A sudden, shrill ringing jolted Jack out of his sleep like a bolt through the spine.
He shot up in bed, blinking into the faint morning light spilling in through the tall, slim window. For a moment, he didn't even remember where he was—until his eyes landed on the brass-lined walls and the faint hum of the city outside.
What the hell was that dream?
His mind reeled, grasping at fading pieces of a voice—soft, feminine, and strange.
The Jester who mocks fate… the Laughing God born from delay… the One Who Walks Backwards...
And why does it rhyme?
He rubbed his temples, groaning, and squinted at the small mechanical clock ticking on the cabinet. 8:00 a.m.
18th of Gloamreach. Veilrest. That means Monday.
Shit. Doesn't that mean I have university in a few hours?
He hadn't even stepped foot in a classroom since dropping out two years ago. Now he was supposed to fake being a magical college student who also happened to be recently dead.
Great. This'll be fun.
He stood up, stretched out the stiffness in his back, and wandered into the bathroom. True to the half-conscious promise he'd made the night before, he stepped into the compact but intricately fitted shower stall—a peculiar construction of polished brass pipes, a fogged pressure dial, and a single turn valve that hissed as steam curled from the vents.
The water poured out hot and steady, misting the small room in seconds. Jack stood beneath it, letting the warmth hit his shoulders, his thoughts drifting through fog as thick as the steam.
What even was that dream? The voice had sounded both distant and deeply intimate. It hadn't just spoken—it had known. Known something Jack hadn't realized until now: this world wasn't finished with him. If that dream was prophecy—or memory—then he was a character caught in a script someone else had written. That didn't sit well.
Fifteen minutes later, towel-dried and still chewing through fragments of the dream, he stepped back into the bedroom. Time to dress the part.
Jack crossed to the wardrobe and opened the tall, creaking doors. Inside hung an impressive collection of garments, most pressed and arranged with near-surgical precision. He selected a clean white button-down shirt—the fabric soft but firm, with faint silver threading along the inner seams that shimmered when caught by the light. He slipped into it carefully, noticing how perfectly it fit across the shoulders and chest. Tailored. Custom.
He pulled on a black notch-collar dress vest next—tightly woven with matte satin backing and brass-buttoned accents that gave it a sharp, formal edge. The matching dress pants hung perfectly from the wooden hanger; the fabric was dense, high-quality, with a faint vertical pinstripe only visible up close.
Then came the shoes: black leather, polished and immaculately laced. He slid into them, noting how the insoles molded to his feet like they were made for him—which, of course, they were.
Next, he reached for the black suit coat that hung crisply on the far end of the wardrobe. The fabric was heavier than the vest, with a refined matte sheen. Subtle patterns were stitched into the inner lining—sigil-like etchings he couldn't decipher but admired all the same. When he slipped it on, the cut hugged his frame just right, draping over the vest with ceremonial sharpness. He tugged at the cuffs and adjusted the lapels, straightening the collar with an approving nod.. He slid into them, noting how the insoles molded to his feet like they were made for him—which, of course, they were.
From a nearby drawer, he grabbed white boxer-style undergarments and thick, clean socks before selecting a long, slim white tie. It was made of silk—or something like it—and he struggled slightly with the knot before nailing a decent loop.
Not bad, Michael. You had style.
Just before leaving the room, something caught his eye: a polished silver pocket watch resting atop the cabinet. Jack picked it up, turning it over in his palm. The case was engraved with swirling motifs—almost arcane in nature. He opened the lid briefly. It still ticked.
Fancy. Gotta complete the look, right?
He attached the chain to the vest and slipped the watch into the left pocket. With one last glance at the closed door to the private study, he descended the stairs.
The house groaned slightly with every step—a deep, lived-in creak that echoed across the wooden walls. Warm morning light filtered through stained-glass windows, casting fragmented colors across the stairwell in dusty beams. As he passed the front sitting room, the scent of aged wood, leather, and a faint undertone of coal soot clung in the air.
Then came the ringing again—sharp, high-pitched, insistent. It echoed from the telephone mounted beside the front door.
He turned toward the sound, blinking at the beautifully strange device.
All black, boxy, and sharp-edged, it looked like an early prototype of Alexander Graham Bell's wall telephone: a rectangular base with two copper bells that chimed loudly to alert callers. The cable snaked to the side, connecting to a mushroom-shaped receiver resting in its hook.
Instinct took over. His body moved without thinking.
Michael's muscle memory, maybe.
He lifted the receiver and placed it to his ear.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end was high-pitched, excited, and unmistakably young.
"Hi, Michael! It's me—your little sister!"
Jack blinked, startled—but before he could respond, the name surfaced.
Sorae. Right. The youngest. Twelve years old.
"Hey, Sorae," he said, managing to smile despite himself. "How are you?"
Before she could answer, another voice cut in—slightly older and firmer.
"Sorae, give the phone back."
"But Judith! I just wanted to talk to Michael!" Sorae protested with a dramatic whine.
"You can talk later—just tell him about the thing."
"What thing?" Jack asked.
Sorae returned to the receiver, voice suddenly cheerful again. "Did you forget? You said you'd come over for dinner tonight to celebrate Simmon getting the job with the Blackridge Merchant Firm!"
Oh. Right. That had definitely not made it into the inherited memory packet.
"Must've slipped my mind," Jack said, laughing softly. "Thanks for reminding me."
Before he could hang up, Judith's voice cut in again. "Oh—and can you pick up five sacks of potatoes and three of carrots on the way? We're making lamb and root stew tonight. And don't forget the honeyed apple tart."
"Uh—yeah. Got it. Potatoes, carrots, and dessert. I'll grab them before I head over."
"Good," Judith said. "Don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The line clicked softly as the call ended.
Jack hung up the receiver and leaned back against the wall with a long sigh.
Dinner with the family. At least it's not another ghost whispering riddles through my dreams...