The city had barely stirred when Kael returned to his boarding house.
It was still too early for traffic, too late for bars. A grey-blue haze hung in the sky, smothering the stars and sun alike. Somewhere in the distance, a tricycle engine sputtered through the mist. The gutters gurgled with rainwater. The world felt… paused.
Kael stood before the worn door of his building, fingers tight around the strap of his bag. For the first time in years, he hesitated to go inside. The envelope pressed faintly against his chest from the inside of his hoodie — dry now, though the rest of him was cold and damp.
He exhaled slowly and climbed the narrow stairs.
His boarding house room looked the same: cracked ceiling paint, the lightbulb that flickered every fourth second, the crooked calendar on the wall still stuck in April even though it was already June.
The thin mattress in the corner called to his aching body, but Kael didn't lie down. Instead, he knelt beside it, opened his bag, and pulled the envelope out.
He placed it gently on the blanket. Sat cross-legged in front of it. And stared.
It didn't look powerful. It didn't look special.
But it felt like it shouldn't exist. Like it had survived something it wasn't meant to.
The wax seal was dark red, stamped with a symbol Kael hadn't seen in ten years — the Virelles family crest. A falcon perched atop a tower, wings half-spread, eyes sharp. Beneath it, the family motto in Old Latin: *Vi Legatum. Vi Perditum.* — *By power it is inherited. By power it is lost.*
Kael's chest tightened.
He remembered it carved above the old fireplace in the mansion where he once lived. Where servants would line up every morning. Where silence was demanded at every breakfast. Where his father's voice always echoed, even when he wasn't speaking.
He ran his thumb over the crest now.
So much had changed.
And yet… some things hadn't.
---
Kael didn't open it that morning.
He couldn't.
Not yet.
He wrapped it in an old shirt and placed it under the floorboard near his bed — a loose plank he'd discovered during his first week living there. He used it to hide emergency cash, a backup phone charger, and now… this.
It didn't feel right to open it in this room.
Not when the walls still smelled of mildew and boiling noodles.
Not when the neighbor's snoring echoed through the thin plywood.
Some things needed space.
And dignity.
---
Later that morning, Kael stood beneath a leaking pipe behind the student center, waiting for the faucet to spit out enough water to wash his face. The soap he used was cheap and drying, and he shared it with two roommates who never put the cap back on.
He looked at himself in the shard of mirror above the faucet.
Unshaven. Hollow-eyed. Skin pale. His lips were cracked, and a small cut above his brow hadn't healed properly from when a box fell on him at the kitchen two nights ago.
This was his life now. And he'd adapted.
But something was different today.
Not visibly.
Not on the surface.
But somewhere deep inside him, something had shifted.
Like a string that had been pulled tight for years had just… loosened, barely, enough to breathe.
---
Classes passed in a blur.
Microeconomics. Data Modeling. A short quiz in Business Ethics he forgot to study for but somehow passed with a 91. The professor complimented him for his "practical examples" in the essay section. Kael didn't remember writing them.
He barely registered the jokes around him, the gossip, the sudden laughter from a table across the hallway where Mia sat with her friends. She waved when she caught his eye.
He nodded in return.
He didn't stop walking.
---
At noon, Kael reported for his delivery shift at the eatery.
The manager, Jerome, threw a stained apron at him without looking up from his clipboard. "You're late."
"I had class."
"I didn't ask for excuses."
Kael nodded and tied the apron around his waist.
The kitchen was hot and humid, the fan still broken. Oil popped in pans. Someone yelled for more vinegar. Another staff slipped on spilled water, cursed, and laughed.
Kael washed his hands, clipped his name tag onto his chest, and began.
He scrubbed dishes. Wiped tables. Handed out food. Took calls. Delivered orders.
One destination after another.
And all the while, he thought of the envelope.
Not with urgency.
Not even with fear.
But with… *presence*. As if it had taken root somewhere inside him now, and everything else — the noise, the heat, the fatigue — was just background static.
---
Later that night, back in his room, Kael sat on the edge of his bed.
The envelope still waited under the floorboard, untouched.
He didn't take it out.
Instead, he opened his old notebook and began to write.
Not lecture notes. Not project plans.
Just thoughts.
Words.
**Fragments.**
> "What if it's not real?"
> "What if it is?"
> "What does it change?"
> "Who am I if I open it?"
> "Who am I if I don't?"
He stared at the page for a long time, then tore it out, folded it carefully, and placed it in the pocket of his jacket.
---
At 3:14 a.m., Kael finally closed his eyes.
And for the first time in years, he didn't dream of running.
He dreamed of a study bathed in golden light. Of a fireplace. Of the scent of old books and sandalwood.
Of a hand resting gently on his head.
A voice he couldn't remember clearly, saying something he couldn't quite hear.
But the warmth lingered.