I used my fingers to pinch the edge of the paper.
The tips of my fingers touched the surface of the page—it was drier and colder than I had expected. A faint rustling sound arose as I slowly turned it to the next page.
I found myself holding my breath for a moment, as if expecting something to appear the instant the page was opened.
But the moment the page turned, the small anticipation in my heart quietly faded away.
There were no letters. No ink marks. Not even a single symbol to suggest that this page had ever been written on before. There was only emptiness—too perfectly blank, to the point that it felt unnatural.
I tried turning another page… then another.
Every sheet was empty.
The more I flipped through them, the heavier some unseen feeling pressed down on me. The silence of the white pages eventually made me slow my movements.
My hand hovered in midair before I gently let the notebook fall onto my lap.
"It seems… this notebook ends here."
I slowly inhaled and exhaled, as if trying to tidy everything I had just read—like I was closing a chapter within myself.
Even after several minutes passed, my body remained still, as though I wasn't ready to stand up yet—until a single thought surfaced.
"I should go now."
I picked up the notebook resting on my lap once more and carefully placed it back into the same drawer of the desk, then slowly closed it.
I looked around the hallway.
Everything was still where it had been. Silent. Normal. As if nothing had happened at all—as if what I had just read had never existed.
"I know now that I should leave this room… I've been here for too long."
I slowly stood up from the wooden chair. The chair, which had once been pulled close to me, now remained completely still. I took one step at a time toward the door.
In my heart, I hoped only that… nothing else would interfere.
I reached out and grasped the doorknob, then slowly turned it.
It seemed that… nothing happened.
I stepped out of the room quickly—not because I was being chased, not because I was afraid, but because of a feeling like that of a child opening the front door for the first time, eager to know what the world outside might be hiding.
I truly wanted to know.
I wanted to know where this place was.
I wanted to know what lay beyond these walls.
I wanted to know what kind of world the one I had awakened into… truly was.
After stepping out of the room where I had awakened—a room that still felt alien, as though it belonged to someone else rather than to me—
I began to explore this place by instinct.
The same instinct I had always possessed.
Walking. Observing. Trying to understand my surroundings before deciding whether they were safe.
A wooden corridor stretched out ahead, sloping slightly before ending at a staircase at the very front of the floor.
The corridor floor was covered with a clean white carpet. It wasn't a blinding white, but a muted, warm tone—as if it had been used for some time, yet carefully maintained.
My room was at the far right. Counting from where I stood, it was directly against the outer wall of the building, with no other rooms beyond it.
A thought surfaced in my mind without warning—
Positions like this were usually quiet… and isolated from others.
There were ten rooms on this floor in total—five on the left from the staircase, and five on the right. Each door was primarily made of wood, simple in structure, yet sturdy.
It felt like an old building that had been used for a long time—not a place built in haste.
I walked slowly along the corridor.
My gaze swept across my surroundings until it stopped on something to the right.
A large pane of glass, gleaming as if it had just been meticulously cleaned. Light reflecting from outside made its surface seem alive, standing out clearly from the surrounding wooden walls.
I could tell immediately.
That outside… there had to be something that would interest me.
I took a few careful steps closer and soon found myself standing before the window.
The window frame was adorned with elegant wooden carvings. A small flowerpot sat beside it. It seemed that this place had a particular fondness for glass.
Not just for practicality, but as though it were part of the aesthetic itself. I knew that the room I had awakened in also had a window that looked outside.
But the atmosphere here was different. It felt more open—as though the outside world was waiting for me to look at it from this very spot.
I didn't think any further.
And I looked out.
"—!"
My heart jolted.
Even though I had braced myself to some extent, the sight before me still caught me off guard.
The atmosphere of this world… was completely different from what I had expected.
The sky was shrouded in clouds, mist, and smoke—smoke rising from machines below.
Countless metal gears—small, medium, and large—were rotating endlessly, as though the entire world was driven by their mechanisms.
Though there were many machines, they weren't so dense as to obscure everything. They were integrated into the city in an orderly way, like a natural part of everyday life.
I slowly lifted my head, letting my gaze rise above the smoke, and found several massive balloon airships. Their hulls were made of metal reinforced with wood, and the bright red balloons stood out starkly against the dull sky.
They carried people, gliding silently along their routes.
Then I slowly looked down.
There weren't many people below. Some walked on foot, others rode horses, or used horse-drawn carriages. Those on horseback were mostly dressed like medieval nobility.
Meanwhile, those walking wore similar clothing.
Simple. Solid. And steeped in the air of the past.
Most of the buildings, houses, and structures were made of brick and stone, with wood as part of their construction.
Their shapes resembled a medieval city, yet were infused with the presence of machinery not yet fully developed.
"I can be fairly certain this is the Middle Ages… or at least a world where technology hasn't progressed very far."
I felt an indescribable excitement.
This world was more beautiful than I had imagined, and in that moment, I couldn't help but feel a small sense of joy at standing here.
I slowly turned away from the window and looked back down the corridor.
But at that very moment—
My eyes caught sight of strange letters carved into the wooden plates of every door.
I focused on them… and tried to interpret them.
Most of the characters contained overlapping circles within them. Some had curved lines that looked like they might be "endings," yet lacked a clear beginning.
Their structure wasn't complex.The lines weren't messy. The shapes weren't harsh to the eyes. And yet, the more I looked… the less I understood.
Within a single sentence,
Some characters were layered on top of one another. Some had small symbols floating above them. There were even repeated overlays—as if this language hadn't been designed to be read on just one level.
I muttered to myself in confusion.
Or was it simply… that I was terrible at explaining it?
I tried to remember—tried to pull from every memory of every language, every script I had ever seen.
But no matter how I tried,
I couldn't find anything "familiar."
"…Why?"
My voice was so soft it nearly dissolved into the silence.
"Why… isn't it a language I know?"
The question surfaced the moment my gaze passed over the strange characters on the walls. They were neatly arranged.
Yet they conveyed no meaning to me at all. It wasn't a language I could read. It wasn't any language I was familiar with.
It was completely different from the writing in that notebook.
In the notebook—everything had been recorded in English. Clear lettering, easy to read, as though it had been written specifically for "me" to understand.
Even though I wasn't very proficient in English, I could still read it and grasp its meaning to some extent—not fluent, but not a stranger to it either.
But the world outside those pages was not like that.
Here… they used a different language.
A language that did not welcome me. A language that made me feel like an outsider from the very first step.
And I couldn't help but wonder—
If the person who wrote that notebook truly existed in the same world as me, why could they write in English?
Or…
Was that notebook never meant to be here in the first place?
I tucked that question away in my heart and began walking along the corridor of this floor. The sound of my footsteps was too soft, too steady, giving rise to a strange sense of unease—as if I wasn't truly "walking," but being carried along by some unseen rhythm.
I glanced toward the staircase. There was both an upward path… and a downward one. I didn't take long to think. My body decided before my thoughts could catch up, and I went down.
I descended the stairs step by step, passing the first floor—the one I had been on—then the second, the third, and the fourth. When the stairs ended, I stopped.
…So this must be the fourth floor.
I looked around cautiously. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with many doors, but two rooms stood out in particular. Above their doors were strange symbols carved into the wood—perhaps indicating children's rooms, or the rooms of caretakers.
I walked closer and tried opening one.
Locked.
I tried again. The result was the same. It seemed the rooms in this place didn't open themselves easily. Perhaps they required a key—or something I didn't yet have.
I let out a soft sigh and turned to the next door.
From inside, I caught a faint scent of food drifting out—a strangely warm smell. A scent that shouldn't have existed in a place I understood so little about.
…A kitchen?
I placed my hand on the doorknob and tried opening it.
This time, the door opened easily. I stepped inside, my eyes slowly scanning the room.
Plates, cups, and bowls were neatly arranged—cleaner than I had expected. Spoons and forks reflected a faint glimmer beneath the light.
I was about to step closer—
"Asfinne…"