The last traces of dinner lingered in the air. The faint scent of baked cheese and bread, the sweetness of fruit and the exotic spices that clung to the wooden wall of the inn. The plates had been kept aside; their edges are stained with crumbs and sauces. The candles are burning low casting dim light across the table, where Lucian, Magnus and Edris sat opposite to Mr. and Mrs. Locke.
They caried a certain ease about them, as if the inn was itself part of their flesh and breath. Conversations flowed gently, like an old river flowing through familiar stones. Like they carried the story of the past.
Magnus, as ever courteous, leaned back in his chair, swirling the last of his drink and said "It's strange," he said, glancing at the couple, "to think how long it has been since we last sat here. The place feels unchanged, yet warmer somehow."
Mrs. Locke laughed softly, her voice was carrying the weariness of countless days behind the counter. "That's because you've grown, boy. The inn hasn't changed. It's your eyes that have changed."
The remark drew a faint smile on Lucian face. He was quiet, watching the glow of the candle wick flicker and bow to some unseen draft. The warmth in the room almost fooled him into believing that time could hold still here, untouched by the shadows.
It was Mrs. Locke who broke the silence. She leaned forward, folding her hands neatly. "Tell me, was the food to your liking?"
"Yes," Lucian replied without hesitation. "The cheese pie was especially great."
Magnus added with a nod, "Even the fruit tart was remarkable."
"Of course it would be," Edris said in his usual matter-of-fact tone, as if the answer were obvious. "This inn is one of the most famous restaurants in the city."
A modest blush touched Mrs. Locke's cheeks, but Mr. Locke only sighed, leaning an elbow against the table. His voice carried a strange heaviness, a trace of something which was left unsaid. "I'm glad you enjoyed it... but tell me, do you have any suggestions? Anything we might be able to improve or perhaps a new dish we might be able to add in the menu? People like our food, yes, but it has been so long since we changed the menu. I think it is time to add something new."
The faint curve of Mrs. Locke's smile faltered as she added, "We just don't want our customers to grow bored. We want them to taste something new, something different, something fresh."
Her words trailed into the candlelight, uncertain, as if afraid the truth might be too fragile to hold.
Edris casually waved his hand, his voice calm but dismissive. "You worry too much. People come here because they love what you already serve. That won't change."
Mr. Locke gave a short laugh that was more sigh than joy. "Perhaps. But even the best flavors can dull when repeated for too long." His eyes lowered, shadowed with unease.
Lucian watched him, feeling the weight of his words. It was not simply about food; it was about fear.The fear of stagnation, of being forgotten by time. Something stirred within him, sudden and unbidden.
"Why don't we add pudding?" Lucian said aloud before he could stop himself.
The table turned toward him, surprised. The word seemed to hang in the air, foreign yet familiar, a ripple against the still pond of their conversation.
Even as the Lockes exchanged curious glances, Lucian's gaze drifted inward, and the world began to blur.
The word "Pudding",
It had come from that memory.
The memory that was not mine yet lived inside me as though stitched into my very soul. Since that day, since the black shadow at the doctor's side, those foreign recollections of memories had begun to dive deep into my thoughts, merging with my own memories until I could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
The memories were of a world similar, yet profoundly different from my own,a world without magic. A world where vast chariots moved without horses, powered instead by something called a steam engine. A world that does not have magic, yet it understood the concept of magic, replacing it with knowledge so sharp and so vast that even magi-tech seemed pale in comparison. They called it Science.
I remembered reading through those memory fragments as if I myself had lived through them. I also saw some strange category of books with stories out of that world. They called it novels. There were thousands upon thousands of them woven across that person's mind. Tales of boys who could summon storms of destruction with a single spell, stories of commoners rising to be kings, stories of wanderers becoming demons or saints after countless battles. Stories of different kind of energy called martial energy or ki, stories of sword masters splitting mountains with single blades, Stories of heavens that shattered and the stories of the countless worlds beyond the stars.
It terrified me and at the same time it excited me.
It was as if it has devoured me itself.
It was like stepping into a library without end, each page a new horizon, each tale a new revelation. I was drawn deeper, unable to resist, until I found himself utterly lost within it. For the first time, I realized knowledge could intoxicate more than wine, could weigh heavier than steel.
The person whose memories I inherited had loved these stories dearly. Loved them enough that they became an anchor in the harsh current of his life. For that man, those novels had been the reason to keep living. For me, they became the door which led the path into something greater and perhaps warnings of what could come.
Among those tales, there were other fragments too. Science, numbers, patterns of the world. The periodic table, the secrets of stars, machines that could bend the will of nations. Their "industrial era," they called it an age of smoke and fire, long surpassed by the time the memory's owner lived. Compared to them, Lucian's world seemed both advanced and primitive at once, guided by sword energy and magi-tech rather than machines.
And yet, when Lucian thought of it, his chest tightened. They were different worlds, entirely apart, yet somehow... he felt bound to them.
Bound to him.
He realized, with a chill that sank into his bones, that he and the memory's owner were nearly the same. Their thoughts, their tastes, even the quiet passions that filled their days so alike that Lucian could no longer tell where the other ended. The man's face was hidden, always beyond reach, yet his presence lingered in Lucian's soul like a ghost refusing to fade.
"I didn't see his face," Lucian thought, but I felt him. And the more these memories take root, the more I fear that his self and mine are no longer separate. That we are... becoming one.
The candlelight on the table blurred before his eyes. Mrs. Locke was speaking again, her tone soft and hopeful, but her words slipped past his ears like water.
Why had he been chosen to see this? Why did those black shadows coil around the doctor? What did the dream mean, the cursed one whispering from the dark?
He did not know.
But he understood this much: whatever force had bound him to these memories was not done with him. It would not stop until the whole truth was laid bare.
Lucian drew a long, steady breath, forcing his gaze back to the present, to the Lockes, to Magnus and Edris beside him. His hand curled around the edge of the table, grounding him in the now.
He would not be broken by it.
If another world's shadow had been placed within him, then he would carry it, piece by piece, until its truth revealed itself. For now, he would prepare quietly, patiently for the storm he knew would one day come.
The flicker of the candle caught his eyes once more, wavering yet unyielding.
Lucian's heart echoed the flame.
I will be ready.