"What is this?"
Moulin's voice was hoarse. Like a parched man dying to escape a scorching desert, craving for even a drop of water. It sounded as if cracked, broken. A feeling of unease sits within his words, and he continued to stare at the image on the water, his own reflection. It felt foreign. Although he faced the feeling of familiarity, he was uncomfortable.
This is me?...
What happened?