Chapter 1: 0.Prologue

 

In a bright white painted room covered in rosin paper floors, window seals crafted with now worn oak wood are perched open with a latch. Pushing its glass outward gives morning air into the otherwise dusty and empty building. As the wind flutters past its windows, the creaking of wood is the only sound heard.

In the otherwise picturesque moment, a voice breaks the silence.

"-which is why we don't want you going up these stairs every morning. Do you know how worried my sister is every time we come over and see you doing this?" 

A loud grunt interrupts the handsome blond-haired young man wearing a blue suit and tie. A skinny old man who wears dark robes forcefully smacks a brown wooden cane every few steps with a 'clack' against the concrete stairs just outside the white building.

The conversation is cut short by the older man pulling his cane back a few feet too far as he tried to step forward while tripping over himself with the lack of support his cane would usually bring him. He grinds his teeth for a moment as the pain spreads up his left leg as his left foot bends backward. 

He cursed his old age. As his eyes began to fail him long ago, his old body would seem to break if he raised his hand too high or pushed his legs just a bit further.

"Dammit, Jake, just let me live my last days in peace." The old man grunted again, placing his cane back to reposition himself. "If you worry so much, then maybe come by more than twice every three years."

Jake, the young blond, frowned at this statement. He knew he should have come by more often, but he had his own family now, and his father had lived to a very old age. He would be surprised every time he visited and saw that his father could still do his daily climb up these stairs without fail that rise up to his studio.

He had seen his father act while he was a boy. They knew how much time he spent drawing, painting, and studying art. It was the envy of many to have such a passionate life as his father had, as he seemed to breathe and live for nothing else but to paint some days and save the rest to learn about art itself. It made Jake respect the man in more ways than one, but he couldn't help but be worried that one day he may find his old man breathing his last while painting just one more masterpiece. Was it the old man's arrogance to call every painting he made a masterpiece of its own?

Jake could never think so, not with how even to this day, his father's art was spread on countless famous websites and museums under the signature Meine Welt. It was the pseudonym his father thought of a long time ago as he thought to give those who view his art what he thought of each piece. But he wasn't just calling himself 'My World.' He felt it was too literal, so he slapped it into German and voilà. Almost a legacy name in terms of current books and branding under the old man's influence.

Jake brought himself back from these thoughts as he pushed onwards onto the ever-winding staircase up the forested mountain that lay right next to his father's house. He turned to his side and watched as his father of 101 years climbed the stairs next to him, looking as if his life depended on getting up the stairs that even winded Jake while still going at the old man's pace.

The acclaimed 'old man paused for a moment and looked directly at Jake, who had already started breathing heavily.

He sighed. He knew his son was busy with his own life but felt sad that he never got to see him more often. They knew their time left together would be short, and it was only a matter of time before age got the better of him.

Silence overtook the two as they traveled, only a few feet away from the dilapidated building atop the stairs.

This was where Jake said farewell and turned around to leave; he knew that his father would be staying up here the whole day, maybe even till the following day if he lost track of time, which seemed to be a common occurrence for him. Without saying a word, they both parted from each other as the old man made his final step up the stairs and headed to the door of the building. He removed a worn key from his robe's back pocket and inserted it into the lock.

It didn't budge for a moment before giving release to the rusted key. The white door slowly creaked open under the strength of the man's cane, only to forcefully close behind as he stepped inside. Greeting him was an empty room that had nothing but a hook connected to the flooring of the building. It looked like you could pull the hook up and release a hatch under it.

Walking to the flooring center, they pulled their cane in front of them as they slowly descended into a cross-legged position.

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"How I struggle every day just to bring myself but another day of life…." He mused.

Looking around, he felt a slight tinge of melancholy, thinking of the past years of his youth he would spend in this building when he could still climb ladders and spend restless weeks clashing various colors to make his visions come alive. Now it was only when he closed his eyes that he could paint just as freely once again. He always felt the colors more vibrant and mystifying in his mind than he had ever seen with his eyes open to the world. He spent his whole life trying to copy the true wonders in his mind, every day thinking of what to try next in perfecting his art.

Yet it would seem he never could. He could tell it wasn't his lack of practice or knowledge. They were simply colors he could never find. Not in pigments that cost the same as sports cars, not in digital art. He honestly wondered all these years where he could find these magnificent colors that only he seemed to witness. The man never understood why he saw them, why they seemed to speak to him if he ever focused for too long. Some seemed to be in shades even unrecognizable to him. His only achievement with them is how he grew and crafted more colors inside his mind.

 

Even then, how an old mind like his could process dozens of colors constantly moving was a mystery. He still could remember his first-grade days, so maybe his mind was a bit different after all.

 

Today he did what he had always done after the age of 11. He took the colors surrounding his mind once more and started painting. Creating a part of his mind free of dyes and devoid of distraction, they poked and motioned for the colors to move. Today he had the most color he had ever had to work with. Yes, it seemed he could also run out of color. One of its most oddities, he decided. But the man had started doing this long ago and has built museums worth of artistry in every nook and cranny of his mind.

 

Today he figured, should be his last piece to make. Why he thought of this, he didn't know. Perhaps the old man finally realized his age, or maybe because it would seem his eyes refused to open as he worked. But, no…It was his art that told him those colors he so desperately tried to recreate and gather. 

 

It would seem that today he would place his final piece in his mind.

 

The old man decided that today he would not be creating his best piece, that he would not mull over every stroke and follow the arduous instructions he had been taught at a young age. No, today, he decided to let himself enjoy every moment. Not to say he wouldn't enjoy painting anything else, but sometimes finding joy in the arduous details can be difficult even at his 'wise' age. 

It was a simple piece, just a light painting of the room he currently sat in. Sure it looked a lot more mystical and whimsical with all the colors he had to use not to leave a single drop of color behind. The seemingly pure white walls were filled to the brim with various colors, and the floor was stained with shades of black and blue. The usual light that would enter was replaced with a color that seemed to represent the sun rays themselves. And while painting himself in the middle of the room, he used bold strokes of pearl white to reflect his old and pale skin. He drew his dark blue robes and baggy white pants. His old gray hair and the oak-stained cane that lay right next to himself and as the seemingly still room came alive with the wind that could only be recognized by the old man's hair swaying to the side in the painting of that very room. The man paid no attention to the colors around them as they seemed to sway and move eagerly onto the painting under the old man's wishes. Nor did he realize that after a seemingly short amount of time passed that the whole canvas was filled with color and that only a few drops remained unused. He used the last few colors left to sign the bottom right of the masterpiece in his signature name. He continued watching for only a moment to appreciate his art before trying to take a breath, only to realize once again why he felt all those emotions and feelings of finality just a moment before. 

He felt himself lift off the ground as he underwent the sensation of being in flight for all but a few moments. Although he recognized the feeling, he did not move inside his head and stayed leveled with his art pieces. He turned away from his art as he felt his body…or whatever it was that they were currently moving as. He started to be almost dragged into a specific direction that he could only feel around him and not see. His thoughts turned blank for a second as he felt eased and slowed, then compressed into what he would later recognize as his new body. Faint screaming and loud voices were heard around him as he automatically opened his eyes in confusion, only to see blurry images and colors flash over his eyes. As his thoughts settled in, he felt a plethora of sensations overwhelm him. From pain to warmth to the buzzings in his ears as sounds seemed to spike straight inside his mind. He only lasted for a few moments before everything turned black.

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