He was alone. Simply alone. No "almost," no "temporarily." Complete solitude.
No friends. No conversation partners. No random passersby who could be taken for company.
Only silence that no one disturbs.
The pain stuck in his chest wanted to break out, but remained there, somewhere deep inside. Motionless. Lurking. He didn't release it and wasn't going to.
He chose silence.
It happens like this when there's no one nearby. No close person, no friend. Simply no one. This is a normal state for closed-off people. The kind who say: "everything's fine," when everything's falling apart.
They say people are born open. Probably this is what's called freedom — when you talk about everything. When you don't hide, don't feel embarrassed, don't filter. When you speak out, whether about today or about last year's pain.
Freedom of feelings. Freedom of words. Freedom to be yourself.
But everything changes when you encounter others. Not "bad ones," not "enemies," simply people. Harsh. Unfriendly or indifferent. Because not all people are ideal. More precisely, no one is, but some know how to admit guilt, apologize, understand. And some don't.
That's the whole difference.
If you're unlucky, you close off. Not because you want to, but because it's safer that way. Some don't change, don't listen, don't feel. And there are, unfortunately, many of them. You're among them, as if inside a wall.
Solitude.
Right now Enua is in this state. Completely alone, and it doesn't matter who you are — human or something greater. Even gods feel loneliness, especially when there's no one to hear them.
I knew little about his past. Except about that very war against Yahweh and others, but right now he's not a warrior. Not a god, but simply someone who's in pain.
He didn't talk about it. And not because he didn't want to, but because there's no one to talk to. He doesn't even notice I'm in the room.
Has it gone that far?
One thought was clear. Perhaps right now I'm the only one who can help him. He turned, and I saw emptiness in his eyes. Direct. Unblinking.
"I'm sorry... All this time I've been acting very foolish, it's my mistake," I finally broke the silence. "I should have understood that it's very hard for you to be alone right now, and I wasn't even nearby."
"Don't blame yourself, this isn't your problem, but only mine," he said this in the voice of a person who's been deprived of hope, but not memory. "I know you tried in every way to prove my innocence to the others and constantly lost, but kept fighting to the end."
"I really appreciate it, though we were never acquainted in life, but you're the only one I truly enjoyed being with."
Something compressed inside. Why does he speak as if I was nearby? I wasn't, but still — this wasn't my pain. His pain was greater. Deeper. Heavier.
He lived long before anything I could imagine.
"What are you talking about... I was never nearby when I was so needed. I only tried to convince the others of your rightness, but time and again I failed. How could I have been useful to you at all?"
I told him everything I felt. Admitted even to myself. I'm a failure.
How many lives have I saved? This question hung in my head. The answer was silence. One girl surfaced in memory. She always saved me, was always nearby, wherever I was. Always with an outstretched hand.
I could rely on her, but could she on me? We went through much, but I couldn't protect her. She died in my arms. I remember her gaze and last words.
'I love you.'
A confession before death. And even then I didn't answer.
Does this make me a monster?
I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.
When I came to from these thoughts, he was already gone. And I remembered: I wanted to ask... was he involved in the murders in the library?