Prologue: I Had A Dream…

Georges Richard stared closely at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, his eyes observing the familiar lines of his so ordinary face. The face that greeted him each morning was the same as always; unremarkable, weary and unattractive.

He had a dream… but…. sigh….

"Same day, same face…" he murmured.

Sigh!

The sound echoed through the small cramped bathroom, almost suffocating the space that had probably seen better days. The paint on the walls were peeling like a snake, and the tiles were cracked as much like the rest of his life. 

He, each morning, went through the same habitual routine; brushing his teeth, combing his black hair, and wearing the same cheap suit. This hateful routine was as ingrained as the trees on his neighbourhood park.

But today, as he buttoned his shirt, a deeper sense of dissatisfaction clawed his very self. It was like an all-consuming void had slowly been expanding within him, threatening to swallow him whole like a titan swallowed a certain mother.

"Is this all there is?" he murmured, shaking his head, his hair scattering. The question hung in the air, unanswered.

Georges worked as an administrative assistant at a mid-sized insurance company, a job that paid the bills but left his soul dry like a Black Company in Japan. 

His days were filled with a quasi infinite load of paperwork, phone calls that he didn't wanted to answer or make, and the office rumours like how the chief was having an affair with the chairman's wife. 

The gray walls of his cubicle seemed to approach his very being, as if waiting to trap him in a loop of tedium.

He had a dream. He had imagined a life filled with adventure and excitement, something that went beyond this faded cubicle. Like being a superstar, a footballer; the latter was his childhood dream. But the had given up, painfully… It was painful accepting that you're never gonna be professional footballer as you grown up.

Sigh…

With a resigned sigh, Georges grabbed his battered briefcase and stepped out his gray apartment. The sky was gray matching his mood. He walked to the bus stop, his shoulders were inclined against the harsh biting wind around the city.

Vroom!

The bus finally arrived, a hulking yellow vehicle that let out a cloud of gray smoke, probably bad for the atmosphere as it stopped with a screech of metals rubbing against each others. The door opened with a hiss sound like an snake and Georges climbed the steps , casting an automatic glance at the driver.

"Good morning, Mr. Georges," said the driver, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a tired smile. His name was Manuel, and he had been on the same route for years. Georges had known him for years, their interactions a small comfort in his otherwise monotonous routine.

"Good morning, Manuel," Georges replied, forcing a smile as he pulled the bus pass from his pocket. "How are you today?"

"Oh, the usual," Manuel shrugged, closing the door behind Georges with a click. "Too cold for my liking, but it's part of it, right?"

"No doubt," Georges agreed, nodding. "I hope at least your breakfast was warm."

"It was, yes. My wife makes sure of it," Manuel smiled with a touch of pride. "And you, Georges? Anything new?"

"No, nothing new," Georges responded, his tone resigned. "Just another day at the office."

"I see," Manuel said, as he drove the bus back into traffic. "Well, I hope the day goes by quickly for you."

"Thank you, Manuel. For you too," Georges said, heading to the back of the bus.

The bus ride was uneventful, the same tedious route he had taken for years, so he adapted. 

The people in the bus with him were lost in their own worlds, their eyes were glued to their phones as if it was the most treasured object of their little lives. 

The city had disappeared in a blur of gray buildings and streets in a flash, appearing devoid of any colour. Like the mono filter.

At his stop, Georges got off the bus and began the short walk to the office. 

His mind wandered as he walked like a supercomputer doing researches.

Vroom!

As he crossed the street, he was lost in his thoughts and didn't had the time to notice the speeding truck coming starting at him like a arrow, until it was too late.

Vroom! Vroom!

The screech of tires. The blaring horn. A flash of blinding headlights.

Boom!

Time seemed to slow as the truck hit him with a bone-crunching thud. 

Georges felt himself lifted off the ground, the world spinning in a whirl. 

Then, he hit the asphalt hard, pain cruising through his body. 

His vision darkened, the sounds fading into a distant roar.

Then, darkness enveloped him like a mother…

...

Gasp!

Georges woke with a start, gasping for air. He was lying on a cold and hard surface, the air around him was heavy with all the smell of old parchment and dust making a way onto his nose. He sat up, groaning at the sudden movement, it was strangely painful. 

Georges looked around, his eyes wide with confusion as he noticed his surroundings.

Georges was in a vast, dimly lit hall, filled with towering shelves that were almost like infinite, their numbers weren't something one could count with one's fingers. Books and scrolls filled every inch of space of the hall. 

The place had an otherworldly feel, as if it existed for a long and long of time.

"Where the hell am I?" Georges murmured, rubbing his temples. The last thing he remembered was the truck, the searing pain… Was he dead? Or this was some kind of nightmare or bizarre dream?

Georges struggled to get his feet together as he took a cautious step forward, the sound of his footsteps were echoing in the silent hall. It gave him shivers.

The place was overwhelmingly humongous, he couldn't see the end of it, each row of shelves seeming to stretch on forever. A feeling of the rough texture of ancient leather and brittle paper attacked his senses.

Turning a corner, he saw a huge, ornate desk at the end of the aisle. 

As he approached, he noticed a large, worn plaque hanging above it, the letters carved in elegant script.

"Primordial Origin Library," he read aloud, the words sending a chill down his spine.