4.6 | Dark Ages ✓

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HIS NAME ELUDES him still.

Amidst everything that he doesn't know, that frustrates him the most. He's left without an identity, without the faintest inkling of who he was, where he'd been, or how he'd come here. How can there be an 'I' if the 'I' doesn't even know who he is?

He spends his hours drifting in and out, exploring the house when he can and fighting his headache the rest of the time. What little sleep he can catch he spends it dreaming of her-the girl with the sad eyes and sunshine on snow smile. Now, he's seen enough of her to know that her eyes are brown, rich and warm like chocolate; and her voice, even though he can never make out what she's saying, is gentle and slides across his skin in a way that makes him shiver. But every time he reaches for her in his dreams, she slips out of his reach. And always, he wakes up, gasping and shaking from the emptiness that seizes him in her leaving.

The emptiness is something else that frightens him almost as much as lack of knowledge does.

It leaves him feeling cold-an unnatural sort of cold that's not a result of the temperature within the house. He finds himself taking hot showers and setting the kettle on to boil more often than necessary to fight it. It clings to him, like slick mild-dew on grass, never dipping lower but forever present. As the scent of roses fades, the cold, empty feeling becomes ever more apparent, and he has the premonition that something is about to happen.

Something...something...he doesn't know what it is.

He breaks open a packet of hardtacks and pops a couple into his mouth, chewing while he examines the watch in his hands. What is so special about the watch that whoever it was who put him here felt compelled to leave him with it? It's quite regular-as regular as Rolexes can be, anyway-and he's surprised that he remembers that but not his own name.

What is my name?

So it's come back to that once again.

Exasperated, he abandons the hardtacks and watch, and heads to the door. Fresh air will do him good, he supposes. But each time he places his hand on the doorknob, he feels a twinge of doubt. This time, however, he refuses to let himself hesitate. Drawing a deep breath, he wraps courage around his heart and unlocks the door.

Glaring sunlight hits him square in the face. He flinches, then shields his eyes as he glances around. The streets are empty, the drapes of every house are pulled shut, and there's not a soul in sight. Suddenly, he has the frightening suspicion that he is all alone.

Feeling fear grip him again, he goes to shut the door, but stops when something catches his eye. Out on the front yard, amidst a wasteland of weeds and grass, stands a proud rose plant.

Oh.

He blinks at it, confused but also, strangely, reassured. That must be where the scent had come from. It's sheer luminance in its beauty and he walks up to it, crouching down to brush his fingers against the dainty petals.

"Who put you here?" he asks aloud, wondering if he's finally going mad now because he's talking to a fucking plant. "Who put me here?"

Across the empty street, the wind picks up a flurry of leaves and sweeps them down the road. He thinks he might hear the wind howling, or the rustle of leaves as they flutter to the floor, but he doesn't.

Nothing but silence fills his ears.