Lucas opened his eyes slowly, fighting against the weight of his eyelids. The first thing his senses registered wasn't sight, but smell. An acrid, penetrating scent invaded his nostrils, a mixture of rotting wood, humidity, and waste that seemed to impregnate the very air. It was dark, but not total darkness. Small beams of sunlight, laden with dancing dust motes, cut through the coarse cracks of a wooden window, slicing through the room's gloom.

  He frowned, confusion clouding his mind. That felt strange. A dream?

  His last memory was sharp, painfully real. He remembered the sterile whiteness of a hospital room, the rhythmic and annoying sound of heart monitors, and the sensation of absolute weakness. He remembered the pain, that constant companion in the last few months, while cancer consumed what remained of his vitality. He remembered closing his eyes, accepting that that would be his last breath.

  But now, the smell of rotting wood was strong, palpable. And underneath that stench, there was something else: the subtle aroma of something cooking.

  He tried to move, and his body responded, though with protests. Lucas stood up, stumbling on legs that seemed made of lead. He touched the wall for support; the texture was rough, cold stone and old mortar. The tactile sensation was striking. If this were a post-death hallucination or a fever dream, it was too detailed, too realistic.

  Leaning on the sparse furniture, he advanced toward the source of light. With trembling hands, he pushed the wooden shutters. The hinges creaked in protest before giving way.

  Immediately, a strong light blinded him, forcing him to bring a hand to his face. The sound hit him next: a clamor of voices, wooden wheels against stone, the shouts of merchants, and the distant barking of dogs. Lucas blinked several times, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. When his vision finally focused, the air escaped his lungs.

  Before him was not the view of the modern city he knew, nor the hospital gardens. What he saw left him paralyzed.

  Tall buildings of brick and exposed concrete, with precarious wooden balconies where clothes dried in the wind, rose stacked upon one another. The narrow streets down below were packed with people. There were men wearing simple tunics carrying amphorae, women with baskets balanced on their heads, and merchants announcing their goods in makeshift stalls. The smell of the street wafted up to him, a mixture of spices, sweat, and animal manure. It was an ancient neighborhood, vibrant and chaotic.

  Lucas blinked again, stunned, trying to dispel the image, but it remained solid and noisy.

  "Jesus Christ..." he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  In the same instant, he stopped. The words had left his mouth, but the sound was different. The syllables rolled off his tongue with a cadence he didn't recognize as his own. He had spoken in Latin.

  He touched his own throat, finding it absurd. He didn't know Latin. He had never studied the dead language, except for a few loose phrases in movies or books. How was that possible?

  The shock made his legs weak again. He stepped away from the window, his heart beating erratically against his ribs. He needed answers; he needed to understand where he was. He walked slowly, almost falling, feeling his way to the wooden door that separated that cubicle from the rest of the dwelling.

  Crossing the threshold, he found a larger room, though equally modest. The walls were stained by the smoke of years. In the center, near a small clay stove, a woman was turned away, stirring something in a pot. Near her, on the packed earth floor, a child of apparently three years, a little girl with brown, disheveled hair, played with pieces of wood and rag dolls.

  The woman turned upon hearing his footsteps. She was young, but her face carried the marks of exhaustion and hard labor. She wore a simple wool tunic, patched in several places and faded by use. However, when her eyes met his, the tired expression melted into a loving and gentle look.

  The child continued playing, oblivious to his presence, murmuring to her dolls.

  "Lucius," the woman said with a weak smile. "Your breakfast is almost ready."

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  She pointed to the pot, where a thick porridge bubbled.

  "There isn't much left today," she continued, serving a modest portion in a chipped ceramic bowl. "But eat it all. You need to hurry; your friend will be here soon to pick you up. Another hard day at the quarry awaits you."

  Lucas or Lucius, as she had called him was completely baffled. The information swirled in his mind, refusing to fit together. Quarry? Friend? That woman and that child... who were they?

  However, a survival instinct kicked in. He maintained an outward calm, masking the turmoil within. He pulled out a rustic wooden chair and sat at the table. As he stared at the steaming porridge, his mind raced feverishly.

  He wondered if he was in Rome. The architecture he saw through the window, the clothes, the sounds... everything screamed yes. Architecture doesn't lie, he thought. He was certainly in the Eternal City, at some point in the past. The final proof was there, resonating in his ears: the woman had spoken in Latin, a fluid and natural Latin, and he understood every word perfectly, as if it were his native tongue.

  Lucius scraped the bottom of the ceramic bowl with the wooden spoon, gathering the last traces of the meal. To his surprise, the porridge wasn't bad; it had an earthy and simple taste, lightly seasoned with something he couldn't identify, but which warmed his empty stomach. As he swallowed, his mind wandered, trying to anchor itself in this new, absurd reality.

  In his previous world, he was Lucas, a twenty-five-year-old civil engineer with a promising career ahead. His life was made of structural calculations, reinforced concrete, and deadlines to meet. But now... he was Lucius, a manual laborer in Ancient Rome. The transition made no logical sense, but the solidity of the spoon in his hand and the smell of smoke permeating the room allowed for no denial.

  He got up slowly and walked to a bucket of water positioned in a dark corner of the room. The liquid surface was calm. Leaning over, he saw his own reflection staring back at him in the murky water. The face was the same. The same features, the same dark eyes, the same bone structure he had seen in the hospital bathroom mirror, though now he looked healthier, without the morbid pallor of disease. He was himself, transported across time and space into the life of a Roman plebeian.

  Lucius wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic, feeling the rough texture of the fabric. He needed information, but how to ask? He glanced sideways at the woman, who was now wiping the girl's face with a piece of damp cloth. He strongly suspected she was his wife, given the familiarity and the domestic environment, but he couldn't simply ask who she was without seeming crazy or possessed by some spirit. Silence seemed the only safe weapon at that moment.

  Suddenly, three sharp, rhythmic knocks sounded on the front door, startling him.

  The woman raised her head, showing no surprise.

  "That must be Flavio," she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

  She walked to the door and removed the wooden bar. As soon as the door opened, an imposing figure filled the doorway. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with skin weathered by years of work under the unforgiving sun. He exuded a natural charisma, an easy smile stamped on his bearded face.

  "Salve!" the newcomer thundered, entering the small room with the familiarity of someone who had been there hundreds of times. His eyes found Lucius immediately. "Let's go, Lucius? The day waits for no one, and the foreman even less so."

  Lucius rose from the chair, feeling strangely small in the face of that man's vitality. Flavio stepped forward and delivered vigorous slaps to his shoulders, a rough greeting but full of brotherly affection.

  "Ready, brother?" Flavio asked, his heavy hand still on Lucius's shoulder.

  "Yes," Lucius replied, his voice coming out a bit steadier than he expected.

  Flavio took a step back, narrowing his eyes. The smile faltered slightly, replaced by an expression of amused curiosity.

  "By the gods, you're quiet today," the big man joked. "Usually, you'd be complaining about back pain or the price of wine before we even made it out the door."

  Lucius's silence remained, which increased his friend's puzzlement. Flavio then turned to the woman, who was watching the scene with crossed arms and a worried look.

  "Selene, did something happen to him?" Flavio asked, his tone dropping to something more serious. "He seems... distant."

  Lucius felt a click in his mind. Selene. The name echoed in his thoughts, bringing immense relief. Now he knew. That attentive woman was Selene, his wife, and the small child on the floor was his daughter. The realization brought a strange warmth to his chest, a mixture of inherited responsibility and gratitude. It was bizarre, yes, to inherit an entire family in the blink of an eye, but at least now he had names; he had a sense of direction.

  Selene sighed and shook her head.

  "No, Flavio. Nothing happened that I know of," she replied, casting a quick glance at her husband. "He's been like this, quiet and strange, since he woke up. Maybe he had bad dreams."

  Lucius realized he needed to act to dissipate the growing tension. He couldn't afford to become the center of attention due to erratic behavior.

  "I'm not feeling very well today," Lucius said, forcing a tired smile. "Just a bit unwell. But I'll work anyway. We need the money."

  Flavio seemed to accept the explanation, the jovial expression returning to his face.

  "That's the spirit! Let's go then; the fresh air will do you good."

  Lucius nodded, walking toward the door. In his mind, however, the motivation was different. He needed to see with his own eyes what was out there. He needed to walk the stone streets, observe the buildings, feel the scale of that civilization. He needed to be absolutely certain that he was really in Rome.