The plaza outside the train station was sparse of any passersby, while the surrounding arcades lined with stores bustled with life; soothing music played in the background and came to him with distant chatter; while behind his back, the faint rumble of cars arose down a short flight of stairs where three boulevards intersected to form a busy thoroughfare.

  The day was cool, pleasant, and the sky mild and scenic. Everything seemed suffused with an incorporeal aura of a dream; and even now, he found it hard to believe, truly believe, that he was here, and not there, back at home, still asleep.

  Satou looked up, and up there, in the sky, proof dangled right before his very eyes.

  A celestial body of dawn blazing in all its brilliance. At first he thought it was the sun; but the undeniable fact that it was imprisoned inside seven concentric rings of radiant runes brooked none of his askance.

  Briefly blind from squinting at it again, Satou rubbed his teary eyes, and said, looking up:

  “I’m in another world, aren’t I?”

  The statue in the middle of the plaza did not reply: memorial of some royal personage who proudly looking past him with his deep-set furrowed eyes—to where? He looked over, and saw a dome stand out far away.

  Elbows resting on his thighs, Satou looked at his still slightly trembling hands, and again felt that jarring dissonance that these lithe fingers were really not his. He felt conflicted, perturbed, just to see it, precisely because for the life of him he could not call these his own; yet nothing felt more real, corporeal to him than this body he was now in.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  An hour had passed since he had been sat here, parsing out his thoughts; and an hour more since he had seen himself in front of a storefront’s mirror. He recalled that face—that tousled jet-black hair, hazel eyes, lips parted to see him—and again he felt his heart skip a beat.

  “What a beauty,” he murmured, and blushed, when he realized just who he had repeated. He laughed, embarrassed; he could not help himself but laugh, embarrassed; and he found that his own gaily laughter did not fail to enchant him.

  What a beauty indeed… Never in his life had he felt this giddy, yet so utterly confounded at the same time. Vertigo—that sinking feeling which he so dreaded coursed through his entire body, his heart raced, but he did not shun it. How could he, when the discomfort which had first brought him here now imbued this precious moment with a glint of indelible beauty?

  Dry tears stuck to his cheeks flowed again, and he wiped it off with the heel of his palm. A warm breeze brushed past him, and all of a sudden he remembered where he was: in the middle of a public-square, with tears glistening down his cheeks. Coyly, he looked around him, startled as well as a little embarrassed, and sighed in relief when he saw no one stare.

  His body loosened, go less taut, and he felt a cold dampness underneath his shirtsleeve: sweat, he realized, his own; and also realize only now how long he had been sat here, under the sun for. Somewhere else to sit, preferably somewhere with a shade. He looked for one, but found none where he could have his privacy as well. So he looked down beside.

  Leaning next to his thigh was the leather satchel he’d carried all along. He had no expectations as to what he might find inside it, but that did not mean he had no expectations. It was, as far as he was concerned, a pandora box.