--Rose--
Part 1: Dasein
For the longest time, there was nothing – no sight, no sound, not even pain – and my thoughts swam in the lightless depths of some dead ocean. Even the shapes of my memories had become, somehow, blurred. I remembered the concept of music, of voice, but the practicalities of poetry and song did not abide with me. I remembered ideas of kinship, loyalty, and family, but found myself alienated from their names and faces. All I had was time, and a vague sense of existence that floated, invisible, next to me, around me, waiting, since I had no hands to grasp it and no self to contain it.
One day – or one night, I could not tell – a rumbling began, a distant drumming, which brushed against me more as touch than sound. I realized, then, with a certain relief, that I was not a disembodied ghost. In fact, a comforting warmth had begun to radiate from somewhere and, in the boundless darkness where I existed, an incipience of senses coagulated around my consciousness.
Then, I learned – or was reminded of – the meaning of color, and light. Diffuse, formless at first, washing over me in warm hues of red, like a… "sunset", I thought – not fully knowing what the word meant. My pitch-black void was gradually flooded with a golden haze, from where a pair of black spots sometimes emerged and hovered near me for a while, before sinking back into the foggy glow. Every time, it felt like they spoke to me – but if they did, I could not discern the words.
It took days, weeks – how long, I could not say – but the misty radiance eventually dissolved, and that enduring sunset did, gradually, coalesce into the truth of my surroundings. I saw… a vast, well-lit chamber, littered with strange devices, jars pulsating with luminescent oozes, delicate flasks bubbling with vibrant liquids, and an intricate network of glassware distilling essences that shimmered as they travelled through crystalline piping. The stone walls were lined with countless shelves, each bending under the weight of large, leather-bound tomes. At the center of the chamber sat a massive oaken desk, cluttered with parchments, mortars and pestles of every size, around a delicate-looking balance scale.
Given more time, I pieced together that the floating spots which had visited me on occasion belonged to the larger anatomy of a peculiar creature: one clad fully in dark fabrics, his face as that of a bird’s; and smooth, impenetrable glass where the eyes were supposed to be. This creature, who dwelled in that space encompassing me, was a man. I knew this because I could hear his voice, though he had no mouth that I could see. He muttered. He paced around, speaking to himself, or to someone else I could not detect.
"None could put you back together, little one; witches and craftsmen, seers and alchemists, none could do it on their own. Each carrying a fragment, each blind to their neighbor – but I have an eye for reconciliation. A mind to mend this perplexing fracture."
His voice was distant, but clear – and low, comforting, almost mournful. He would flip through pages, then raise his beak to stare at nothing. Sometimes, he'd come to my side and mutter at me.
"The gifts of forgiveness and the gifts of abstraction, to soothe you again. All their intersections, I shall bequeath to you."
I did not know what he meant most of the time. He either spoke in riddles or voiced only fragments of his thoughts, as if to emphasize them to himself – or perhaps simply to dispel the silence around him. Beneath the weight of his tone, I detected a certain wistfulness, a weariness steeped in solitude. I understood this intuitively, though I myself was very nearly alone and had been so for as long as I could remember.
Part 2:
I do not believe he realized I could hear him. Since he looked at me, I assumed I must possess a body – though, at that time, I had only the faintest awareness of it. Eventually, as my sight sharpened, I understood that I existed within the confines of a glass casing. I did not mind it at first, as it was far better than the void I had endured before. As my awareness grew, so too did my observations of the world beyond my casing. Thus, I noticed that he and I were not alone in that space.
There was a girl, her presence quiet but strangely unyielding, often seated on the stone steps or near the oaken desk. She was young, perhaps no more than a teenager, yet there was something solemn in her demeanor. He addressed her by name – Clara; a strange and delicate figure, slight of frame, with pale, almost translucent skin. Her face was soft and round, her features unassuming – save for the single, unblinking eye that dominated the center of her forehead. Dark and glossy, it seemed far too large for her face, yet it gave her a haunting intensity, as though she were perpetually observing something no one else could see. Her hair was a dark, uneven brown, cropped roughly around her ears, giving her an air of dishevelment, as if practicality had dictated its length rather than vanity. She wore simple clothes, muted in color and texture, a peasant’s tunic and skirt that hung loosely on her frame.
My keeper instructed her tirelessly on a complex, fluid language of signs, guiding her hands with meticulous care. Patient and deliberate, he drew out understanding and precision with every gesture, and she responded in kind. Yet, his mentorship extended beyond language. I often saw him examining her with careful intensity, drawing vials of her blood or saliva, which he used as reagents for his alchemical processes. It seemed that, to him, little Clara was both student and specimen and, day by day, he shaped her understanding with the same deliberation he brought to his experiments, guiding her hands through the motions of silent conversation, or scrawling notes on parchments for her to study.
Their lessons were endless, punctuated by moments when he would examine her more closely, yet she did not flinch under his gaze, nor did she resist when he reached for her arm with his instruments. There was a bond between them that I could not fully comprehend – a mixture of mentor and subject, caretaker and creator. Was this what laid in store for me? At any rate, as I watched her learn, I found myself learning too, slowly piecing together their secret language, my mind grasping at the fragments of meaning in their silent exchanges.
One day, Clara approached me. Tentatively, she pressed her palms against the glass of my casing. Her solitary eye darted back and forth, absorbing every detail of the space that confined me. Finally, it settled on me, fixing me with an unwavering gaze. On instinct, I mirrored her action, pressing my hand against the glass where hers rested. A jolt of realization coursed through me: I had a hand. I pulled it back, staring in wonder as I flexed my fingers. "I have hands", I thought, absurdly pleased by the discovery.
Clara smiled. Her fingers moved in a slow, deliberate series of gestures. A strange mixture of joy and confusion flooded me. I tried to respond, fumbling with the nascent understanding I had pieced together. “What?”, I gestured awkwardly, unsure if she could comprehend my clumsy attempt at communication. She repeated her gestures, moving even more slowly this time: happy, see, you, again. I wanted to ask her so many things – who she was, what she meant by again, and why she had come to me—but the sound of footsteps echoed through the chamber, prompting Clara to retreat to her usual place by the desk.
Only once did she approach me again. She pressed her hands against the glass, her solitary eye shimmering with a hint of sadness – yet beneath the sorrow, I saw something else: a quiet strength, a spark of determination that softened the weight of her gaze. Slowly, she signed: forbidden, approach, you, yet, happy, have, courage. Her hands lingered against the glass for a moment longer, before she drew them back. Her lips curved into the ghost of a smile – a fragile but undeniable expression of hope. Then she turned away, returning to her place by the desk with a deliberate steadiness, as though each step required resolve. After that, her eye would flick toward me as she worked, her presence brushing against mine in subtle, wordless acknowledgment. But she refused to communicate further, even when I tried to draw her attention. Her silence carried no coldness; it felt deliberate, as if she were withholding something for reasons I could not yet fathom.
Part 3:
I picked new words and old words from my keeper, who, from time to time, entertained guests in his – I heard him say it – laboratorium, his place of labor. Some came during the day, when sunlight pierced stained-glass windows and sent dusty beams across the room; others visited at night, speaking in whispers, their faces concealed. The visitors were many, and I amused myself by recalling their voices, and reenacting their conversations in my thoughts. They addressed him as Lazarus, a name that seemed to command reverence.
Clara had always been there, though it took me time to truly notice her. She moved through the laboratorium like a shadow bound to Lazarus, her quiet presence a constant against the ever-changing chaos of his work. Her single eye, large and unblinking, gave her an unsettling but oddly serene appearance, set in the center of a face otherwise soft and unassuming. Lazarus called her by name, Clara, and though she never spoke, her silence was filled with meaning. He instructed her tirelessly, guiding her hands with meticulous care as he taught her a complex, fluid language of signs. Patient and deliberate, he molded her mind as though shaping a raw material, drawing out understanding and precision with every gesture. Yet, his mentorship extended beyond language. I often saw him examining her with the same intensity he reserved for his experiments, taking vials of her blood or saliva, which he used as reagents for his alchemical processes. To him, Clara seemed both student and specimen—a paradox I couldn’t yet unravel. Over time, as I watched their lessons unfold, I began to grasp their secret language, and with it, glimpses of the bond that tethered them—a bond that felt as much like a scholar shaping his greatest work as it did a father teaching his daughter.
One frequent visitor was a woman named Yui. A warrior, I believe, though she often had a farmer’s tool – a scythe – strapped to her back, which confused me. Still, she carried herself with a sort of unapproachable grace, her stride light and nearly soundless, as if the ground was uncertain of her presence until she chose to leave a mark. Her dark, calculating eyes scanned her surroundings with a gaze that was equal parts predatory and distant; they rarely lingered long, and when they did, it was with an intensity that seemed to strip away all pretense.