look at one of the stars and walk up to it, as if to pluck a dandelion from its roots.

When you see the star move away, look down and if you see your reflection, then try for another star. 

If you see more stars, the star you plucked is not a part of the eventuality and rather, the causality. You can see it, but if you try to change it you will be forced to pay a price. 

That was it. The description was simple, and detailed enough to understand. It was likely a real place he would get pulled inside once he asked to be. Imagining it might be one of many ways. 

Perhaps this body was a teacher before his insanity. He seems to originally be a gentle person based on his early writing. 

Nevertheless, he won’t try it. There’s enough events to work on currently. This is the wish of this body, and no matter the method he will succeed. Although he didn’t ask to be here, every being fears death. 

Even Gods, no?