Nothingness.
Around Bun, there was nothing but an oppressive void. No light, no sound, just endless darkness that seemed to devour him. He felt himself floating, or perhaps falling, without ever reaching the bottom. It was a sensation that defied all logic, an endless vertigo. His breathing was ragged, his mind confused, unable to discern whether what he was experiencing was real or the product of a nightmarish dream.
Then, softly at first, but with increasing intensity, noises emerged. An indistinct mixture of murmurs and whispers, as if a huge crowd were speaking with one voice. Bun turned his head, desperately searching for a source, a direction, but everything seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. The murmur became a hubbub, a tumult, like a rising tide ready to overwhelm him.
There was nothing to see, yet he could feel their presence. Invisible shadows were closing in, encircling his space. The sound intensified, filling the air with a disconcerting cacophony. Bun brought his hands to his ears, trying to block out the incessant noise, but the voices pierced his mind, insidious and relentless.
He felt his throat tighten, and his body instinctively curled up. In a fetal position, he pressed his knees against his chest, his fingers clenched against his temples. "This isn't real, this isn't real..." he repeated inwardly, like a desperate mantra. But the noises continued, relentless, their intensity increasing until it became unbearable.
The voices were now forming words, indistinct sentences, but they seemed to be aimed directly at him. "You're not good enough." "Why are you here?" "You don't belong here." Each word hit him like a blow, digging deeper into the cracks in his mind. Bun clenched his teeth, his inner scream echoing in the echo of his own despair.
And suddenly, it all stopped.
The silence was so sudden that it seemed almost tangible, like a crushing weight. Bun remained motionless, trembling, his breath short and irregular. Slowly, he opened his eyes, afraid of what he might see.
Before him, the void had disappeared. Instead, he found himself in a dimly lit room. The walls were covered with faded wallpaper, their old patterns evoking a bygone era. A wooden clock hung on one of the walls, its steady ticking breaking the heavy silence. A familiar smell hung in the air, a mixture of old leather and dust.
Bun slowly sat up, his muscles still tense. The room seemed strangely familiar, though he couldn't say why. Every detail awakened in him a vague feeling of déjà vu, a memory buried deep in the recesses of his mind.
He was standing on the ground floor of a place he knew... or had known once.
All around him, everything was quiet, almost too quiet. The smell of worn tatami mats and wood steeped in years of life hung in the air, a scent that awakened buried memories. Bun sat up with difficulty and looked around him. He was in a house, and not just any house. It was Your Lonely Paradise, as his mother used to call their home. This place where he had grown up, this shelter that he had always seen as a bulwark against the turmoil of life outside.
He was in the genkan, the entrance hall where you took off your shoes before entering the house. This small space had always represented a boundary for him, an invisible line between the chaos of the outside world and the serenity of their family cocoon. Reflexively, he took off his shoes, his trembling hands brushing the floor. This simple gesture brought him a wave of almost painful nostalgia.
Without knowing why, he headed for the washitsu, the traditional tatami room where he had spent so much time with his mother. He pushed open the wooden and paper sliding door, the soft, muffled sound of the track seeming to resonate in his soul. But the room, once warm and full of life, now seemed dark and empty. The dim light, filtered through the slightly torn shoji, cast melancholy shadows on the walls.
Bun walked slowly, his footsteps echoing on the tatami mats like an echo of his past. He stopped short when he saw a familiar figure. His mother was there, sitting on the floor, her back slightly hunched. She seemed focused, her hands moving among a multitude of papers scattered around her. Bun's heart sank when he saw her like this, this woman he had always admired for her strength despite her trials.
He moved forward slowly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid of breaking this fragile moment. When he reached her, he looked down and noticed the contents of the papers. Eviction notices. Dozens of them. Each sheet seemed to scream silent distress, a weight he had never understood at the time but now felt like a stab in the heart.
Amidst the chaos, one object caught his eye: a book. He would recognize it anywhere. It was the one his mother used to read to him every night before she suddenly stopped, without explanation. He crouched down to pick it up, his fingers trembling slightly as they touched the worn cover. Memories flooded back, snippets of happy moments when his mother read to him in a soft, loving voice. That book was their ritual, their shared refuge, until one day it disappeared, taking with it a part of their bond.
Bun looked up at her, hoping to catch her eye, hoping she would say something, anything. But she didn't move, as if she couldn't see or hear him. He reached out a trembling hand, wanting to touch her shoulder, but stopped halfway, paralyzed by a fear he couldn't explain. She was there, but she seemed so far away, like a shadow of her former self.
"Mom..." he whispered, his voice broken, almost inaudible.
No answer. Just that oppressive, heavy silence that weighed on him like a leaden blanket. He took a step back, then another, his breathing becoming erratic. The papers around her, those eviction notices screaming silent misery, seemed to surround him, closing in on him like a vice. Each word written on those sheets became a blade, cutting a little deeper into his mind.
He felt panic rising, an uncontrollable wave threatening to overwhelm him. The walls of the room seemed to close in, the air becoming heavier, more oppressive. His heart was beating so hard he thought it would explode. He dropped the book, which fell to the floor with a thud, and brought his hands to his head, trying to stop the flood of memories and emotions that were overwhelming him.
"No... no... NO!" he cried, his voice finally breaking the silence.
His legs gave way, and he fell to his knees, his hands clutching the tatami mats convulsively. The room, once a safe haven, was now a prison. The eviction notices, the book, his mother—it all collided in his head, forming a whirlwind of emotions and pain. He wanted to run away, but his legs refused to move. The anxiety attack reached its peak, and he collapsed completely, his mind overwhelmed by pain he could no longer contain.
Bun felt his breath returning little by little, but his mind remained mired in a fog of pain and confusion. As he got up, a terrible thought sprang into his mind, cold and sharp as a blade: Was that why she had abandoned me?
He remembered seeing her abandonment as a betrayal, a gaping wound he had carried with him his entire life. But at that moment, surrounded by these fragments of their shared past, he began to glimpse another truth. Had she been pushed to her limits? Was she sinking under a weight he had never understood? Was that what had led her to this decision? He clenched his fists, his heart heavy with a dull sense of guilt. Perhaps there had always been a reason. A reason he had never wanted to see.
Overwhelmed by a wave of memories and emotions, Bun stood up abruptly. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he needed to move, to understand. His steps led him upstairs to a place he hadn't seen in years: his childhood bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it gently, a slight creak breaking the silence.
What he saw froze him in his tracks. There, in the middle of the room, sat his younger self, cross-legged on the floor. His legs surrounded a pile of toys: adventure figures, a plastic microphone, and even a miniature spaceship. Young Bun was busy tinkering with something, focused, as if trying to repair a world that no one but him understood. The room was plunged into semi-darkness, but through the window, an unreal light illuminated the place.
Outside, there was no garden, no city. Instead, the planet Earth floated majestically in space. A deep blue, dotted with white clouds, contrasted with the infinite darkness of the galaxy. The stars twinkled softly, their reflections dancing on the dark walls. It was as if this vision represented both his isolation and the immensity of the dreams he carried within him at that age.
Bun's heart sank. He remembered that scene perfectly. It was that day. The day his mother had decided to take him away, to tear him away from their home, their paradise.
As he watched helplessly, the door opened slowly and his mother entered. She looked serious, her features marked by a fatigue he had never noticed before. Bun felt his breath catch in his throat. He knew exactly what was about to happen. She was going to take his hand, and everything would change.
She walked toward young Bun, completely ignoring the presence of adult Bun. She bent down, reaching out her hand to him. "Come on, Bun, let's go," she said in a soft but determined voice.
The young Bun looked up, surprised. "Where?" he asked innocently, his fingers still clinging to a figurine.
"Don't ask questions. It's better this way," she replied, looking away slightly, as if she couldn't bear to meet his eyes.
Bun felt rage and sadness welling up inside him. He approached, crouching down next to his younger self, desperately reaching out as if to stop his mother. "No! Don't do it! I understand now! You don't have to abandon me!" But his voice was lost in the void, inaudible.
He looked at his younger self, who suddenly seemed to understand that something was wrong. He sat up slightly, holding his toys close to him as if for protection. "Mom... why? I want to stay here," he whispered, a plea in his voice.
Bun tried again to intervene, to grab his mother by the shoulder, but his fingers passed through her as if she were a ghost. "I understand your pain! We can get through this together! No one can take our home away from us!" he shouted, even though he knew his words would not reach her.
The mother froze for a split second, a slight shiver running down her neck, as if she had sensed something. She turned her head, scanning the room with a puzzled expression. But she saw nothing, only empty air. With a sigh, she took young Bun's hand again and pulled him gently.
Young Bun turned back one last time, reaching out toward where adult Bun stood, his desperate gaze crossing the space like a silent cry. His frail arm seemed to want to grab something, someone, but all he found was emptiness.
Bun felt torn. "No! Wait! Please!" He reached out too, hoping to grab his child self's hand, but their fingers never met. The door closed slowly behind them, making a sharp click that echoed through the room like thunder.
Bun stood there, frozen, in almost total darkness. The light from the galaxy continued to filter through the window, casting blue reflections on his abandoned toys. But inside, there was only emptiness, a loneliness so overwhelming that he suddenly felt himself being sucked into an endless abyss.
The light from the galaxy, so soft and comforting, seemed to dim. Its blue reflections dancing on the walls of the room faded one by one, as if the stars themselves were turning away from Bun. The darkness gained ground, oppressive, infinite, until it engulfed everything. There was nothing left. Not even an echo, not even a breath. Only total darkness, cold and impassive.
Bun remained there, frozen in the void. He wanted to scream, to cry, but even his voice seemed to have been torn from him. Was this his fate? To wander forever in this endless hell, where shadows devoured everything? As he let himself be swallowed up by this absolute nothingness, a light suddenly burst forth, shattering the darkness like a clap of thunder.
It was a bright, blinding light, so strong that it forced Bun to close his eyes. He felt the warmth on his skin, a reassuring, almost familiar warmth that contrasted with the cold that had enveloped him until then. He slowly opened his eyelids, blinking several times to adjust his vision, and what he saw took his breath away.
He was no longer in his house, nor in the room he knew by heart. He was now in a huge theater, with grandiose architecture in a refined Italian style. Endless rows of richly upholstered red seats stretched out before him, encircling the main stage and disappearing into the heights of balconies adorned with gilding. The walls were covered with intricate moldings depicting mythological scenes: gods, heroes, battles. The ceiling, dizzyingly high, was painted like an infinite sky, dotted with golden clouds that seemed to move under the effect of the lighting.
Heavy crimson velvet curtains framed the central stage, closed for now, but promising a spectacular show. Everything exuded magnificence and solemnity. Yet there was something strange. The seats were occupied, but the spectators had no faces. Their features were replaced by vibrant, colorful, moving mosaics, as if their identities had dissolved into fragments of stories and memories.
Bun, standing in the center of this strange place, felt a shiver run through him. The spectators whispered among themselves, their low voices forming an indistinct cacophony, but he could not make out any words. Yet their eyeless gazes seemed to be turned toward him, weighing him, scrutinizing him, as if he were the center of their attention.
"Shh!" one of them suddenly said, raising a finger to his nonexistent mouth. The sound snapped through the air like an injunction, and silence fell immediately. The murmurs ceased, replaced by palpable tension.
The lights in the room gradually dimmed, plunging the theater into a delicate twilight. Bun felt his heart racing. He didn't understand what was happening, but he couldn't help feeling that he was about to witness something monumental. The audience seemed to wait, motionless, their mosaics of colors vibrating faintly in the darkness.
Then, the giant screen, hidden behind the curtains, suddenly lit up. A pure white light flooded the stage, revealing a huge canvas that dominated the space. The image on the screen was blurry at first, a swirl of indistinct colors and shapes, but little by little, it began to come to life.
It was a movie. A movie that was about to begin.