As soon as I pushed open the glass door of the building and took my first step outside, the rain hit me hard, as if it had been waiting for me. The sky was heavy, completely gray, and the sound of thick raindrops hitting the asphalt formed a hurried rhythm that matched my state of mind perfectly. I let out a tired sigh. The workday was finally over, but the day still demanded more from me: I needed to reach the bus stop before the last one passed.
With my left hand, I gripped the strap of my backpack, already a bit worn with time, and with my right, I fumbled inside the side pocket in search of the umbrella. My fingers touched the cold metal of the foldable shaft, and I pulled it out quickly. The wind blew against my face as I unlocked it. The snap of the metal frame opening echoed faintly under the constant roar of the rain. The black canopy stretched out with a slight shiver, and for a moment, I felt protected, as if I had raised a small shield against the liquid chaos falling from the sky.
Puddles were already spreading across the sidewalks, reflecting the headlights of cars speeding by. I took the first steps, dodging a blade of water running along the gutter like an improvised river. The hem of my pants was already soaked, clinging to my shins, and the cold air seeped through the fabric, triggering a wave of shivers. I quickened my pace. The bus stop wasn't too far, but in that storm, each meter seemed to double in length.
As I walked, the muffled sound of the world beneath my umbrella made me feel isolated, as if I were inside a moving bubble where only my thoughts, my steps, and the steady drumming of the rain existed.
Finally, after crossing two corners and jumping over a treacherous puddle that nearly made me slip, I spotted the bus stop in the distance — a simple metal structure with a translucent cover and dark wooden benches, damp from the dense vapor of the surrounding rain. I hurried, the soles of my shoes making that unmistakable wet-rubber sound on concrete. As I approached, I noticed immediately: it was empty.
I let out a long sigh, part relief, part exhaustion. On days like this, finding the stop deserted was a silent gift — no stray conversations, no strong smells of perfume or wet cigarettes. Just me, the rain, and the time left before the bus arrived.
Carefully, I closed the umbrella. The snap from pressing the button echoed louder than I expected in that silent space. Water ran off the canopy and dripped onto the ground, forming a small puddle at my feet. I gave the fabric a gentle shake and leaned it against the glass wall of the structure. I sat on the bench, feeling the cold wood press through the wet fabric of my pants and cling to my skin. It wasn't comfortable, but at that moment, nothing mattered more than simply stopping.
I let my head rest against the acrylic divider behind me and closed my eyes for a moment, listening only to the sound of the rain. Time felt suspended. That's when my mind began to wander, softly and naturally, to what really mattered: what I was going to do once I finally got home.
I was hungry. Not that urgent kind of hunger, but a craving for something warm, something that would heat the chest and say, without words, that the day was over and I was safe now. I imagined a stew… chicken, maybe? With large, tender chunks, almost falling apart on the spoon, submerged in a thick, well-seasoned broth, with carrots, potatoes, and a slight touch of cilantro. Or maybe duck, if I still had that piece stored in the freezer — slow-cooked, with dark sauce and spices, like my grandmother used to make.
But laziness was beginning to weigh on my shoulders, and the idea of spending too much time in the kitchen felt too distant. Maybe something simpler would be better… a snack. A homemade pastry, stuffed with cheese and well-seasoned ground beef, with tightly sealed edges and perfectly fried. I could already smell the aroma filling the house. Or some cheese balls, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, with the cheese still melting as you opened them.
Tomorrow would be my day off. Just remembering that made a small, almost involuntary smile escape. It felt like receiving a secret bonus after a hard day. I could sleep in, listen to music, do nothing — or do everything, without rushing. But before that, all I wanted was to get home, change clothes, eat something, and listen to the sound of the rain through the window — already dry, already warm, already at peace.
The sound began in the distance — a low rumble of wet tires cutting through the water accumulated on the asphalt. I opened my eyes and turned my face toward the street. There it was, emerging slowly through the curtains of rain: the bus. The headlights pierced the damp fog like two tired eyes, and the windshield swept away the relentless water with a hypnotic rhythm. I stood up in an almost automatic motion, grabbing the already-closed umbrella with one hand and raising the other to wave, signaling my presence to the driver.
The bus slowed down with a long hiss of wet brakes. The engine still growled softly as the doors opened with a muffled metallic sigh. I stepped onto the first stair, feeling the drier, slightly warm air wrap around me. The typical bus smell — a mix of rubber seats, dust, and a faint note of disinfectant — hit me immediately. I pulled the ticket from my pocket and handed it to the driver, who only nodded with a tired look, as if sharing with me the burden of working on a national holiday.
Because, of course… today was a national holiday. How could I forget? Maybe because it was exactly the kind of date my job ignored entirely. Holidays were just an asterisk on the calendar. No time off, no scheduled rest. But at least it counted as overtime. A practical consolation, even if not exactly a motivational one.
I walked down the aisle, observing the emptiness of the bus. Not a soul besides the driver. Empty seats, fogged windows, and the reflection of rain trickling down like silent tears. I picked a spot near the window, on the left side, about halfway down the vehicle. I sat down and placed the closed umbrella between my feet as the door closed behind me with a tired sigh, as if it too longed for the end of the day.
The bus jolted slightly and began to move again, gliding through the wet streets. The soft vibration of the engine beneath the seat and the gentle sway of the frame brought a sweet, almost comforting fatigue. I rested my head against the cold window and let my thoughts trickle out again, like the water outside.
Maybe, when I got home, I'd still make those cheese fritters…
With the bus already in motion and the world outside turning into blurred shapes of lights and shadows through the wet window, I decided to look for some distraction. My eyes were heavy, but my mind was too restless to surrender to the numbness of the ride. I reached into my pants pocket, feeling around until I found the now-familiar rectangular shape. I pulled out my phone and stared at it for a few seconds before pressing the side button.
The screen lit up hesitantly, immediately revealing the crack that stretched across the glass like a thin, almost organic web, radiating from an impact on the bottom-right corner. That crack had been there for months, and I'd gotten used to it — as if it were part of the landscape of my daily life, a digital scar that mirrored my routine.
Beneath the cracked glass, the soft glow of the wallpaper came into view: an old photograph, slightly faded due to the camera quality of the time. In it, I was smiling, wearing sunglasses, with the deep blue sea in the background and a wind-creased shirt clinging to my chest. It was a memory from a trip taken years ago, a frozen moment when everything felt lighter, simpler. Next to me in the photo, almost out of frame, was someone's arm — the one taking the picture — a friend, maybe, someone I no longer spoke to.
I smiled when I saw it. Not a wide smile, nor a spontaneous one — it was the kind of smile that shows more in the eyes than on the lips. But just as it appeared, it faded. That moment, though beautiful, belonged to another time. Another me. Another world.
I unlocked the screen by sliding my finger carefully, avoiding the most damaged part of the glass where touch sometimes failed. The system responded slowly, as if it shared my exhaustion. I scrolled through the home screen, full of icons I rarely touched, folders organized more out of habit than necessity.
I opened the browser, but the internet signal was weak. The bars flickered in the corner of the screen. I tried the music app, but had forgotten I'd paused my streaming subscription. I sighed. Then I scrolled to the photo gallery, maybe in search of a forgotten image, some random distraction. I slowly browsed through the thumbnails: everyday images, useless screenshots, the occasional photo of food I never posted.
Time inside the bus felt stretched, almost viscous. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the rain became a constant backdrop, like a soft soundtrack. I kept exploring the phone, not really looking for anything specific — just trying to fill that space between work and rest, between obligation and the refuge of home. Between who I was and who I was still trying to be.
And there, with my face lit by the phone's cold glow, I swayed slightly with the motion of the bus, like someone being rocked by a memory they weren't sure whether to keep or let go.
I slowly closed my eyes, like someone trying to disappear for a moment. The phone's light still touched my face — cold, uncomfortable — until my fingers pressed the side button again, and everything went dark. The screen's reflection vanished, leaving me in the comforting darkness behind closed eyes, rocked by the gentle sway of the bus and the steady sound of rain, like an old song that never ends.
I tilted my head back, resting it on the cold glass of the window. A shiver ran up my neck, but I didn't move. I let it be. The thought came slowly, like mist. It's been years… Three years, to be exact. Three long years since I started that job. It wasn't a bad job. In fact, it was better than many I'd known or heard about — especially given the sorry state of the economy. It paid the bills. It brought stability. It didn't ask for more than I could give.
And yet… something inside me remained still. A heavy, almost invisible feeling, like ballast pinned to the bottom of my chest. Even recognizing how lucky I was to be employed, even knowing many would give anything for that position, even trying to see the bright side… there was an emptiness. An echo that couldn't be filled.
Why did it feel like nothing ever changed? Why, even after so many days, weeks, months… did everything remain exactly the same? I woke up, worked, came back, slept — like a clock hand turning and turning, without ever really moving forward. So many versions of me had been left behind, and this one — the current one — didn't feel better or worse. Just more tired. More restrained.
I took a deep breath, almost like someone praying, even in silence. But the truth was, it didn't matter. It couldn't matter. Because at the end of the day… it was just me. Me and God. Nothing less. Nothing more. No brilliant plan, no shining promise ahead. Just me, doing what needed to be done.
I was no longer that boy from before — the one who dreamed big and believed everything was possible with enough willpower. That boy had grown up. He had learned that the world doesn't always reward those who try the hardest, and that life, sometimes, only asks you to keep going — not with hope, but with resolve.
I was a man now. And men don't live on promises. They live on presence. On silence. On endurance.
And that night, on that empty bus, while the city rained around me, I simply existed. Quiet. Steady. Moving forward.
Because, in the end... I knew. I knew it with the same clarity with which I felt the damp wood of the bench beneath me, with which I heard the constant weeping of the rain hitting the roof of the bus. I wasn't special. I never was. There was no destiny laid out for me, no great mission, no revelation waiting at the end of the road.
I was just one more.
One more among so many faded faces in the crowd, among countless untold stories, among so many who struggled each day just to stay afloat. Not to win—just not to drown. Sometimes, survival alone seemed like a heroic achievement in itself.
And even so, part of me still remembered. Still heard the voice of the boy I once was—the dreamer teenager, immersed in fantasy worlds, eyes gleaming at characters who saved others, who fought for ideals, who lived for something greater. I saw myself in them. Reflected myself in them. Especially in him… Shirou Emiya. The one who said he would save everyone, who would never leave anyone behind, even if it broke him in the process. I thought that was beautiful. Noble. Unbreakable.
But then adulthood came, and with it, reality. Raw, cold, uncut, unscripted. Life doesn't care about ideals. It doesn't reward kindness. It doesn't give time for speeches. Life just demands—and takes. It steals dreams, time, hope. It molds you by force, and those who don't learn, break.
Now, I understand. I understand that no one waits for me at the end of some trail with applause. There's no prize, no stage. In the end... we all die. No exceptions. We return to the nothingness we came from. Dust. Silence. Forgetfulness. And as harsh as that sounds, it no longer scares me. On the contrary—it comforts me.
It's one of the few certainties I carry with me. An anchor amidst the chaos. Death, my old companion, always there. Silent, patient. The only promise life keeps. Alongside her, only disappointment—yes, that one's daily. Loyal. Insistent. But predictable.
And maybe that's why, precisely because of that, I keep going. Because if everything ends, then everything that comes before matters for simply existing, for being fleeting. Even the pain. Even the frustration. Even this constant feeling of being nothing—it proves I'm here. That it's not over yet.
I'm still just one more... but I am.
And for now, that's enough.
My thoughts dissolved like mist in the sun as I noticed the familiar scenery appearing through the window—the familiar glow of corner shop lights, the smooth curve of the street, the faded blue gate of a house that always looked on the verge of collapsing. The bus was nearing my stop.
I snapped out of the daze with a slight jolt, pulling reality back through my fingers. I leaned forward, resting on my knees, and rose slowly, feeling my legs a bit heavy. I reached toward the seat beside me and grabbed my backpack, still slightly damp from the previous trip. I slung one strap over my shoulder and walked with steady steps down the aisle of the bus, which remained just as empty as when I'd boarded.
I stopped in front of the exit door, holding the umbrella in one hand, eyes fixed on the approaching scene outside. The streetlights reflected in puddles and windows, distorting everything into a trembling display of color. I could hear the sound of the tires slowing, the brake sighing like an exhale, and the deep rumble of the engine gradually lowering.
The vehicle stopped gently by the curb. The driver pressed the door release button with a mechanical gesture, and the doors opened with that same compressed, weary sigh. Before stepping off, I turned briefly toward him.
"Thanks, boss. Good night."
He nodded with a brief tilt of his head and a tired look—silent camaraderie between workers at the end of their shift.
I stepped carefully down the two steps, the soft thud of my wet soles echoing on the rubber. The outside air wrapped around me at once—colder, wetter, more real. The rain still fell strong, as persistent as everything in this city.
With a quick, well-practiced motion, I pressed the umbrella's button. The canopy popped open with a soft snap, shielding me once more from the gray sky. Water drummed against the fabric in a rhythmic beat, and the sound was almost comforting.
And so I started walking, letting the engine's hum fade behind me.
Another night. Another step. A little more silence between me and the world.
I walked along the narrow sidewalk, dodging the pooled water like someone who knew the path by heart, even with eyes closed. The umbrella creaked faintly under the rain's pressure but did its job. The streets were almost deserted—only the sound of water trickling through gutters, the occasional bark of a distant dog, and the constant buzz of the wet city accompanied me.
After a few minutes of walking, I turned the corner—and there it was: the building where I lived. The façade stood as a silent testimony to time. An old structure, with peeling plaster, moisture stains creeping up the walls, and a rusted iron balcony on the third floor that looked ready to collapse. The front glass of the lobby was fogged, blurring even the idea of modernity that place never tried to claim.
I pushed the glass door, which groaned as always. Inside, the lobby was warm, with a faint scent of stale coffee and mold. Behind the chipped wooden counter, the night doorman was slumped in his office chair, head tilted to the side, a soft snore escaping from his slightly parted lips. He didn't even stir as I walked in. It was always like that. He never asked who I was. And, to be honest, I didn't expect anything from him anymore.
I pressed the elevator button—a little yellow bulb that lit up with effort. The machinery sounded almost immediately, a deep, metallic noise from the shaft, followed by a dull thud and the screech of the iron doors opening to reveal the narrow cabin. I stepped inside. The interior was lined with a foggy mirror and dark, scratched wood. I pressed the number for my floor—the fourth—and the doors closed with a slowness that seemed to apologize for existing.
The elevator began its slow ascent. The noise of chains and the old motor filled the silence, vibrating through the cabin walls. The reflection in the mirror showed a tired man, his face slightly wet—perhaps from the rain, perhaps from sweat, or just from life itself, which grew heavier with each passing day.
I didn't look at him for long. I just waited. Like I always did.
I walked down the narrow sidewalk, avoiding puddles as if I knew the path by heart, even with my eyes closed. The umbrella creaked softly under the pressure of the rain, but it did its job. The streets were nearly empty—only the sound of water running through the gutters, the occasional bark of a distant dog, and the constant hum of the soaked city kept me company.
After a few minutes of walking, I turned the corner, and there it was: the building where I lived. The facade was a silent testimony to time. An old building, with peeling plaster in several places, damp stains creeping up the walls, and a rusted iron balcony on the third floor that looked like it could collapse at any moment. The front windows were fogged up, clouding any idea of modernity that place had never even attempted to have.
I pushed the glass door open, and it creaked like always. Inside the lobby, the air was warm, with a faint smell of stale coffee and mold. Behind the chipped wooden counter, the doorman on shift was slumped in his office chair, his head tilted to the side and a soft snore escaping his slightly open mouth. He didn't even flinch when he saw me come in. It was always like that. He never asked who I was. And, to be honest, I didn't expect anything more from him.
I pressed the elevator button—a small yellowed bulb that barely lit up. The sound of the mechanism came almost immediately, a deep metallic noise from the elevator shaft, followed by a dull thud and the dragging of iron doors that opened to reveal the narrow cabin. I stepped in. The interior was lined with a foggy mirror and dark, scratched wood. I pressed the button for my floor—the fourth—and the doors closed with a sluggishness that seemed to apologize for existing.
The elevator began its slow ascent. The sound of chains and the old motor filled the silence, vibrating through the cabin walls. The reflection in the mirror showed a tired man, his face slightly wet—perhaps from the rain, perhaps from sweat, or maybe just from life itself, growing heavier by the day.
I didn't look at him for long. I just waited. Like I always did.
Ding.
The muffled sound of the internal chime announced the arrival on the fourth floor. The elevator doors began to open with their usual sluggish pace, as if each movement required effort, as if time itself had weight inside that space. I knew that rhythm well—I could almost time it, second by second, how long it took for them to open completely. I didn't rush. Hurry had been left behind in some younger version of myself.
When they finally opened, the cold, direct light from the hallway hit my eyes like a white blade. I blinked instinctively. The strong smell of disinfectant invaded my nostrils aggressively—some diligent soul from the building, or maybe just the doorman trying to cover up the dirt with an overdose of cleaner. It was a sharp, artificial aroma that mixed pine, alcohol, and something metallic, almost as if the very air had been sterilized.
I didn't hesitate. I walked down the narrow hallway, where the walls, painted in old beige paint, were stained in some spots, scratched in others. The sound of my own footsteps echoed lightly on the worn ceramic floor. Every door along the way held its own story—closed, silent, like wooden coffins where life hid behind locks and layers of routine.
I reached mine.
The wood was darkened by time, with small cracks and a splinter near the doorknob that always looked ready to come off. But what stood out most was the improvised plaque, a thin piece of yellowed metal, simply screwed into the center of the door, where it read in engraved letters:
"David's Residence"
No flourishes. No last name. No title.
Just David.
I looked at it for a brief moment. It was strange how something so small could carry so much—my name stamped there, as if it were enough to affirm my existence among the hundreds of other doors in that tired building. No title. No promise. Just the raw reality of who I am.
I reached for the key in my pocket. I could already feel the weight of the apartment's stillness on the other side of that door. The familiar solitude, the furniture in the exact place I'd left it, the muffled sound of the world staying outside.
In silence, I turned the key in the lock.
The doorknob turned easily, and the door creaked like always when I pushed it open with my shoulder. The dim hallway light spilled onto the living room floor, revealing that silent, motionless space, just as I had left it before heading to work. I stepped in slowly, feeling the cold floor beneath my feet as I closed the door behind me with a dull thump. I locked it. Two turns of the key, out of habit, for safety… or maybe just routine.
The smell of the apartment greeted me like an old memory: a mix of dampness, stale coffee, and the faint perfume of aged wood. It was strange how, despite its simplicity, my home always seemed to carry the weight of the days with me—as if it absorbed the exhaustion, the repetition, and gave it back in the form of silence.
The living room was small, no frills. A two-seater couch faced me, stained on the arms and with cushions sunken as if they, too, were tired of bearing my weight. On top of it, a thin blanket was thrown carelessly—I don't even remember when I last used it. In front of it, the coffee table that had seen everything: coffee, dinner, keys, silent breakdowns, and hours of TV playing without me really watching. On top of it, the remote control, an empty glass, and my keychain tossed carelessly. Everything in its place. Everything… the same.
The TV, old and small, rested on the same stand as always. Scratched plastic frame, screen a bit dull. Beside it, the pile of magazines I never read, a broken remote, and the small image of Saint George. My eyes always stopped there, even without thinking. The candle beside it was already melted down, thin, leaning to one side. I think it's been months since I last lit it.
Behind me, the kitchen hid partially behind the formica counter—a space even simpler, almost shy. The yellow ceiling light did its best to illuminate everything, but it always left some corner drowned in shadow. The refrigerator, my old companion, hummed quietly, vibrating as if it too was tired. Yellowed paint, pizza place magnets, and notes stuck on with tape… it all reminded me of a functional life, nothing more.
The stove stood there, firm, its four burners stained, and the dish towel hanging crookedly on the oven handle. In the sink, one plate, one glass, two forks. It wasn't neglect—it was just life unfolding at the pace it could. The cabinets creaked when opened, so I barely touched them more than necessary. And the tiled floor reflected the dim light, revealing stains that had become part of the décor.
I stopped for a moment in the middle of the living room, letting the backpack slide off my shoulder. The silence felt like a presence of its own, breathing along with me. The only sounds were the hum of the fridge and the distant tapping of rain outside. The hallway light had already gone out, leaving only the warm dimness of the yellow bulb.
Nothing there was beautiful. Nothing impressive.
But it was mine. My little world in a universe that never promised me anything. My corner where I could, at least, take the weight off my back — even if it never really went away.
I closed the door with my shoulder, feeling that dry cloque as the old wood settled into the frame. I didn't take off my shoes, didn't drop things in the right place. I just went straight, dragging my feet, and let myself collapse onto the couch with the weight of someone carrying the world — or at least three work shifts and a bit of rain. My wet clothes clung to the cold cushions, and I knew everything would get damp, maybe even take on that musty fabric smell later. But... whatever. I just needed to sit. I just needed to stop.
I rested my head against the back of the couch and let my body sink. My eyes fixed on the dull ceiling. The faint kitchen light cast a long shadow down the living room hallway, and the sound of my own sigh filled the space. The rain kept insisting outside, tapping against the window with persistence — a reminder that the world kept going, even when I wanted it all to pause for a few seconds.
Then my eyes fell on the table. The remote was there, still and waiting, just like always, on that scratched surface. I knew I could reach for it. Maybe turn on the TV, hear some host yelling deals, or some old dubbed movie playing... But I didn't move.
Instead, I let out another sigh and pushed myself forward. Every motion felt like it demanded more than I had. I stood up with effort, muscles heavy, my soaked clothes sticking to my back. My legs complained. My head throbbed slightly — probably hunger.
"Yeah..." I murmured to myself, almost laughing through my nose. "If I'm gonna rest tomorrow, might as well eat something today, right?"
I made my way to the kitchen, dragging my feet over the cold tile. I opened the fridge, the blast of cold air hitting my face and making me shiver. I scanned its contents: some frozen chicken pieces, two eggs, a tray of slightly wilted vegetables, a bit of cheese... Maybe I could throw something together. Nothing fancy, of course. But enough to fill my stomach and remind me that, despite everything, I was still alive.
And tomorrow... tomorrow was a day off. At least that.
I grabbed the two eggs and the chicken almost instinctively — didn't think much, just let my hands do what they already knew. I set the eggs on the counter and laid the chicken on a cutting board. It was still a bit cold, but workable. I cut it into medium, rectangular pieces, trying to give them a shape that suggested more planning than a last-minute dinner.
I cracked the eggs into a deep bowl. The shells clicked against the edge and fell with that wet, familiar sound. I stirred them with a fork whose tips were slightly rusty, and the yolks blended quickly with the whites, forming that thick liquid that glistened under the kitchen's yellow light. Salt, pepper, and a pinch of oregano I found in an old jar from the cupboard. I stirred a little more, just for the motion.
I grabbed the cheese from the fridge — a chunk of mozzarella already dry around the edges. I grated some into the beaten eggs. The smell rose immediately, simple and comforting. That, despite how bare it all was, gave me a strange peace. I floured the chicken pieces with what little flour I had left, dipped them in the cheesy egg mix, and dropped them straight into the hot pan, already greased with oil. The sizzle of meat hitting hot metal filled the kitchen, a sound that brought a nearly nostalgic feeling — something between comfort and survival.
While the pieces browned, I walked to the microwave and popped in yesterday's rice to reheat. It sat in a transparent container with a warped lid. Not much, but enough. I pressed the lid shut with a dull snap, set the timer — two and a half minutes — and let it spin. The internal light lit the grains like a tiny furnace.
The smell of the breaded chicken took over the space, mixing with the rice steam and the warmth beginning to spread through the kitchen. I used an old spatula to flip the pieces, letting them brown well on both sides. They crackled and spat little drops of oil that danced through the air before vanishing into the night's silence.
At the core of it, that simple moment — the sizzling, the heat, the smell — was the closest thing to peace I could have today. And honestly, it was already more than enough.
Once the food was ready, I turned off the heat and plated it quickly, barely thinking. I scooped a generous spoonful of rice, still steaming, and placed it next to the golden, crispy chicken pieces, topped with slightly melted cheese. The smell was irresistible — simple, direct, homemade. My stomach growled louder now, like it knew relief was finally on the way.
I sat at the table, pulling the chair back with that sharp scraping sound. I rested my elbows on the cold wood and began eating fast, almost urgently. It wasn't greed — it was necessity. Every bite came with a small sense of relief, as if each mouthful brought back a bit of the energy the entire day had drained. The hot rice, the crispy chicken, the melted cheese mixing with the simple seasoning... It all fit perfectly, like a quiet consolation after another long, grey day.
It didn't take long. I ate like someone who needed to stay upright, like someone who knew there was still the bare minimum to do before rest. Once I was done, I left the plate and cutlery in the sink — I'd wash them tomorrow, maybe. Not today.
I walked to the bathroom, my body heavy and dragging. I turned on the yellow light and faced my reflection in the mirror for a second: sunken eyes, unshaven face, an expression too tired for my age. I undressed with mechanical movements and turned on the shower. The water took a few seconds to heat up, but when it did, it wrapped around me like a mantle. I closed my eyes, tilted my head back, letting the water fall over my face. It wasn't just a shower — it was almost a washed silence. A pause.
When I came out, I dried off with the towel hanging on the door, threw on an old t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. The lights went out one by one as I walked toward the bedroom. I threw myself onto the bed with the same sincerity I'd thrown myself onto the couch earlier. The mattress sank beneath my weight, and the cold sheet felt like an embrace.
Finally, I let my eyes close. Tomorrow was a day off. And, at least for today... I had made it.
Lying there, I felt the mattress pulling me downward, as if it wanted to swallow me whole — and in that moment, I would've let it. I closed my eyes slowly, without resistance, feeling the weight of the day dissolve over me like a slow tide. The cold pillow against the side of my face was a quiet comfort, and the light blanket rose and fell with my tired breath.
The exhaustion... it wasn't just in the body. It was that deep kind — the kind that lives in your bones, your soul, your time. But today, it came mostly from work. From the hours spent standing, the forced smiles, the deadlines and demands that never stop. From the world outside that always asks more than we can give. It was an old tiredness, accumulated. Not from a single day — but from a whole life of repetition.
I felt my eyelids grow heavier. My body sank deeper into the mattress, while my mind started to blur, floating between fragmented thoughts and fuzzy memories. The rain still tapped against the window insistently, like an old background noise rocking me to sleep.
And then, without ceremony, without resistance, I let it all go dark. My final breath was deep, heavy.
Tomorrow…
Tomorrow would be a day off.
Drowsiness came like a silent tide, pulling my body and mind into a dark, calm place. Each breath felt slower, heavier. The bed held me with gentle firmness, and I could no longer tell if my eyes were truly closed or if the whole room had sunk into the dark with me. My thoughts began to unravel, turning into dust on the wind of approaching sleep.
But then…
"David…?"
It was soft. Almost a whisper. But clear. Too clear to be a dream.
My eyes opened in an instant — not with the dry shock of a nightmare, but as if something had gently pulled my attention back. The room was still dark, the rain still whispered outside… but I was certain. Absolutely certain that I'd heard my name coming from the living room.
I stayed still for a few seconds, lying there, trying to hear it again. My heart beat a little faster, but my mind tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was a leftover sound from sleep, maybe it was just the wind… maybe.
But then it came again.
"David… can you hear me?"
A low, calm voice… far too familiar. And now, without a doubt, coming from the living room.
My muscles tensed. The TV was off. No neighbors talking. And I lived alone. I'd always lived alone.
I sat up slowly, the sheets sliding down my legs. The air in the room suddenly felt colder. The sound of the rain seemed... distant. Like the world had paused for a moment. The silence after the voice was dense, almost solid.
I slowly placed my feet on the floor. The cold wood fully woke me up. And there, sitting at the edge of the bed, I stared at the slightly open bedroom door, from where a faint dim light crept in from the living room.
Someone had called me.
And they were waiting.
The voice came again.
"David... I know you're awake."
The sound was calm, low, but it carried a weight that chilled me to the bone. It wasn't a threat — it wasn't aggressive or urgent — and maybe that's what made it worse. Because it sounded intimate. Like someone who knew me.
"You don't need to be afraid... I just want to talk to you."
My throat went dry. I stayed there, sitting on the edge of the bed, unable to move. My heart beat harder now, echoing in my chest like it was trying to warn me, pull me back under the covers, or even out of that apartment. But my curiosity, as always, was stubborn.
The voice didn't sound like a stranger's. And that was what bothered me the most. Because I couldn't remember whose it was.
I stood up slowly, each step making the floor creak softly beneath my feet. The dim light from the living room spilled through the crack in the door like a still mist. The silence between each word from that voice made everything more suffocating, as if it were just there, watching me, waiting for me to take the initiative.
I reached the bedroom door. My hands were sweaty, but still I pushed the wood slowly, opening just enough to see the shadowy blur of the living room.
It was empty.
But something in the air had changed.
It was denser, more still… as if time itself hesitated to move forward in that space.
"Let's talk, David," the voice said again, now closer. As close as someone sitting on the couch.
Even without seeing anyone, I could feel it: someone was there with me. And it didn't matter if it was real or not. That someone... knew exactly who I was.
I shoved the door open hard, nearly yanking it off the hinge, the bam! echoing through the narrow apartment walls. In my right hand, I held my pillow like it was a weapon — stupid, maybe, but it was what I had. The soft fabric felt useless against any real threat, but my fingers gripped it as if it could protect me from something unseen.
The living room light was off. Dark. Silent. The blackness felt thicker than before, like it was swallowing the little light coming from the bedroom hallway behind me. The air was still, heavy — like someone had just exhaled and was waiting for a reply.
"You better show yourself!" I shouted, my voice cutting the silence, hoarse and tense. "I swear… I'll call the police!"
My breathing was uneven. My eyes tried to adjust to the gloom, scanning every corner of the room for a silhouette, some movement. But there was nothing. The couch was empty, just as I'd left it. The TV off, the remote still on the table. The window shut, the curtain swaying slightly, touched by a cold breeze that shouldn't have been there.
"David…" the voice whispered again — now from behind me.
Frozen. It was like my heart stopped for a second. The pillow slipped slightly from my grip. Every hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I had opened the door to the living room… but now the voice was behind me.
Behind me.
Back in the hallway.
My room, where just seconds ago I had been alone.
Or... I thought I was.
I spun around in a desperate reflex, pillow raised, ready to strike whatever might be behind me. But… nothing. The hallway was empty. No sound, no presence—only the echo of my rapid breathing filling the narrow space. My eyes darted from corner to corner, expecting some silhouette to move in the shadows—but there was only darkness, thick and silent.
Then, a light snapped on behind me.
Click.
The living room.
I turned abruptly, and what I saw made me freeze in place.
The dim, yellowish light in the living room was now on, flickering as if it were struggling to stay alive. And there, seated in the center of the couch—where just seconds before there had been nothing—was him.
A humanoid shadow.
No face, no eyes, no mouth—just form. The contours were unmistakably human. Sitting upright, hands on knees, like someone politely waiting to start a conversation. But its presence filled the room oppressively, as if the entire space revolved around it.
It didn't move. Didn't breathe. But I knew it was watching me.
Even without eyes, I felt its focus piercing through me. Like an invisible needle through my skin, touching something deep at my core.
My stomach twisted. The hand holding the pillow trembled slightly, and my knees threatened to give out.
"Now we can talk, David," the shadow said, in the same calm, serene… far-too-close voice.
I didn't know whether to scream. To run.
Or if, somehow—finally—I should listen to what it had to say.
The shadow remained motionless for a moment longer. Then, without moving its mouth—because it had no mouth—it let out a sound. A "sigh."
But it wasn't the sigh of a human being. It was more like a sound formed directly inside my mind. Deep, muffled... and incredibly saturated with a familiarity that made me even more uncomfortable.
"Yeah... I overdid it," it said. The voice sounded as though it echoed through an empty room, and yet it was clear. Almost… resigned. "Too sudden. Showing up like this. I should've waited. Or introduced myself more… calmly."
The shadow then slowly raised one of its hands and passed it over its "head," as if imitating the human gesture of scratching the back of the neck. A strange and disconcerting detail, considering it had no defined features—but the gesture felt so natural that for a second, my fear gave way to perplexity.
"You just got home from work, you're tired, went through a whole day of routine, and I show up here… out of nowhere… saying I've seen you, called you, been watching you?" It shook its head as if ashamed. "Of course that'd scare you. Not to mention the whole dramatic entrance. My tone was… poorly chosen."
The figure leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on its knees. Despite its dark and undefined shape, something about the posture almost seemed... sincere.
"Sorry about that, David," it said simply.
The silence that followed seemed to wait for my reply.
But I was still standing at the edge of the hallway, clutching a pillow in my trembling hands.
The only thing I managed to do… was swallow hard.
"Who… or what… are you?" I asked, my voice low, almost hoarse.
The shadow just remained there, looking—if that's what it could be called.
And then, it answered:
"Someone you don't know. But who knows about you."
The shadow stayed in that position for a few more seconds, then slowly lifted its head toward the ceiling. The gesture was soft, almost contemplative. The silence lasted just long enough for my heartbeat to return to something more manageable—though still laced with a troubling anxiety.
And then it spoke.
"David…" the voice came calmly, but now carried something deeper. As if it had traveled too far to be just a simple question. "If you had the chance to leave all of this behind…"
It opened its arms slowly, as if presenting the apartment. My apartment. The modest living room, the small TV, the couch still damp from the rain, the kitchen where minutes ago I had fried breaded chicken in a desperate attempt to give flavor to a tasteless day.
"This… mediocre life," it continued. The word was spoken carefully, without scorn, like someone stating a harsh and unavoidable truth. "Routine. Loneliness. Effort without glory. Survival without meaning."
The shadow lowered its head, returning to its earlier posture, now seemingly closer to me—though it hadn't moved.
"If you were given the chance to leave it all behind… to start over. A new life. A new purpose. Maybe even a new version of yourself..."
It paused. A silence as heavy as lead.
"Would you take it, David?"
The question hung in the air like thick smoke. And I just stood there, frozen, the pillow now loose in my hand, a cloth shield against a choice I never imagined I'd have to make.
And for a second... for a brief second...
…the idea didn't seem so absurd.
My mind started to work, slowly at first, still wrapped in the haze of exhaustion—but the alarm had been triggered. The shadow's question echoed in my head like a seed planted deep, growing roots with each passing second.
A new life. A new purpose. A fresh start...
It was tempting. Far too tempting.
But then a part of me, the one that always whispers from the back of my mind—hardened by years of frustrations and bitter experiences—raised its voice inside me.
There's no such thing as a free lunch.
I looked at the shadow more closely now. All that serenity. The calm. The kindness… it was theatrical. Or at the very least, not without cost. No one—nothing—just shows up in the middle of the night, in the home of a tired, ordinary man, offering a "new life," without expecting something in return.
"What exactly are you trying to sell me?" I asked, my voice still tense, but steadier. "Because this sounds like a politician's promise with cult vibes. And sorry, but... a shadow on my couch offering salvation? That's a bit much to take at face value."
The shadow stayed still for a moment, as if digesting my words. Then, it slowly nodded—not in disappointment, but almost as if… approving.
"Smart. Always were. Even if you tried to forget."
It folded its hands over its knees, as if this was the moment that truly mattered.
"I'm not here to deceive you, David. But you're right… no real choice comes without cost."
The shadow slowly raised its hand, extending it toward me, as if offering something invisible.
"All I want is to show you what you've left behind. What you've forgotten. And what you can choose to take back."
And then, with the same low, deep voice that seemed to slide through my bones:
"It's not a contract, David. It's a reminder."
And me? I stood there. The pillow finally fell from my hand. And, even without knowing why… I took a step forward.
My throat went dry. The metallic taste of fear started to rise at the back of my tongue, even though I tried to keep my gaze steady. The room seemed smaller now, the walls closing in, as if the time between my words and its response carried a weight I still didn't understand.
"What if I… refuse?" I asked, hesitantly. The words escaped almost in a whisper. "What if I say 'no'? If I want to stay here, with this mediocre life, as you said?"
The shadow remained silent for a few seconds. A silence that seemed to echo inside me, as if it were watching me from within, analyzing every crack, every memory, every choice that had brought me here.
Then it answered.
"If you refuse…" The voice was now slower, denser. "I will accept. No hard feelings. You have the right to choose the burden you wish to carry."
It lifted its gaze again, staring at me with something I could only feel, since it had no eyes.
"But know this, David..."
A slight flicker passed through the light in the ceiling. An almost imperceptible tremor ran through the floor, as if something were approaching from outside visible reality.
"I… am just an option. The first knock at the door."
It tilted its head slightly to the side.
"But the other one? The one that will come if I refuse?"
The tone dropped, cold, dry.
"It doesn't care what you want. It doesn't offer a choice. It… only takes."
For a moment, I felt a change in the air. A chill ran up my spine, cold, straight from my backbone to my neck. And, for a brief moment, I had the sensation that something… out there… outside the window, was watching me too.
The shadow leaned back on the couch, with a slight sigh.
"Then choose, David. Not in haste. But don't take too long."
And the silence returned. Heavy. Warm. Almost alive.
And there, in the middle of my own living room, I realized… maybe this night wasn't just about resting from a tiring day.
Maybe… it was about waking up from an entire life.
My body remained still, but inside, my chest felt like a furnace, boiling thoughts, memories, and old fears. The world around me—my gray apartment, the smell of cleaning product still lingering in my nostrils, the echo of the turned-off TV—everything felt so… distant now.
There, in front of me, sat a shadow on my couch, speaking with more calm and truth than many people with faces. Offering me an "escape." A new life. A choice.
But my instinct said otherwise.
"Choose quickly, or another will come."
I gritted my teeth, and everything started to spin inside my head.
Why now? Why me?
Who is this other thing?
What if it's just a delusion? A hallucination caused by exhaustion, hunger, and a mind broken by routine?
But no… something inside me knew. This was real. As real as the years I let slip through my fingers, working, surviving. As real as the smiles I stopped giving. As real as the dream I buried a little deeper every morning when I woke up to complete another shift.
A new life...
And the price?
Of course, there's a price. There's always a price.
But that wasn't what held me back.
What truly paralyzed me was… what if I accepted?
What if I left it all behind?
Even though it was a gray life, it was my life. My sofa. My tasteless food. My cracked walls and the silence that had followed me since I learned to stand on my own.
And even more… what if, deep down, I didn't deserve a second chance?
I closed my eyes for a moment. Tried to hear my heart. It was pounding. Confused. But it was beating.
Maybe for the first time in a long time… I felt like something really mattered. That I was on the edge of something big. Or terrible.
I opened my eyes. The shadow was still staring at me. Patient. As if it already knew the turmoil swirling inside me.
I took a deep breath. A very deep breath.
"And if I say yes… who do I become?"
But the answer still didn't come. Because, maybe, that was the question I would have to answer myself.
The shadow didn't respond immediately. It remained there, sitting, as if weighing the depth of my question—or perhaps listening to thoughts I hadn't even formed yet. The silence stretched for a few long seconds, thick with almost ritualistic tension.
And then, it spoke.
"If you say 'yes', David… I will give you two abilities."
The voice came quieter, denser. As if it were opening something that wasn't easily opened.
"Two abilities. Chosen by you. No limitations, no arbitrary rules. Whatever you wish to carry with you... will be yours."
It leaned forward slightly, as if wanting to make sure I listened with my heart, not just my ears.
"In exchange, I will only ask for two things. Two small actions."
It raised two fingers. There was no light reflecting off them, but the gesture was clear.
"Not impossible missions. Not soul sacrifices. Just… two requests. And when the time comes, you'll know."
It leaned back on the couch again, as if returning the power of decision to me.
"You will have time to think about the abilities. And you will have total freedom to decide what they are."
"But, David… once accepted, there is no turning back. The world you know… will bend to the new. And you will carry what you've chosen until the end."
The air around me seemed to vibrate with the weight of the promise. Or the threat.
And even so… for the first time that night, I felt something other than fear.
I felt power.
The choice was now mine.
Two abilities. Two requests.
A new life... or the same darkness as always.
And deep down in my soul… a part of me began to whisper what I most wanted to be.
"We have a deal made"