The moonlight slipped through the broken clouds, silver and distant, like a memory that no longer belonged to him. The wind whispered through the trees and danced through his messy hair as he stood alone, his gaze locked onto the night sky.
It was cold.
Not the kind of cold that touched the skin.
The kind that seeped deep into the bones.
The kind that reminded him he was still breathing—for now.
"I did what they told me to do," Yan whispered, voice barely carried by the wind. "I followed the rules. I chased dreams. I even listened to my heart...
Then why...
Why does it all feel meaningless?"
No answer came—only silence. And that silence was heavier than anything he had ever carried.
Yan was just twenty-two, yet life had already carved deep lines of grief into his soul. He was born into this world with no name waiting, no arms to hold him. Only the cold crib of the orphanage and the occasional warmth of caretakers who did their best with what little they had.
He never knew his parents. Not a voice. Not a face. Not even a reason why they left him. Just emptiness where love should've been.
When he turned fourteen, he left the orphanage. Not out of rebellion. Not even out of desire. But because he felt... invisible. The rooms were cramped, the food scarce, and the younger children needed care more than he did.
The caretakers pleaded with him to stay—"Yan, you're still in school. You have potential. Don't throw it away."
But how could he explain the ache of watching others eat while pretending he wasn't hungry?
So, he stepped out. Alone.
He worked tirelessly—washing dishes, delivering papers, cleaning streets—anything for a few coins and a warm place to sleep. By day he studied, by night he survived. Sometimes he ate, sometimes he didn't. Hunger became normal. Loneliness became a companion.
He smiled rarely. He trusted less.
And yet, he still visited the orphanage. The caretakers still called his name with love. The children still clung to his arms and smiled like he was someone important. And for a while, those visits were enough to keep him going.
But something changed.
It wasn't one thing.
It wasn't dramatic.
It was slow... like a candle flickering out.
People he helped betrayed him.
The job he worked for years let him go without warning.
The girl he loved told him she never really did.
He was always one step behind, always trying, always hoping—only to end up with nothing.
The world didn't break him in a single blow.
It eroded him.
Kindness became a weakness.
Dreams became delusions.
And love? Just another lie.
He stood there now, staring at the moon as if searching for someone to blame, someone to ask why.
But the sky just stared back.
Something inside him began to harden.
Not violently. Not all at once.
But he felt it—the way pain began to burn away the softness, the way sorrow carved a new shape into his soul.
"I wanted to be good," he muttered. "I wanted to make it. I wanted to matter."
His fists clenched. The wind pressed against him like the world trying to push him back.
"But maybe... maybe being good isn't enough."
In that moment, beneath that quiet sky, something shifted.
He was still Yan. But not the same Yan who once believed the world would reward effort.
That boy—the one who endured everything for a better tomorrow—was starting to disappear.
And what would rise in his place…
Even Yan didn't know.
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