01.

HOME.

I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy.

• vol i.
• vol ii.
• vol iii.

02.

VOL I.

In 1890, he was created in Ireland under the name Críostóir Ó Muircheartaigh. He was born not from the warmth of a womb, but from the icy rigor of an experiment. Funded by a politically powerful dynasty that refused to bow to grief, he emerged from an audacious attempt to replicate a man torn from the world at the height of his life. There was no trace in his anatomy of any tactile intervention, with no stitch, scar, or flaw to reveal the manufacture of his flesh. His body had emerged perfectly intact, an impeccable biological replica generated by means that the science of the time could neither document nor comprehend. The precision of his creators, however, extended only to the physical. Driven by the blind belief that the human soul would naturally emerge from the union of perfect flesh and the deceased man's mental patterns, they collided with the unknowable: the experiment had achieved anatomical perfection, but had failed to recover the man.He had been shaped directly at the height of maturity, an adult body devoid of the foundation of childhood or the burden of growing up. The transfer of the mind, however, had not restored the soul; it had delivered only fragments. His memories were not a road, but a field of ruins, filled with silent scenes, faces that dissolved before recognition, and fragments of light without chronology. For him, remembering was like observing the world through a clouded pane of glass.The experiment was soon condemned as a failure, and the family's frustration quickly transformed into a veiled horror. Before them stood the perfect shell of the man they had loved, yet inhabited by a lost and vacant gaze, incapable of recognizing the very faces surrounding him in prayer or accusation. Christopher regarded that nobility as one might observe strangers through a dense fog; physically, he was the exact mirror of the deceased, but within him remained nothing but an uninhabited desert.Convinced that his presence was an affront to the heir's memory, the dynasty decided to return him to the laboratory as a defective specimen and prepared to announce the man's official death to society. That was when the widow intervened. Moved by quiet compassion and by her revulsion at seeing that replica reduced to a laboratory animal, she arranged his escape. She provided him with the means to cross the sea to England and, through her family's influence and wealth, arranged forged civil records and parish certificates, written on heavy parchment and authenticated through the bribery of local clerks. In these new handwritten records, the ancestral Críostóir Ó Muircheartaigh was erased, replaced by an anglicized, anonymous version: Christopher Moriarty.

London became the birthplace of his true life. In that metropolis devoured by coal and crowds, Christopher discovered the strange condition of being a newborn trapped inside an adult face. Everything was a first encounter, intoxicating and frightening alike, from the texture of the air and the weight of physical labor to the sound of the streets and the sensation of existing without the shadow of a past that had been lent to him. During his first months, he survived as a manual laborer on the cobbled streets, transitioning to the harsh routine of the docks along the Thames as a dock worker, and eventually settling in as a factory worker. For the first time, his hands were building a history that belonged exclusively to him, rather than to the memory of a dead man.With the savings accumulated through years of anonymous toil, Christopher began traveling across Europe. From train to train, crossing borders in third-class carriages and staying in modest lodgings, he used the continent as a mirror through which to shape his own identity. He discovered his tastes, his fascination with architecture, street music, and the weight of longing for places he had come to miss. He ceased to see himself as the imperfect copy of a ghost and began to understand himself as an individual in pursuit of his own happiness.It was around 1905, when the first darkened theaters and the silent flickering of projected light began to captivate the masses, that Christopher found his true illumination. Cinema fascinated him immediately, for in those images projected onto white screens he saw an exact reproduction of his own mind (made of moving shadows, voiceless memories, and invented stories that seemed real). It was the first time that something in the outside world had mirrored his inner nature.The enchantment became a calling. In the years that followed, he closely followed the evolution of this emerging art until, in 1920, news from across the ocean changed the course of his immortality: Columbia University in New York had begun offering pioneering courses devoted to screenwriting and the technical aspects of filmmaking. Faced with the opportunity not merely to watch, but to learn how to create those worlds of light and shadow, Christopher Moriarty sailed to America, ready to transform his illusion into a craft.Over the following century, fueled by an immeasurable thirst for knowledge and the advantage of a life unbound by time, Christopher devoted himself tirelessly to the study of cinema. He graduated from and specialized at various institutions around the globe, accumulating degrees, technical expertise, and a refined aesthetic vision that very few mortals could ever aspire to. He became a master of storytelling, mastering the shift from analog audio to digital, from magnetic tape to modern soundstages.Today, Christopher has returned to walk upon the soil of his homeland. Established in Dublin as a respected and discreet film producer, he uses the Irish capital as the stage for his own creations. He has never dared to seek out the descendants of the ancient political dynasty that brought him into the world; to him, the history of that lineage belonged to a man who had long ceased to exist.Far from the shadows of that experiment, Christopher Moriarty finally lives his own life, surrounded by bonds he has chosen to cultivate, creating worlds on screen while savoring the certainty that the only story that truly matters is the one he has chosen to write himself.

03.

VOL II.

04.

VOL III.

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