Allen didn't know how he had fallen asleep.
Maybe it wasn't sleep. Maybe his body had finally given out, like the last string snapping, flinging his whole self into darkness with a twang. That darkness wasn't deep. It had none of the boundless emptiness of the Interstice, and none of the heaviness in the Demon King's eyes. It was more like a thick layer of fog, wrapping him gently. He floated in that fog, thinking of nothing, unable to think of anything. He only knew that something was leaving him.
When he thought back on it later, that must have been "Allen."
Not the name, not the memories, but the man who had lived twenty-odd years and whom he saw in the mirror every morning. That man was running out through his fingers like a handful of water he couldn't hold. Allen knew he ought to hold on to him. That man hadn't done anything wrong. He had only gotten on a plane, only sat by the window, only looked at the clouds a little longer than everyone else. But Allen was too tired. His fingers were too limp to lift. All he could do was watch helplessly as that figure grew fainter and farther away, like a photograph soaked in water, its face slowly dissolving, its body slowly sinking into the fog.
"Don't go." He seemed to say it. Or maybe he never got it out. The words circled once in his throat and scattered. Just like that man.
Later, he woke.
When he woke, the back of his neck was resting on a very soft pillow. Softer than the cushions on that daybed, as if made of stacked clouds. Allen's eyelashes fluttered, but he didn't open his eyes right away. The first thing he felt was his breathing. Very shallow, very light, the rise and fall of his chest so small he wasn't used to it. Then his hand. His right hand lay on his chest, so small he almost didn't feel it. He tried to move his fingers, and those few fingers seemed newly grown, light and slow, as if he were trying a completely unfamiliar switch.
He slowly opened his eyes.
Light gauze curtains hung down from the ceiling, pale gray, falling from above like mist, their four corners tied up with incredibly fine silver chains. There was a breeze, leaking in through some window that hadn't been shut tight, making the curtains billow in and out, as if breathing. Allen stared at the curtains for a long time. He recognized that this wasn't where he'd stayed before. Nor was it that silent chamber. It looked like a girl's room. Everything was too soft, too light, the colors pale, as if steeped in moonlight.
He wanted to sit up. The moment he moved, his whole body froze. Because at last he saw himself.
A very, very small hand was reaching out from under the blanket. So white it was almost translucent, its fingers so slender they looked as if they'd snap at a touch, the nails round and tinged a very faint pink. That hand was far too different from the one in his memory. It wasn't thinner, it wasn't paler; it was completely, fundamentally a different hand. Allen raised the hand in front of his eyes and slowly turned it. The back of the hand, the palm, the knuckles, the lines, all of it was unfamiliar. It was a child's body, a girl's body.
He opened his mouth. No sound came out of his throat. His throat was very dry, as if someone had stuffed a wad of cotton down it. He swallowed hard, and only then managed to squeeze out a thin, soft breath of sound, like a kitten's mew. The sound reached his ears and made even his fingertips go numb. It wasn't his voice. His voice used to sound nothing like this. This voice was light and tender, with a rasp that hadn't quite woken up, as if it drifted in from far away, or as if it had been squeezed out of this small body of his. He didn't recognize this voice. What frightened him more was that it seemed just a tiny bit familiar.
As if those shadows scattered in the fog had looked back at him one last time.
Allen didn't sit up. He just lay there, slowly letting his hand fall back onto the blanket, his eyes fixed on the curtains above. He wanted to cry. His eyes were already hot, but the tears seemed blocked by something and wouldn't fall. All he could do was draw breath after breath, and with every breath he felt a little lighter. So light it seemed he might float up out of the blankets at any moment.
Footsteps came from outside the door.
Someone pushed the door open and came in, stepping very lightly, as if afraid of disturbing him. Allen didn't turn his head. Right now he didn't even want to spend the strength to turn it. Maybe it was Vera. Maybe it was Vivian. He didn't know. And it didn't matter. He only heard the footsteps stop beside the bed, and then a voice settled over him, very soft. "You're awake?"
It was Vera.
Allen slowly turned his head to look at her. Vera stood beside the bed in a very thin long black dress, her silver hair loosely tied back with a narrow ribbon, a few strands falling over her shoulder. Candlelight shone from behind her, softening her outline. She looked at Allen, still with little expression on her face, but her gaze lingered a little longer than usual.
"Do you know how long you slept?" she asked.
Allen didn't answer. He didn't even know what time it was now. He felt as if he'd been thrown into a very long dream, and though he'd woken, the dream hadn't fully dispersed. All he knew was that he had changed. His body had changed, his voice had changed, even the height he saw things from had changed. It was as if he'd been stuffed into a shell that didn't belong to him, and yet that shell truly grew on him, every inch of it obeying him.
"Thirsty," he said hoarsely. It was the only word he could manage.
Vera turned to pour a cup of water. The cup was very light; she brought it over, supported the back of his head, and held the rim to his lips. Allen drank two sips from her hand. The water was very cool, sliding down his throat and seeming to smooth down all the prickles inside. He drank very slowly, choked once partway, and started coughing. Vera took the cup away and gently wiped the water from his chin with her fingertip. The gesture was very natural, as if she'd done it many times. As Allen looked at her, something very sour suddenly welled up in his chest.
"Don't make that face," Vera said.
"What face," Allen asked quietly.
"Like someone who's been abandoned." Vera set the cup aside and pulled the blanket up over him, tucking it to his chest. "You haven't been abandoned. You've only changed bodies."
Allen's lips moved. He wanted to say that this wasn't an "only." The person he'd been, twenty-odd years of those hands, twenty-odd years of that face, twenty-odd years of the self he saw when he looked in the mirror, all of it was gone. Was that an "only"? But he had no strength to argue. He couldn't even sit up. All he could do was look at Vera like that, his eyes red, like a little animal just fished out of the water.
"Can I see myself?" Allen asked.
Vera didn't answer right away. She looked at him for a moment, then turned, walked over to the wall, and took something down. It was a small mirror with a silver frame, very plain in style. She brought the mirror over but didn't hand it to him right away, only held it and asked, "Are you sure?"
Allen closed his eyes for a moment. "I have to look sooner or later."
Vera said nothing more. She slowly raised the mirror, turning its face toward Allen.
He saw.
A very small face. Silvery-pink hair spread across the pillow, a few strands lying over the forehead. Skin so white it had not a trace of color, as if cut from a moonlit night. The eyes were pale red, like a thin veil of rosy mist floating over a river frozen in early spring, wet and bright. The eyelashes were long to the point of seeming unreal, curling slightly at the tips. The nose was straight but small, as if sculpted. The lips were small too, a pale pink, as light as this whole body. The whole person seemed not yet grown, everything small. And having just woken, there was still a pillow crease pressed into one cheek, a little soft dip.
It really was a child.
Allen looked at the person in the mirror for a long time. The child in the mirror looked back at him. The eyes were very bright, as if a thin layer of light were shut up inside them. She was just like him: not smiling, not crying. She only looked. As if confirming something, or as if waiting.
"This is me," Allen said softly.
Vera gave a "Mm."
"I'm already... not me anymore," he said.
Vera lowered the mirror and set it gently on the edge of the bed. She didn't comfort him, and she didn't say anything like "You're still you." She only reached out and rested her hand very lightly on top of his head. Allen's hair gave a little under the pressure, soft and smooth, like touching a patch of new snow. Vera's fingers stayed in his hair for a moment, then withdrew.
"Your name," she said suddenly. "Your original name. Are you keeping it?"
Allen was taken aback. His original name. Of course he remembered it. His name was Allen. That name had been with him for twenty-odd years, as if printed on his bones. But right now it seemed to drift in from very far away, and it didn't fit this body. He opened his mouth and softly said it once. The name came out of his new voice soft and light, as if he were calling someone else.
"I'm keeping it," he said, his eyes on the ceiling. "I want to keep it."
"All right," Vera said, as if accepting the answer. She stood up, walked to the door, and looked back. "A maid will bring you food tonight. Your body isn't stable yet. Don't get out of bed."
Allen didn't answer. He only heard the door close softly, and the room went quiet again. The breeze leaked in through the gap in the window, making the curtains sway back and forth. He turned onto his side and buried his face in the pillow. The pillow was very soft, with a very faint fragrance, like something slowly blooming in the dark.
He didn't want to move. He only wanted to curl up, to shrink himself into a very, very small ball, so small that even he couldn't find himself.
But no matter how small he curled, that mirror was still lying beside the bed. Face up, reflecting the canopy, reflecting that layer of gauze like mist. He didn't look at it again. But he knew the child in that mirror was still there.
Quietly waiting for him to get used to it.