Chapter 9- Clothes meant for another/ Fits well.

There is no wardrobe in the house. No closet, no dresser, not even a hook on the wall.
Just the chest.

A great wooden thing, blackened at the corners, its brass hinges tarnished with years of oil and silence. It sits at the foot of the bed like a coffin made for clothes—but not for him.

Ydoc kneels in front of it, knees sinking into the cold floorboards. The air is dry and tired, thick with the familiar quiet of a home that only ever whispers.

His hands hover over the latch. It clicks like an old lock, reluctant to open, but it yields—just like always. And the chest exhales softly, revealing its contents.

Inside: rows of clothing too rich to belong here. Too tailored. Too precise.

None of them are his. 
It is strange to see them all folded so neatly. Their scents—oiled leather, rose-water, bitter musk—rise like ghosts. He kneels down, bone-creaking from the nightmares, and fingers through them slowly.  The bruises on his arms are old, yellowing and raw. His skin feels like paper, like memory. He knows he needs to hide them

One by one, he lifts the garments—folded, pressed, unloved.

There’s a white poet’s shirt with billowing sleeves—he knows this one. Edwards wore it once during a drunken flirtation, declaring himself the "hero of the hour," only to spill wine down the front and throw it back into the chest in a tantrum.

Then, a pair of tight leather pants—not his size. Far too flattering. Meant for dancing, for attention. The kind of thing Edwards wore when he wanted to be seen, when he wanted hands on him.

And another shirt. And another. Silks. Satins. Garments for summer. Garments for showing off. All of them preened and hungry. All of them not his.

He finds a jacket with gold filigree at the collar—too gaudy.

A vest with silver bells sewn along the hem—he never liked the sound.

Even a scarf that smells like the cologne Edwards wore two winters ago—god, it still lingers. He folds it tighter. Pushes it deeper into the box.

And then…

his fingers brush something at the very bottom. Something heavier. Smoother. Cold, like fabric that’s never been touched by sunlight.

He pulls it free slowly, unsure why it was hidden so deep. As it rises, folded and silent, it spills out like ink from a bottle.

Black. So black it almost devours the light around it.
Not a showpiece. Not a vanity project.
This is something else.

He lays it across his lap and unfolds it piece by piece.

The coat is a two-part ensemble, meant for layering—a long silk undershirt and an overcoat stitched in dense, matte black wool. But it’s the weight that surprises him.

He drapes the sleeves across his arms and shivers.

The inner layer is smooth as rainwater. Silk, so fine it could melt between fingers. It clings to the skin, not tightly—but gently, like a second skin made for hiding bruises.

The overcoat is built like a memory. Structured shoulders, long draping sleeves that cascade into shapes reminiscent of wings. There are folded hems designed like feathers, but they do not gleam. Instead, they eat the light—black on black, fading into a deep, almost bruise-colored purple when turned just right.

The lining is green. Not a forest green, not a happy green. But a sickly, jewel-toned emerald—too rich to be casual, too theatrical to be ignored. It winds along the edges of the sleeves, down the slit of the back, and curls like ivy up into the inside of the collar.

But the most important thing—
The most telling thing—

Is that the coat has never been worn.

No scent.
No sweat.
No loose thread.

Even the inner tag, a stitched gold emblem with a dancing fox, is untouched—its embroidery not even softened by washing.

The sleeves still carry the factory fold.
The buttons are stiff.
The thread—tight.

He checks the pockets.
Nothing inside. Not a receipt. Not a coin. Not a hair.

He checks again.
Still empty.

He runs his fingers along the edge of the collar, where skin should have touched. It is crisp.

Edwards never wore this. Not once.

And that… makes it feel like a secret.

Ydoc doesn’t understand it at first.

Why this coat—the untouched one, the silent one—feels like his.

Maybe it’s because it doesn’t remember anything.
Because it has no memories.
Because it has no stories of Edwards soaked into it.

Because it is clean.
Because it is untouched.

Because it does not hurt to wear it.

He slips the silk shirt on first. It glides over his arms, hiding the yellow and blue of his skin like fresh snowfall over old wounds.

Then, the coat.

He pulls it around himself slowly, one arm at a time, as if wrapping himself in silence. The buttons are cold. They close with a soft resistance, like the clothing is unsure—but not unwilling.

The collar frames his face. The cape, heavy and full, falls over his shoulders like raven’s wings.

In the dim light of the house, he looks like something out of a storybook.
A wandering prince.
A tired sorcerer.
A poet no one remembers.

But he feels warm.
He feels… hidden.
And that, more than anything, is what he needed.

--------------

The coat settles on his frame like it belongs.

Every inch of fabric clings to him—not tightly, not restrictively—but with a tender confidence, as if it always knew him. Always waited for him.

Ydoc stands upright now, posture subtly shifted. No longer hunched, no longer tired. Something in him feels straightened—as though the coat asked him to rise to its occasion. A slight tilt of the shoulders. A slow exhale.

His hands run down the sleeves, brushing out invisible creases. His thumbs flick across the lapels. He breathes in.

He feels good.

Good?
No. Beautiful.

His lips curl slightly. His eyes soften. He twirls once, softly, letting the cape of the coat drag around his legs in a theatrical arc. His hips sway a little. The motion is effortless, dancer-like—
Yes. A party-goer.

A mysterious guest. A shadowy man who arrives with charm and vanishes before the hourglass empties.
Who was that masked man?
No one knows… but gods, did he look good in black.

He chuckles to himself.

And then, as if it were waiting for the moment to be right—
He sees it.

Tucked inside the lid of the chest. Forgotten—or perhaps never known.

He pulls it out with both hands, the way one would cradle a relic, or an old lover’s photo.

A chupalla hat.
Not a fedora. Not a top hat. Something better.

Wide-brimmed, pitch black, with a downward curve just enough to shade the eyes. It blocks the sun—just enough. But not too much. Not enough to look foolish. This hat was not designed for drama. It was made for impact.

A sharp, subtle, dashing silhouette.

Inside, just like the coat—it’s lined with that same sick emerald green.
He runs a finger along it and shivers. It's smooth. Cold. Like it hasn’t been worn either.

Of course it hasn’t.

He places it over his head. Gently.

It settles perfectly on his black hair. As though it had been tailored to the shape of his skull. As if some invisible friend had made this for him, knowing one day he'd be brave enough to put it on.

Ydoc grins.

He tilts the hat just slightly. A jaunty little angle.

Then…

He looks up. A mirror.

His smile widens at the sight before him.

There he is. The man in the black coat. The coat that whispers and flows like ink. The hat that casts the perfect shade. The outline of his face, sharpened and softened in all the right places.

He stares for a moment longer. Turning a little. One shoulder forward. Chin tilted. Arm out like he’s about to offer a dance.

How striking he looks.

How alive.

...

But then he blinks.

The image vanishes.

There is no mirror.

Just the wall.

Just the plain, splintered wooden wall of this ugly little house. No glass. No reflection.

No silver backing.
No shape staring back.

Just Ydoc.
Standing.
Staring at nothing.

And for a moment—he wonders.

How was I admiring myself just then?
Was I… remembering?
Or pretending?
A sudden tickle in his nose.

He sniffles once. Then again.

A drop escapes. Warm. Wet.

Black.

It trails from his left nostril in a slow, elegant drip.

He doesn't panic. He doesn’t even frown.

Instead, Ydoc lifts his arm. With an almost tender motion, he wipes the drop away using the inside of his sleeve. The silk lining is so dark, so consuming, that the black ink vanishes instantly.

No stain. No smear. Nothing left behind.

He holds up his sleeve to admire it.

And he smiles.

“Amazing,” he whispers. “No one will notice.”

His heart flutters like a secret.

He is the perfect guest now.
No memories. No mirrors. No past.

Just the suit.
Just the party.
And his new Persona! 'The Dancer'.. no, maybe.. ah 'THE THIEF!'  okay we will work on this later.

For now...
 he is ready.