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by Stanislav Dema
01/18/26
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Prologue

Mood:

Gavin luke - Incomplete

I sat in a room on the third floor of an old house in Paris. Outside the windows, the boulevard was humming: the clatter of carriage wheels, newsboys shouting headlines, someone laughing in the crowd, someone arguing. Somewhere in the distance, bells were ringing, but here, behind the heavy curtains, it was almost silent. It was as if the city, accustomed to the bustle, had frozen for a moment, leaving me in peace — in a pause before something important.

The room resembled the cabin of a forgotten ship: walls paneled in dark wood, an old lamp beneath the ceiling, a tattered map on the wall. Everything here spoke of a man who did not live in one place for long, but was constantly preparing for the road. The suitcase stood by the bed as if waiting for a command.

On the table before me lay an envelope. Thick, cream-colored, sealed with red wax. I looked at it the way one looks at a door behind which lies everything — or nothing. The letter was addressed to a man named Étienne Duroc. I hadn’t heard that name in many years. I hadn’t called myself that in a long time. So long, in fact, that it sounded like a stranger’s name. Or perhaps, a forgotten true name is the most terrible loss of all.

I broke the seal and unfolded the letter. A single thin sheet, and handwriting that was painfully familiar. Mine. And yet, not quite mine. As if I had written it, but in another time, from another state of mind. As if by someone who knew more than I do now.

“If you are reading this, then everything has gone according to plan. A journey lies ahead of you. You won’t remember everything at once, but you must return. To the East. To the sands. Find what you once found before. And destroy it. Before it is too late. Your path begins in Odesa.”

I reread the message several times. It was too short, too precise. No salutation, no signature. Only an order — or a warning. I didn’t know who exactly had sent me this letter. But if it was myself, then there were reasons enough. And perhaps, back then, I had no other choice.

I sat motionless, letting the words slowly sink into my consciousness. Then I stood up. Calmly. There was no anxiety, no panic. Only the feeling that a chain of events had already been set in motion, and I had merely pulled the trigger. Like the first fallen domino launching a chain reaction that can no longer be stopped.

In the wardrobe on the top shelf lay an old canvas rucksack. I pulled it out and emptied the contents of the suitcase onto the bed: a medical kit bag, a tropical uniform, field binoculars, a first-aid kit, hiking boots, and a change of linen. Everything I needed was already with me. I repacked my things neatly, without haste, as those accustomed to army service and travel do.

Before leaving, I glanced at the letter again. It seemed ordinary, unremarkable, yet I felt that something greater than just ink and paper lived inside it — a certain hidden power.

I folded it and tucked it into the breast pocket of my tunic. Ahead lay the road — to the East, to the sands, to where it all once began. And if I had left it behind once, there must have been a reason. But now — everything was different. From this moment on, there would be no turning back.

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