John stared at Hawkins, unsure if he had heard correctly.
The question the butler had asked seemed strange enough, but the expressions around the room made the unease in his chest grow heavier by the second. Julian had stopped touching his food entirely, his eyes fixed on John with a mixture of confusion and concern. The servants remained unnaturally still, as if unsure whether they should remain or quietly disappear.
John forced a small, uncertain smile.
"Remember what?" he asked.
Hawkins did not answer immediately. The old butler's posture remained perfectly straight, yet there was a visible hesitation in his eyes that had not been there earlier. It was the look of a man trying to choose his words carefully.
"Master John," Hawkins said slowly, "yesterday evening, when you returned home, I informed you of the unfortunate news."
John's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table.
"What news?"
Hawkins drew a quiet breath.
"Your father passed away three days before your arrival."
For a moment the words seemed to float in the air without meaning.
John blinked.
"My… father?"
The room had grown so quiet that even the faint ticking of the clock on the wall seemed loud.
Hawkins inclined his head slightly, his voice remaining steady though the subject was clearly uncomfortable.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Thomas Halsworth died suddenly while at his office at the British Equatorial Trading Company headquarters. The physicians who examined him concluded that it was a heart attack."
John felt something inside him go still.
According to the memories that belonged to this body, Thomas Halsworth had been a strong and energetic man, deeply involved in the operations of the trading company. Even though he was no longer young, nothing in those memories suggested a man on the brink of death.
"Three days before I arrived?" John repeated slowly.
"Yes, sir."
Hawkins folded his hands behind his back in his usual composed manner.
"At the time, Mr. Halsworth had been working late at the company offices. The dockworker strikes had caused several delays in shipments, and he was attempting to reorganize the schedules in order to avoid losses for the company."
Julian nodded slightly, confirming the story.
"The strain must have been considerable," the doctor said quietly. "Heart failure under such conditions is not unheard of."
John sat motionless.
He searched his mind for the memory Hawkins had mentioned—some recollection of arriving home and hearing this news—but found nothing.
There were fragments.
Small flashes.
A dark hallway.
Voices speaking urgently.
The feeling of dizziness.
But the moment Hawkins described simply did not exist in his memory.
His mind felt like a book with several pages torn out.
"That's… strange," John muttered.
Everyone at the table looked at him.
"I don't remember that at all."
Julian frowned immediately.
"You do not remember being told of your father's death?"
John shook his head slowly.
"No."
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to force the memory to appear, but all he found were scattered impressions that refused to form a coherent sequence.
"I remember arriving home," he said after a moment. "At least… I think I do."
Another fragment surfaced briefly.
The front door opening.
The faint smell of rain in the air.
But everything after that became hazy.
"I remember feeling extremely weak," he continued. "There was fever, I think. Then everything becomes… unclear."
Julian leaned forward slightly, his expression sharpening with professional concern.
"Do you recall collapsing?"
John nodded slowly.
"Yes. That part I remember vaguely."
"But you do not recall being told about your father?"
"No."
The doctor exchanged a quick glance with Hawkins.
"That could indicate a form of temporary amnesia," Julian said thoughtfully. "Severe fever and infection can sometimes cause confusion or memory gaps, especially when the patient is under extreme physical stress."
John shrugged lightly, though the tension in his shoulders remained.
"That would explain it."
In truth, he suspected there was another explanation entirely.
The original John had likely heard the news and then collapsed soon afterward, his body already weakened by illness. Whatever had happened during that moment was probably when the soul that once belonged to him had finally faded.
And that was when the new occupant—John from another life—had arrived.
The thought made him uncomfortable.
It meant the last moments of the real John Halsworth had been erased from existence.
The table fell silent again.
No one seemed quite sure what to say next.
A maid quietly removed one of the empty plates while the others avoided looking directly at John, as though unsure whether they should offer condolences or simply pretend nothing had happened.
Julian finally cleared his throat.
"John."
The tone of his voice had changed slightly.
"Yes?"
"Would you mind if we spoke privately for a moment?"
John looked at him curiously.
"In private?"
Julian nodded.
"If you are feeling well enough."
The request struck John as somewhat unusual. Julian had known the real John since childhood; their friendship had never required formalities like this before.
Still, something in the doctor's expression suggested that the conversation he wanted to have was not meant for the entire household to hear.
John pushed his chair back from the table.
"Of course."
Julian stood as well, collecting his doctor's bag from beside his chair.
Hawkins stepped aside politely as the two men left the dining room.
They walked down the quiet hallway toward the back of the house. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, illuminating polished wooden floors and framed paintings that decorated the walls.
Eventually they reached a familiar door.
John paused for a moment before opening it.
According to the memories that belonged to this body, the room beyond had always been his father's domain.
Thomas Halsworth's private office.
He pushed the door open slowly.
The room smelled faintly of leather, paper, and ink.
Tall bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes on trade, navigation, and finance. A large oak desk stood near the window overlooking the back garden, its surface still neatly arranged with ledgers and correspondence.
For a moment John felt an odd sense of intrusion, as though stepping into a space that still belonged to someone who should have been sitting behind that desk.
But the chair was empty.
Julian closed the door behind them.
The quiet click of the latch echoed softly through the room.
John turned to face him.
"So," he said, folding his arms lightly, "what is it you wanted to talk about?"
Julian did not answer immediately.
Instead, the doctor studied him carefully, his eyes searching John's face as though trying to determine something important.
Finally, he spoke.
"John… when you returned yesterday, you were not yourself."
John raised an eyebrow.
"I had a high fever and an infected bullet wound. I imagine that tends to affect people."
Julian did not smile.
"That is not what I meant."
The seriousness in his voice made John's curiosity sharpen.
Julian took a slow breath.
"When Hawkins told you about your father… you did not react the way I expected."
John felt a small knot form in his stomach.
"How did I react?"
Julian's eyes narrowed slightly.
"That," he said quietly, "is exactly what I wanted to ask you."