Have you ever dreamed of a faceless girl? I'm sure most of us have.
For most people, she's just a fleeting image—a dream they quickly forget after wondering for a day of who she might be. But for me, she is a nightmare.
It isn't just a dream; it's a continuous cycle of life I'm forced to lead. Every time I shut my eyes, I'm not resting. I'm being pulled back into a world that doesn't exist, to a girl who has no face, in a home I was never supposed to know. My reality is a dying body in a crowded city, but my subconscious is trapped in a beautiful, silent lie.
The blooming sakuras, the sharp cry of a newborn, and a voice I can see but never truly hear. In that other world, everything is beginning. It's a life so vivid I've started to wonder if this is the delusion.
But then I wake up.
I wake up not to that crisp, cool air, but to the suffocating smell of lead and ink. I sit up, my neck cracking in protest, staring at the disaster on my desk. My technical pen had leaked—a jagged, black splatter of ink now bled across the pristine white surface of my plate.
"Tangina…!"
Hours of torture, ruined in a second of sleep. I stare at the ink as it spreads its wings, soaking into the paper, claiming the white space I had worked so hard to keep clean. This plate was supposed to be my final exam—the gateway to a profession I never asked for.
I have to redo it. I have no other choice.
I put out a heavy sigh, then began to pull the ruined plate off the drafting table, the tape peeling away with a sharp, mocking sound. But as I clear the desk, my movement stops.
There it is.
Tucked partially under my National Building Code book, the white corner of the envelope peeks out. It's the death penalty I was handed earlier today.
I stare at the hospital's logo, then back at the ink-stained plate. The irony is almost funny. I'm supposed to spend the next forty-eight hours re-drawing a building that will stand for fifty years, while my own body won't even last the next two.
My hand reaches for the envelope instead of a fresh sheet of vellum. The paper is cold, much colder than the humid air of my room.