Letters Lost in Time - Karl Jacobs

...

Everything is so dark and quiet.

He sits up from where he was lying on the floor, nausea overcoming his senses for a moment as he tries to regain his bearings. Shit, he sat up too fast as evidenced by the black spots suddenly crowding his limited vision. He feels so very tired, so very cold and so very miserable. He can't tell if the ache in his bones are from simple exhaustion or actual injury. He needs to check himself over, if only to identify what's wrong with him at the moment. His eyes squint as they try to adjust to the lighting, or lack thereof in the room.

Who was he? What was he doing here?

There was little time to ponder that, so he just tried to make out his environment to see what he should do from there. He can make out several posters on the walls, some torn down and left to crumple on the floor along with a mess of scattered ripped out pages. He can't see much in the blue candlelight, nor can he hear much other than the occasional flickering embers and rustle of paper. The aroma of leather-bound books and rich mahogany fills his nose, pairing with the earthy scent of mushroom blocks making up the entire surrounding area. He flexes his toes and fingers just to see if he can move them, and his fingertips run over the leather cover of a book on his lap. Huh, he just noticed that was there.

He lifts it up so he can put it under the light, making note of the spiral design on the cover and just how worn the book really is. It looks like it's about to fall apart just like him. Out of both curiosity and having nothing better to do, he opens up the book and reads as best as he could. It looks like some sort of diary or journal, signed off by someone named Karl. He can't understand what the original author is talking about, and it's only made worse by how the entries descend into nonsensical rambles ever so often. For some reason, as he skims towards the last few pages, he begins to feel a strong sensation of wrongness rise from the depths of his being. He has to put the book down for a moment, swallowing the lump in his throat and putting his head in his hands while waiting for the discomfort to subside.

He has an abundance of questions and a severe lack of answers. Why does the book feel so significant? Why do the people on the posters look so familiar, and yet fill him with dread? What is this room in the first place? Why doesn't he know how he ended up here? Why can't he remember that? Why can't he remember who he is? Why did he fail why did he fail why did he fail why did he f−

He jumps when the trapdoor on the ceiling bursts open and interrupts his thought process, making light and noise flood into the dilapidated room. He can hear hushed conversation from above, and sees the orange glow of a torch creeping onto the inky darkness on the walls. He can hear someone beginning to descend the ladder that he just noticed was there, and he freezes in place. There are tears in his eyes, and he doesn't know why they're there.

"Karl? Are you there?" There comes a soft voice, filling his ears and leaving him with a sense of somber nostalgia. This, too, is oddly familiar although it's a distinctly different sensation from before. This sense of familiarity feels much sweeter, much lighter and happier and easier to swallow despite the small hints of bitterness that seem to follow him wherever he goes. He relaxes ever so slightly, mostly because he doesn't know if he can live in so much fear anymore.

"Hey, are you okay?" The voice comes again, but he doesn't answer. He doesn't even know if the question is addressed to him in the first place. He doesn't even remember his own name, so he has no way of knowing if he's the one who should respond to that in the first place. For all he knows, it could be addressed to the person standing right in front of him.

It's a man wearing some kind of armor with a white bandana wrapped around his forehead, holding a torch with one hand and a sword on the other. He only stares at him, surprised when the person suddenly freezes in place and drops his sword when they lock eyes. Within the next heartbeat, he's being pulled into a chest as arms wrap around him protectively. Gauntleted fingers run through his hair soothingly, and he finds himself relaxing into the touch. It feels almost instinctive to curl into the gesture, and if he lets a few tears slip from his eyes and run down his cheeks then no one has to know.

That's strange. The metal of this person's armor is cool against his skin, and yet he only feels warmth bubbling up from inside of him.

"KARL!" The person sobs out, hugging him even tighter and pulling him up so that his chin rests as comfortably as it can on the armored shoulder. He doesn't mind, and the person trails off into rambles. "You're safe, you're okay, oh I'm so happy, I..."

"What happened to you?" The voice from before is back, but this time it's a lot closer. He looks up to see another man, this time dressed in more casual wear and donning a beanie that sits on a messy head of dark hair. He doesn't know why this person also has tears welling up in his eyes, he hates seeing him cry. Wait, where did that sentiment come from?

Who... are they?

They're so familiar, and they both give him sentiments of indescribable joy laced with a somber tone for some reason. They were people he didn't know he had missed so badly, these were feelings he didn't know he had been searching for. And yet... all of that doesn't change that he doesn't know them.

"Who are you?" He voices as much, wincing at the rasp in his voice. It's pitiful, sure, but still not as pitiful as the silence that befalls upon them. He almost wishes he didn't speak.

"Karl?" The one with the beanie whispers, barely audible.

"I..." The one with the bandana breaks the hug, and he wishes he didn't let go. Hands come up to his shoulders and grip firmly, grounding him as he was looked over with eyes of a flame he had known long ago. Wait, what? What was he talking about now? Before he can dwell on it, he's broken out of his thoughts once again. "Hey, Karl, this isn't funny. We were really worried, you can stop now."

"What do you mean?" He tilts his head, genuinely confused. "I don't remember... I don't remember anything."

"What?" The way the soft voice cracks breaks his heart for some reason. He doesn't know why he feels so strongly for two strangers he had never seen before. Had he?

"I just woke up here, with this on me." Their eyes fall to the book in his lap as his fingers run over the spiral in the cover. Something inside screams at him to hide it way, to pull it to his chest and never let it see the light of day. He promptly ignores it, finding that the newfound warmth in his heart has melted the cold that prevented him from moving for so long. He picks the book up and presents it to them, giving them a small smile before he says it.

"I think you should read it."