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↶*ೃ✧˚. ❃ ↷ ˊ-
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𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝟖𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑
𝟏:𝟎𝟑 𝐏𝐌
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Arthur was abruptly jolted from his dreams by the impatient percussion of knuckles against wood. The sound was latched with prominent urgency, the hurried rhythm leaving him momentarily dazzled, disoriented, as his limbs that were once entangled in the embrace of sleep, flailed in an attempt to grasp reality.
"Are you dead?" a man's adolescent voice echoed from outside the door, very loudly as it felt as though it had pierced his eardrums.
"Yes!" a groaned reply resonated through the room.
The relentless knocking intensified, growing more violent with each strike, mirroring the pounding in Arthur's head as harsh light stabbed through the curtains, slicing through his eyelids like shards of glass, intensifying the throbbing ache behind his eyes. His tongue felt like sandpaper, glued to the roof of his mouth, and every movement seemed to agitate the nausea churning in his stomach.
"Hello!" the guy outside the door shouted once more.
"I'm changing, Baptiste, be patient," her groggy, thick-accented voice gradually got louder, closer to him, "don't come in!"
It was a voice so melodiously warm, its timbre possessing a raspy quality that politely caressed his senses with its distinct rise and fall. There existed a familiarity in its cadence, a recognition that flickered on the periphery of his consciousness, tantalisingly close yet elusively distant.
He just knew that he knew her.
But from where; it was an enigma that he could not quite decipher nor place within the labyrinthine corridors of memory.
A shuffling sound emanated from the depths of the unfamiliar room in which he had awakened, and with bleary eyes, the twenty-two-year-old willed himself into consciousness, his gaze scanning the wonderfully-bright surroundings. The room, although foreign, revealed itself as a cosy sanctuary, bathed in a warm, golden light that—had it not been so blinding—bounced beautifully upon the pale tone of the stone walls.
His sight wandered across the space, taking in the quaint little kitchenette directly adjacent to him, adorned with gleaming utensils and a stale aroma of yesterday's coffee that lingered in the air.
Arthur grunted lowly, stretching out his limbs, and as his head rolled back into the throw pillow he was sleeping on, his eyes caught the sight of a lofty bookshelf that occupied the wall behind him. It was brimming with what looked like leather-covered old books, their spines aligned in stately order. He squinted, pondering whether they were genuine books or merely ornamental, adding a sense of intellectualism to the décor of the living nook.
