Leaves whispered down in the cold autumn air, swirling like broken memories around me. The harsh wind bit into my mother's skin, rendering her pale, fragile—almost ghostlike—in the gray dawn that struggled to cut through the thick fog. She had been asleep for so long that even hope began to shiver and fade. I shook her gently, pleading silently with her eyes—wake up, Mom—but she remained still. Finally, surrendering to silence, I cradled her frail, lifeless head on my lap.
Why does the world hurt us so much? She was all I had, the only warmth in this bitter existence. More than once, I had seen her go hungry so that I could eat. She carried the weight of my survival on her frail shoulders without a complaint. Now, in the cold silence of her lifeless form, I whispered a prayer—maybe in another life, she would live free of pain. Maybe she would smile without fear, breathe without regret. Maybe she would finally be happy.
And all I could do was beg the heavens with my broken voice, "Let me be her son again. Take my life if you must. I have no courage left to face this world on my own terms. But Mom, I love you—more than anyone else in this world could."
My hands trembled violently as I reached into her chest and pulled the knife buried deep inside. The metallic clang against the pavement jolted me back to harsh reality. In the distance, sirens wailed like ghosts mourning a lost soul. I dialed the police with numb fingers, spoke only in shards of panic before slipping into the shadows, disappearing into the cold night.
The streets stretched endlessly before me, slick with ice and haunted by shadows. The fog hung thick, curling around street lamps and stealing away any hope of clarity. The knife felt heavier than ever in my grip—not just cold steel, but a weight of unanswered questions. Who could have done this to her? Why?
Despite the biting wind numbing my skin, a fire raged inside me—a scorching inferno fueled by sorrow and rage. My body burned with heat that contrasted cruelly against the chill of the night. Tears blurred my vision as I screamed her name into the void, desperate for her to answer, to breathe, to come back.
Through the fog's oppressive veil, a figure emerged—a man wrapped in an old brown coat, the brim of his long hat shadowing eyes that burned beneath thick white brows. His beard grew wild and white, curving into a round moustache that framed a face carved by time and hardship. Heavy boots struck the cracked pavement with a relentless rhythm as he approached silently, like a force of nature.
Before I could scream or run, he seized me with hands harder than rock. A sharp sting in my neck, bright and burning, pulled me back from the edge of consciousness. Panic seethed through me as I slashed wildly with the knife, but his body remained unmoved—a silent mountain against my desperation.
His voice, calm but resonating with authority, cut through the haze:
"Boy, you must grow strong if you want to claim what you desire."
My vision darkened, shadows creeping inward, but even as I slipped, I caught a glimpse of clear tears shimmering in his eyes—sorrow mingling with resolve and an unspoken burden. Though he was a stranger, in this moment, I felt a strange peace, as if I had finally found a father in the ruin of my world.
The world faded, the cold darkness pulling me under. But beneath the despair, a faint spark ignited—a promise of something more. A path shrouded in shadows but alive with possibility. I was no longer just a boy drowning in grief; I was someone who could fight. Someone who would rise from the ashes of loss.
The cold heart that once beat only with pain began to pulse with something new—something fierce. And I knew then, before I fully closed my eyes, that my journey was only just beginning.