₊ 𖦹﹕𝗠𝗘𝗧𝗘𝗠𝗣𝗦𝗬𝗖𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗜𝗦！(🩸)

⩩ ┊❝ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐚 ❞

第一章 . . . 000
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Myrddin Emrys © 2025

﹒  ◠  METEMPSYCHOSIS    ⊹    ﹒
— “ reincarnation ” !
All I can do is keep moving forward.
★ . James L. Dolan » +

೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐚 ⠀ᰋ

Fuyuki City
2nd of September 2004, 6:00 AM

           The morning light was faint, barely strong enough to seep through the shattered windows of the dilapidated building where they had taken refuge. Pale beams stretched across the floor, catching the dust that floated lazily in the air, like forgotten memories suspended in the stillness of the dawn. The room smelled of damp wood and old stone, the silence heavy, save for the distant echo of church bells from Fuyuki City's Holy Church. The abandoned structure had long been forgotten by the city---its walls crumbling, plaster peeling, with gaping holes where windows once stood proud. Outside, the cold morning mist still clung to the ground, adding a layer of moisture to the worn surfaces inside. Galateya stirred within the traveler’s cloak, her frail, sickly body tucked close to his chest for warmth. Her small hands instinctively clutched the fabric of his cloak, her head nestled in the crook of his arm. She blinked slowly, waking from a dreamless sleep, her thick, rectangular eyeglasses slightly askew on her face. Rubbing her eyes with the back of her gloved hands, she glanced up at her silent protector.

           He sat as still as a statue, his amber eyes closed beneath the deep shadows of his hood. His breath was slow, measured---barely perceptible, as if he were not entirely present in this world. The hood cast his features in darkness, but the sharp contours of his face---hardened by experience---were faintly visible. Galateya watched him, curiosity bubbling to the surface. There was an air of mystery surrounding him, like a story waiting to be told, yet hidden behind his quiet demeanor.

         Her small fingers, delicate but determined, reached for the edge of his hood, intending to pull it back and reveal the face of the stranger who had saved her. But before Galateya could even touch the fabric, his hand shot out, quick as a viper, stopping hers in midair. His grip, though firm, was gentle. He said nothing for a moment, simply holding her hand suspended in time.

         “Halt,” he said softly, his voice low and hushed, like the whisper of the wind through old trees. There was no anger in his tone, only a quiet command, one that made her pause and withdraw her hand.

           She lowered her gaze for a moment, feeling the weight of his stillness. “I am sorry,” she murmured, her voice small, uncertain. But he released her hand, guiding it back down to her lap with a gentleness that made her feel safe again.

           After a moment of silence, she looked back up at him, her bright blue eyes curious behind the lenses of her thick eyeglasses. “By the way, my name is Galateya! What is yours, mister?” she asked softly, the question spilling from her lips as naturally as a child’s curiosity would. “You saved me, but I do not know what to call you.”

          The traveler did not answer right away. Instead, he turned his head slightly, his gaze wandering across the room. His amber eyes, now open, flickered like embers beneath the shadow of his hood as he studied the decayed walls around them. “As I said last night,” he began quietly, his voice deep and contemplative, “I am just a traveler. A passing shadow.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “My name is not important, nor does it matter. But if it pleases you, little one, you may call me whatever name you wish.”

         Galateya frowned slightly, her small brow furrowed in concentration as she pondered his words. “Any name?” she echoed, her young mind whirling with possibilities. She liked the idea of choosing a name, of giving him something to hold onto, something familiar.