The wood creaked under each of my steps, a hollow and almost funereal sound, resonating in the thick air of the bar. Each step forward seemed more difficult, as if the atmosphere itself was growing heavier around me, oppressive, slowly compressing me. I sank into this dull darkness, where shadow and light seemed to fight to dominate the space, without either really prevailing. The air had a strange consistency, almost palpable, a sort of invisible veil that weighed on my skin, a bit like a dream from which one cannot escape.
The flickering light of an old lamp caught my eye, like the only star in a dark sky. A solitary beacon in an ocean of darkness. It rested on a rickety table, covered in a thin layer of dust, forgotten in a corner of the bar. Its design—clean, angular, imbued with that cold modernity specific to the works of Jacob Jacobsen—contrasted with the dilapidated and ancestral setting that surrounded it. The clean lines of the lampshade, in metal blackened by time, gave the object an almost futuristic look, but also out of place, as if the lamp had never been intended for this place. Its base, long and slender, stretched with a severe elegance, a geometric rigor that clashed with the atmosphere saturated with mystery and decadence. The metal was rough under my fingers, perhaps original, perhaps altered by the passage of time, rusted in places, but still solid. The lampshade, slightly dented, seemed to betray a life much longer than the rest of the surrounding furniture. A lamp from another time, from another life, which had survived where all the rest was doomed to oblivion. Its light, weak and yellowish, flickered at times, crackling intermittently as if a bad contact had disturbed the thread of the current. This intermittence, this irregular flashing, gave the scene a disturbing strangeness, each flash plunging and pulling the room out of the shadows, as if the object itself were struggling to maintain a tenuous link with this reality. Sometimes, in these moments of brief interruptions, the darkness seemed to want to devour everything around it, ready to swallow everything when the light weakened. I observed the lamp with a morose, almost hypnotic fascination. Was it really from that period? Or had it been placed there recently, like a modern relic in an ancient shrine?It was hard to tell. All I knew was that she seemed to have a presence, a will of her own, as if she were a silent witness to something I could not yet understand.
Or maybe… it was my mind. My mind was lost in this maze of sensations. I finally sat down, or rather, I let myself fall, exhausted, into a chair that creaked under my weight. I had barely looked around me when I felt their presence. Others were there, sitting around the table, indistinct silhouettes, barely human shapes, or perhaps too human for me to really make them out. Creatures, emerging from the unfathomable depths, perhaps even followers of Cthulhu, like those that Lovecraft described in his stories. Their presences, heavy, opaque, enveloped the room like a mist that could not be dispelled. Their dark gray coats melted into the darkness, with those hats pulled so low that they hid all sign of faces, as if even the idea of their identity had been erased. These creatures, if one could call them that, seemed to emerge from another time, another world, floating in a space between reality and nightmare. They barely moved, but their movements were slow, as if suspended, distorted, shifted, shadows without real consistency that seemed to vibrate, oscillating on the edge of the visible and the unspeakable. Their gestures, imperceptible, defied the logic of human movement, as if they were subject to a different gravity, or as if they existed in a time that did not belong to me. Were we really there, or was I sinking into a dream, a waking nightmare where the boundaries of reality and myth were slowly fading? Perhaps I had already become one of them. Ghosts, illusions, or perhaps… what I was becoming, myself. Were we really here, or was I sinking into a dream, a waking nightmare where the boundaries of reality and myth were slowly fading? Perhaps I had already become one of them.Ghosts, illusions, or perhaps… what I was becoming, myself. Before them, in the center of the table, was a leaf. White or pale yellow, it was hard to tell in the flickering light. The leaf seemed almost unreal, as if it were floating above the aged wood, unable to fully touch reality, an enigma, a challenge lying there, waiting to be deciphered. Its fragile appearance contrasted with the oppressive weight of the beings surrounding it. It was there, an enigma suspended between two worlds, defying whoever would dare touch it with their eye or hand. This thin leaf, so fragile in appearance, contrasted heavily with the oppressive presence of the shadows surrounding it.
Then, like a subterranean murmur rising from the depths of the abyss, a sound reached my ears. It was a murmur, barely audible, coming from one of those indistinct silhouettes, more shadow than substance, more ghost than flesh.
“You too… you too are looking for Satoshi, aren’t you?”
The whisper seemed to carry within it the weight of an ancient secret, like a curse, an incantation destined to reverberate through the ages. My throat tightened, my lips froze. For a moment, I remained silent, unable to react. Then, in a trembling, almost hesitant voice, I finally answered.
" Yes… "
No sooner had the words left my mouth than, as if by magic, a glass of brandy appeared before me. Its arrival, silent, seemed supernatural, as if the liquid had been materialized by some invisible force, the result of an ancient trick or a mysterious artifice. The glass was heavy, cut from thick crystal that caught the wavering light, transforming the golden liquid it contained into a veritable cascade of molten gold. Under this unreal glow, the brandy sparkled, each flash of light emphasizing the richness of its texture. The smell of alcohol spread slowly in the air, like a veil that chased away the dry, acidic stench of old cigarettes, the rancid scent of mold that clung to the walls and the souls present. It was not a simple smell, it was an invitation—a veiled promise of a truth still hidden. The bouquet of the brandy was complex, with notes of aged oak and distant spices, as if each drop carried within it the story of a quest, a mystery that only he who dared to delve into its depths could understand. I raised the glass slowly, feeling its weight against my fingers, the warmth of the alcohol radiating softly through the cold crystal. At first inhalation, I was overwhelmed by a rich, heady scent, a soft haze of aromas that transported me elsewhere, far from this table and these shadows. The brandy, in this dark glass, was more than just alcohol—it was the mirror of the enigma I was tracking.
To be continued..