The first pale light of morning tiptoed through the thin curtains, slicing across the wooden floor in muted gold. The city outside was only beginning to wake, the faint clatter of wheels on cobblestone, the faraway murmur of a bell, and the sharp, clean air that carried the scent of morning frost.
Ash Elliott opened his eyes lazily. For a moment, he simply lay there, blanketed in the unfamiliar quiet of this world, the ceiling above him half-swallowed by the haze of sleep. Then, without a word, he rose.
He walked to the window, the chill of the floor seeping through his soles, and drew the curtains aside. The street below stretched into a sleepy calm; a few citizens moved briskly past the line of shuttered shops, their breaths trailing like faint smoke in the cold air. Across the narrow road stood a small corner building with a polished signboard, letters faintly visible through the mist: Elliott's Brew & Beans. The temperature was about 13° or could be more, and of course it was a winter season. No wonder why everyone were heavily dressed. Beside the winter season, the temperature rarely go above 23°, people wear heavy dress everyday, whether it's summer or winter.
Ash exhaled. His breath made a small cloud in front of his lips. He turned from the window, pulling his shirt over his head, then stepped toward the wardrobe. The cold kissed his bare shoulders as he took out a towel and disappeared into the bathroom.
The sound of running water filled the still room, the kind of rhythm that could almost be mistaken for rain. When he emerged again, his hair was damp, clinging in dark strands to his forehead, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He opened the wardrobe again, hands moving without hesitation — white shirt, black waistcoat, tie, and the familiar long coat. It seems that he liked these clothes very much. Simple, repetitive and comfortable.
He dressed quietly, buttoning the waistcoat, sliding the tie knot into place, each motion clean and practiced, like a man who had done this many times before. His fingers lingered briefly at his collar before he noticed the disarray of his hair.
He looked around, searching for a comb.
Before he could find one, a sound interrupted the stillness.
TOK, TOK!
Two firm knocks at the door.
Ash's head turned toward the sound. The faint reflection of morning light did polka across the door's brass handle.
Inside his mind, Aardh's tone came soft and amused. "I think, your first guest is here."
Ash's gaze lingered on the door, unreadable, the silence in the room stretching thin and somewhere within it, A sense that whatever was waiting on the other side might not be entirely related to this ordinary, normal morning, or maybe even could be.
The wooden floor creaked softly beneath Ash's steps as he approached the door. The early light was still pale and half-hearted, spilling into the corridor as he turned the brass handle and pulled it open.
Standing there was a man of perhaps thirty, with a thin, uniform beard and a complexion darkened by sun and labor. His blue shirt was completely pressed at the collar, though a neat black waistcoat covered most of it, and over that, a thick brown cashmere sweater. His breath misted faintly in the cold air, and with both hands he steadied a small wooden cart that ran on steel wheels, squeaking softly whenever it shifted. The cart was piled high with folded garments of varying colors and qualities, some fine, others work-worn, all smelling faintly of soap and starch.
"Hey, Ash," the man said, a grin flashing through his trimmed beard, "gimme your garments for laundry." He bent slightly, not in a full bow but just enough to fish out a pocket watch from beneath his sweater.
The chain clinked faintly, and Ash noticed the glass on the watch face was missing, the hands frozen halfway between hours.
"I'm already getting late," the man muttered, glancing at the broken watch with a frown. "That damn Relot broke my glorious watch."
Ash forced a faint, casual but fake smile. "That sucks, man."
The laundry man sighed dramatically, as if reliving the crime. "So much."
"Wait," Ash said, turning back into the room. "I got some clothes."
"Yeah, hurry up," came the reply, half-distracted as the man rearranged a stack of shirts.
Ash walked to the bed, picked up the crumpled white shirt and black trousers from last night, and handed them over. The man immediately began folding the trousers first, quick and precise in motion, his hands practiced from years of the same work.
"By the way," the laundry man said conversationally, his voice lowering with a kind of eager secrecy, "did you get the news?"
Ash tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity. "What news?"
"The pirates, man!" The laundry man's eyes gleamed with excitement as he folded. "They attacked a marine ship last night and looted hundreds of golden velms, even took some of the queen's necklaces!"
Ash blinked once, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly. "Pirates… this world even has pirates?"
"Damn," he said aloud, steadying his fake tone, "that's really big news."
The laundry man nodded, folding the white shirt neatly and placing it into the cart. "I know, right? Some folks are saying the pirate was Francis Morgan, the same bastard who raided the eastern port last spring. They say he's cursed, that he made a pact with the Demon Lord himself!"
Inside, Aardh's voice whispered, soft and thoughtful. "Sounds interesting."
Ash simply nodded, his gaze lingering on the man's face for a moment longer than necessary, as though memorizing his tone, his words.
"Well," the laundry man said at last, brushing his hands together and reaching into the cart. He pulled out a weathered cap, slapped it on his head, and grinned. "Have a fabulous day, Ash!"
Ash's lips curved in return, genuine this time. "You too, buddy."
The cart squeaked again as the man turned away, its steel wheels clicking rhythmically against the hallway floor. The laundry man stopped in front of his neighbour door. "Hey Brian, Open the door," he knocked the door twice.
Ash stood for a moment in the doorway, the faint chill brushing against his cheek. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Pirates, demon lords, golden velms… this world was already weaving its threads around him, faster than he had expected.
Ash stepped back into the room, the soft click of the door echoing behind him. The morning light had brightened, brushing the walls in shades of amber and ivory, chasing away the chill that had lingered through the night. His eyes swept over the room almost absently until they caught the faint glimmer of a small wooden comb rolling lazily near the leg of the bed. He bent down and picked it up, brushing a speck of dust off its teeth
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "At least people invented lifts here," he muttered.
Aardh's voice stirred, smooth and faintly amused. "How do you know there are lifts?"
Ash moved toward the mirror beside the wardrobe, setting the comb through his dark, slightly damp hair. Each stroke drew it into place, he arranged his hairs beautifully, slightly Messy and brushing the edges of his eyes. "The laundry man definitely didn't drag that cart up to the fourth floor," he said in almost thoughtful voice.
"Yeah, makes sense." Aardh dumbfounded.
Ash adjusted his collar, his reflection now sharp and composed — a clean white shirt, a perfectly knotted tie, and the black waistcoat and coat sitting neatly over his shoulders. He looked almost too proper for someone carrying another man's memories.
Satisfied, he turned to the wardrobe again. The faint scent of cedar and old paper drifted out as he opened it. His hand found a small key ring hanging from a hook inside. A few brass keys, cool to the touch, their edges worn smooth from use. He pocketed them, shut the wardrobe door, and with a small metallic click, locked the room behind him.
The corridor outside was silent except for the hum of pipes and the faint groan of the old building. Ash walked right, his boots sounding lightly against the wooden floor until he reached the staircase landing and there, just before the stairs, stood the lift.
A square box of metal and iron bars, its design more practical than graceful. Ash sighed, fingers curling around the cold handle as he dragged the gate open. The sound was rough and rhythmic, like a rasp against steel. He stepped inside, the space barely wide enough for two people, and closed the bars again with a clank.
Before him, a row of buttons was fixed on a wooden panel, their numbers engraved rather than printed. He pressed the one marked G and felt the faint vibration as the lift came alive, shuddering slightly before beginning its slow descent. Ash leaned back against the wall, his gaze steady and calm, yet something alive flickered behind those eyes.
"Let's discover the whole new world," he said softly, as the lift groaned and carried him down toward the life waiting below.