A breeze of cold air, carrying a hint of dust, wafted through a small hole in the wooden wall of an old, wooden house.
The interior of the house was not large, consisting mainly of a spacious room. On its left side stood a hearth filled with ash and cold, burnt wood. On the other side, there was a slightly large table cluttered with various books and paper manuscripts, some old and torn, while others were new, still retaining the pleasant scent of fresh paper.
Cough! Cough!
The sound of a dry cough echoed through the wide room, emanating from a smaller adjacent room, adding to the gloominess of the place.
In the small room, there was a wooden bed where a young man in his late twenties lay. His face was ordinary, neither handsome nor ugly, but it appeared pale due to his very fair skin and the large dark circles under his closed eyes, which trembled slightly as if he were suffering from a disturbing nightmare. Slowly, he opened his eyes, revealing dull brown pupils, devoid of vitality, like an old man who had endured the bitterness of life.
Sigh!
The young man exhaled a long breath while his eyes remained fixed on the room’s ceiling, from which a faint crackling sound emanated. After a brief moment of stillness, he moved slowly, pulling himself up to a sitting position. He then scanned the room with a melancholic gaze, which eventually settled on a wooden wheelchair near his bed. He reached out, grabbed the armrest, and with great difficulty, pulled his thin body onto the chair.
His old mattress wrinkled from his determined struggle, and after a short while, he sat on the wheelchair. He exhaled a tired breath, and his muscles relaxed.
Huff!
He adjusted his posture and pushed the wheelchair, which emitted an annoying creaking sound as it moved across the wooden floor. It also shook slightly and squeaked due to its wear and tear. As soon as the young man entered the spacious room and saw the mess, he let out a dry sigh.
"The place is so messy..."
He contemplated the scattered books and items for a moment, then, without further concern, headed towards the hearth.
He picked up a piece of wood, placed it on his cold thighs, along with some flint, and lit a small pile of wood shavings.
He blew on the small flame until it caught fire, then placed it in the hearth and added some wood pieces. The flames clung to the wood and began to burn it, emitting a gray, foul-smelling smoke due to the poor quality of the wood. Nevertheless, warmth began to spread through the room, reducing the cold and desolation of the gloomy house.
The young man’s gaze froze for a moment on the fire, which grew gradually, spreading more intense heat and smoke. The flames reflected in his hazy eyes. Sad, confused memories surfaced in his quiet mind.
His name was once Sollivan Duskwraite, from a prestigious noble family that had served under the Golden Lion Empire for generations. His family had earned great glory and honor, making them the envy of many. Even he himself had been a talented young man in the combat arts of the Arcanes, surpassing the skills of his father and grandfather. High hopes were pinned on him; his father hoped he would become a future general, while his grandfather pushed him to become an imperial knight, serving the imperial family directly.
"The Golden Eye..."
Sollivan suddenly muttered indistinct words, as the reflection of the flames in his eyes strangely dimmed, eventually turning into darkness. After that, he exhaled a long breath and pushed his wheelchair towards a wooden box near the hearth, which contained bags of grains and some potatoes covered with mold. He picked up a few potatoes, placed them on his wheelchair, and reached out to take a handful of wheat flour. But he suddenly stopped, as more memories flooded his mind, stirring up past sorrows. He shook his head in denial and muttered in a sad, sorrowful voice:
"Everything is over... Everyone is dead... And I’m paralyzed... Useless, I can’t do anything."
A sad expression appeared on his pale face, but he ignored it, took the handful of flour, and placed it in a soot-covered, rusty metal pot. After adding some water, cutting the potatoes into small pieces, mixing them with the mixture, and adding a pinch of salt, he left the pot to cook.
After a few minutes, he prepared the strange soup he had made, poured himself a bowl, and covered the rest to prevent dust from falling into it. Then, taking a wooden spoon, he headed to the table full of books, sat in an empty spot, and began to eat.
Despite the poor quality of the meal, he didn’t mind, nor did he even think about it. He was poor, and a simple meal like this wasn’t so bad, but it wasn’t enough to strengthen his exhausted body or restore his lost vitality.
After finishing his meal, he cleaned himself and the dishes, and took care of his needs. While changing his clothes, he heard a loud metallic bell ringing.
Ding!
His dull gaze lit up, "I’m late for work again."
He quickly dressed, pulled his bag from under his bed, and put on his old, torn shoes. Then he pushed his wheelchair into the spacious room, picked up two books from the cluttered table, placed them in his bag, tied the bag’s strap to his hand, and headed for the door.
Before leaving, he took a quick look around the house to make sure everything was in order, then, with obvious hesitation, opened the door.
A light wave of autumn wind blew in, carrying dust that irritated his eyes, along with a foul smell that filled the air. His face wrinkled for a moment, but he soon pushed his wheelchair outside. There, he was greeted by the sight of a narrow alley, crowded with randomly placed wooden houses. Some were large, others small, in a very chaotic arrangement.
Bark!
Smoke rose from the chimneys on the roofs, while the sound of stray dogs barking filled the air. The dirt ground was filled with puddles and human waste.
Sollivan tightly closed his door, then began pushing his wheelchair through the narrow alley, crowded with frustrated passersby. Most wore old clothes full of stitching marks, while the minority of homeless wore torn and very dirty clothes.
As he walked through the crowd, he cautiously and fearfully observed his surroundings, noticing some disgusted glances from people, and even some spitting in anger when their paths crossed and his wheelchair got in their way.
’As usual,’
He mocked himself and continued walking carefully, as he had been robbed several times before, so he protected his bag and held it tightly.
As he walked, his gaze fell on some dirty little children playing innocently, oblivious to their surroundings. His mood soured, and he quickly avoided them, not wanting them to see him, fearing they would bother him again. Due to his disability, he was an easy target for bullies, thugs, and even mischievous children who would push or pull his wheelchair, trying to knock him down.
After pushing his wheelchair for several minutes, he finally left the poor neighborhood and reached the main street, which was well-paved, reducing the vibrations of his wheelchair and allowing him to relax while driving. The main street was filled with thriving shops displaying various goods, along with restaurants that emitted delicious smells, making Sollivan’s mouth water. The place was vastly different from the poor neighborhood, as most people wore respectable clothes, not to mention the armored guards scattered everywhere.
Because of this, he felt at ease and was no longer afraid of being robbed, making him more relaxed. After a few more minutes, he arrived at his workplace, a bookstore called "The Lesser Library."
As soon as he entered the store, he smelled the scent of books and manuscripts, and the noise around him lessened. The place was filled with large shelves packed with books, and there were also several chairs and tables for customers. Near the door, there was a large, simple reception desk where an old man in his late sixties sat. He had a thick white beard and a small, pointed mustache, with wrinkles under his eyes. He held an old book in his hands, reading it intently.
When the old man noticed his presence, he looked at him and said in a calm, relaxed voice, "You’re late, as usual." Then he closed his book and set it aside.
Sollivan smiled faintly and replied with a laugh, "And I apologize, as usual." Then he opened his bag, pulled out the two books he had brought, handed them to the old man, and set them aside. He asked in a gentle tone, with some enthusiasm, "Have you read the book I gave you?"
Sollivan raised his eyebrows, suppressing a faint laugh, "Yes, and it’s very good. You’ve outdone yourself this time."
The old man sighed with relief and looked at him with satisfaction, saying happily, "You know how to flatter this old man, but your good opinion comforts me." This old man was Ellis Godwin, the owner of The Lesser Library where Sollivan worked. Despite the age difference, they treated each other like close friends, leading to many discussions about their lives, both personal and related to the bookstore.
Sollivan smiled understandingly, then pointed to the books on the desk, "By the way, I’ve finished copying this book. Please review it."
A complex look appeared on Ellis’s face, and he sighed gloomily, "Sollivan, you’re exhausting yourself too much. I realize that winter is approaching, and you need money to buy supplies." He suddenly stopped talking before grumbling, "You know what? No need for me to say more. You’re too stubborn, and my words won’t change your mind."
Sollivan’s main job was copying old books and creating new copies. In return, he received a silver coin for each book he copied, and sometimes one and a half if the book had many pages or some very complex diagrams. Although his commission was slightly high, the work was exhausting and time-consuming, and he could usually finish one or two books at most each week.
A faint smile appeared on Sollivan’s face, filled with gratitude, "Thank you for your concern, my friend, but don’t worry, everything is under control." Despite his words, a look of helplessness appeared on his face, and he complained to himself in utter misery. ’I hope so, really. I’m exhausted, my body is tired, and my spirit is broken.’ His feelings mixed for a moment, making him lower his head and look at his lifeless feet with hazy eyes. ’I need more money; what I have is not enough.’ His vision became blurry. ’How I hate winter, and yet I love it.’ Winter carried several bad memories for Sollivan, but it was also the only time of the year when he could relax and read the books he loved. Due to his physical condition and the bad weather, he was unable to leave the house. For him, books were his only escape from his harsh reality, and through them, he saw what he couldn’t see and felt alive again.
"Anyway, Sollivan, you can take some rest. It’s still early, and the store won’t be filled with customers yet," Ellis’s worried voice snapped him out of his scattered thoughts. He looked at the worried old man and felt warmth in his heart, thanking him sincerely, "Thank you, my friend. I think I’ll bother you a little."
A light laugh!
"No need to thank me!" Ellis smiled and waved his hand, signaling him to go.
Sollivan pushed his wheelchair and wanted to leave, but he heard the footsteps of a customer. He slowly turned his head and looked at the short person standing in front of the reception desk, then frowned in displeasure. He felt his chest, filled with calmness, tighten and turn into raging anger, but despite that, these feelings lasted only moments before he returned to his usual calmness as he contemplated the old woman with a wrinkled face and a look of disgust in her eyes. The old woman didn’t give Sollivan any glance and headed towards the reception desk, where Ellis greeted her with all respect.
"How may I help you, madam?"