Chapter 1: First Awakening in Snowy Milan

When Lucas opened his eyes amid Milan's cold wind and curtain of snow, the first thing he felt was a chill seeping from the cracks of his bones. He lay on the narrow stone slabs of the medieval old town, surrounded by dim yellow street lamps and blurred figures, the air thick with the mingled smell of roasted chestnuts and damp wool.

His pockets were empty — no passport, no euros — and even his memory of European languages had shattered into fragments, leaving only stray words and the anxiety of being unable to communicate. He tried to stand, but his legs were numb from lying curled up for so long; when he fell, the pain of his knees striking the stone cleared his head a little.

In the distance came the low rumble of a tram — the pulse of a modern city, utterly at odds with his own disorientation. In this strange country he had neither identity nor support; he could rely only on his instinctive urge to tell stories to find some foothold in this city steeped in history.

Snow kept falling, covering his dark collar, as if to bury him completely in this black-and-white world — and he had to find a way out before it did.

At the street corner, the vendor Marcus guarded his hot-soup stall, steam circling the bulb and blurring his face. When Lucas staggered toward him, the wariness in Marcus's eyes nearly dripped. He had seen too many vagrants trying to win sympathy with a pitiful act — or to run a scam — especially the kind with hollow eyes and incoherent speech.

Lucas opened his mouth, but the sound that came out was like gravel squeezed from deep in his throat: neither Italian nor any other familiar language, only broken syllables trembling in the cold wind.

Marcus frowned. His wooden ladle stirred the soup pot with a harsh scraping sound. He did not step forward to ask anything; instead he retreated a step, shielding the stove fire with his body, as if weighing how much of a threat this man posed.

Passersby hurried past; no one stopped. Indifference was the hardest bedrock of this ancient city in winter, and Lucas stood at the center of that whirlpool of indifference, with nowhere to run.

"Get away from here. Don't block my business." Marcus finally spoke, his voice rough as sandpaper, thick with a Milanese accent, his eyes holding no pity at all — only irritation at being disturbed.

Lucas could not understand the words, but he understood the dismissal in the tone. Unconsciously he reached a trembling hand toward Marcus, trying to touch the steaming pot, begging for a trace of warmth.

The gesture thoroughly enraged Marcus. He yanked the soup pot aside, hot steam blasting Lucas's face, then thrust out an arm and shoved Lucas hard in the chest. The force sent Lucas staggering backward; he crashed onto the snow-covered steps, and the dull pain of the back of his head hitting the stone wall blackened his vision.

Marcus did not relent. He loomed over him and berated him, as if scolding a rat that had wandered into a kitchen, while the snow around them churned up in their scuffle and cold wind poured down both men's collars, colder than the snow itself.

Curled in the snow, Lucas's dignity was trampled to nothing in that moment — yet he felt no anger. Instead a strange stillness rose from the bottom of his heart: the prelude to his golden finger awakening.

At that moment, Lucas sensed that the emotions flowing around him were not chaotic at all, but taut as plucked strings. Beneath Marcus's anger lay deep loneliness and fear; behind the passersby's indifference hid a defense against unknown danger.

His golden finger, "Empathic Storytelling," quietly took effect. Lucas no longer tried to communicate in words; instead he let his consciousness pass through the surface and touch the fragments of memory deep in Marcus's heart directly.

He saw a little boy of seven or eight standing on a railway platform, watching his father's indifferent back walk away. The sense of abandonment in that moment was like icy tidewater that had drowned Marcus's feelings for years.

Lucas rose slowly from the snow and brushed off his clothes. He neither retaliated nor begged; he simply looked at Marcus quietly, his gaze clear and compassionate.

Marcus froze. An unfamiliar shame surged up in him, as if the man he had just shoved was not a stranger but the boy abandoned on that platform — himself — and the pain suppressed for so many years was forcibly uncovered in that instant.

Lucas spoke, his voice so soft it seemed afraid to disturb the falling snow: "When your father left, it was a snowy night just like this one, wasn't it?"

Marcus's body trembled violently. The wooden ladle fell from his hand and clattered on the ground. He stared in disbelief, as if at a ghost — because that was a secret he had never told anyone; even his mother knew only that he hated trains.

Shame turned instantly into immense vulnerability. Marcus's eyes reddened; his throat worked but no sound came out. Tears slid down the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes into the stubble at his mouth. He tried to deny it, but the calm acceptance in Lucas's eyes made it impossible for him to keep up the pretense.

In this city that prized contracts and appearances, admitting one's trauma was harder than death. But in that moment, Lucas's words were like a key, opening the locked door of Marcus's heart. The noise around them seemed to recede, leaving only a silent resonance of feeling between the two men, vibrating in the stillness of the snowy night and dissolving the cold shell Marcus had worn for years.

Shame and resonance intertwined, and Marcus's attitude reversed. He no longer saw Lucas as a swindler or a vagrant, but as a "wizard" who could see into people's hearts. Clumsily he crouched down, picked up the fallen ladle, then took a clean little bowl from under the stall, filled it with steaming meat soup, and held it out to Lucas.

Lucas did not take it at once. Instead he explained gently: "I didn't come to cheat you. I've lost my memory, and I've lost language too — but I can hear the voices in people's hearts."

Marcus hesitated a moment, then finally nodded, the hostility in his eyes completely gone, replaced by a complicated sympathy and curiosity. He pointed toward a hidden alley not far away and said in a low voice: "Come with me. There's a room there — shabby, but enough to keep out the cold."

Lucas took the hot soup. The warmth of the bowl against his fingertips flowed through his veins to his whole body — a warmth that came not only from the food, but from a connection between people long absent. In this icy city, kindness in that moment was precious beyond measure, like a plum blossom blooming in the snow.

Lucas followed Marcus through the narrow lanes and drank his first mouthful of hot soup. The broth was rich, fragrant with herbs and beef bone, and its warmth quickly drove the cold from his body.

He observed the details of this city: the expensive sports cars parked at the roadside contrasted sharply with the ragged beggars in the corners; old gentlemen murmured about classical concert tickets outside the cafés, while young graduates searched for job listings on tablets in the square.

The barriers of a rigid class hierarchy remained clearly visible beneath the snow, yet the warmth of humanity flowed in the small corners. As they walked, Marcus chattered about neighborhood news — the EU Parliament's recent adjustments to social welfare, the unrest in the streets after the old bank's layoffs.

Lucas listened in silence, fitting these fragments of information into his mind. He realized that to survive in a social structure like this, kindness alone was not enough; he also needed to understand its rules and logic. The soup was finished, but a sense of order was rebuilding itself in his heart, and fear was gradually giving way to reason.

"You know, the basement of that old church has been unsettled lately." Marcus stopped and lowered his voice, his eyes drifting, as if recalling something disturbing.

He pointed toward the grand yet slightly gloomy church near the Duomo square and said: "Every night, late, you can hear strange sounds inside — like goods being moved in and out. But the priest there says there's nothing but the sound of prayers."

Lucas keenly caught the secret hidden in those words. An old church's basement was usually used to store historical artifacts or family archives — not goods. Combined with the "unusual noises" Marcus had mentioned, he surmised that something forgotten by history, or some illegal trade, might be hidden there.

In this European society that revered historical inheritance, secrets were often hidden in the depths of the most sacred or most ancient buildings. Lucas did not show excessive surprise; he only nodded to show he had noted it, while in his mind he had already sketched the outline of an investigation.

Night fell completely. Snow still drifted down, dressing the city like a watercolor painting. Lucas bade Marcus farewell and walked alone toward the hidden lodging the man had pointed out. It was a small apartment at the edge of the old town, yellow light spilling from its windows, especially warm in the snowy night.

He stood at the door and took a deep breath of cold air, his heart restored to its original calm and reason. The confusion and fear of having crossed over had mostly faded, replaced by a desire to master the unknown. He looked back at Milan in the snowy night — the city's clamor and silence, its indifference and warmth, had all become material for his story.

He knew he was not merely a traveler who had lost his memory; he was a storyteller. In his own way, he would rebuild order amid these ruins of memory and dig out the truths hidden beneath the layers of snow. The door closed behind him, shutting out the wind and snow. Lucas pushed it open and stepped inside. What awaited him was a new adventure, and a new exploration.