Kira's footsteps sounded softly as he passed the last corridor of the mental hospital. The white walls with faint stains and the lights that always flickered greeted him for the last time. He was wearing someone else's faded green jacket—an inheritance from a previous patient who had gone home earlier, or perhaps moved to a deeper, darker place. He didn't ask about it.
The iron door squeaked as it opened, a sound he always imagined as an end and a beginning. Outside, the world remained as it had always been: gray skies, a gentle wind, and barren trees that stood stiffly like guards.
Arga stood on the other side of the fence. The man was thinner than the last time Kira saw him, maybe because of the burden, or simply because time really doesn't care about anyone. He waved his hand slowly.
"Ready?" Arga asked, his tone light, but his eyes full of caution.
Kira nodded. He wasn't ready yet. But waiting never made things easier.
The cloth bag containing her belongings felt light in her hands: a notebook, a few sketchbooks, a pair of broken headphones, and a black pen that had almost run out of ink. Everything he had after three years in that place.
They walked towards Arga's car without much talk. Kira felt like every step was like crossing another dimension. The outside world was too bright, too free. The air felt foreign—dry yet sharp, like stabbing his lungs that were used to the engine's ventilation.
In the car, Arga started the engine. Instrumental music played softly, almost inaudible. They walked along the city streets, which to Kira had changed. New shops, razed buildings, people with faces she didn't recognize. He felt like a ghost released into a city that didn't remember her.
"The apartment isn't big, but it's clean. It's close to the station, you can take the train if you want to go anywhere," Arga said, trying to lighten the mood.
Kira didn't answer. He just stared out the window. The street didn't make him feel safe, but it wasn't scary either. It was just… empty.
"Do you still like drawing?" Arga asked softly.
The question hung in the air. Kira took a deep breath.
"I don't know," he answered.
Arga didn't ask any more questions.
After almost an hour, they arrived in front of an old renovated building. Three floors, fresh gray paint, and a sign that read "Kost Exclusive Mentari." A joke, Kira thought. There was nothing exclusive about a place like this.
They climbed the stairs to the third floor. The corridor was narrow, with the smell of fresh paint and leftover cement from the renovation. The door to apartment number 306 opened with a little push. Arga entered first, putting Kira's bag inside.
The room was simple: a single folding mattress in the corner, a small table with plastic chairs, a standing fan, and a small refrigerator still in its plastic. There was no TV, no decorations. The window was slightly open, revealing a view of the roof of another building.
"For starters, it's enough," Arga said, trying to sound optimistic.
Kira stood in the middle of the room, silent. The white walls surrounded him like any other cell, only colder, emptier, and this time there were no nurses checking every hour.
"If you need anything, just say so," Arga continued. "I know this isn't ideal, but…"
Kira turned his head, meeting his brother's eyes. "This is enough."
Arga looked hesitant, then nodded. He took something out of his pocket—an envelope containing cash and a new SIM card.
"New number. I've activated it. I saved my contacts there," he said, handing it over.
Kira accepted it without saying much.
Arga stood for a moment, seeming to want to say something more. But in the end, he just patted his brother's shoulder and said, "Take care of yourself, okay."
When the door closed behind Arga, silence immediately took over. Kira looked around. He walked slowly to the bed, sat down, then lay down. His gaze stared at the ceiling.
The sound of the clock ticking was loud. Not because the clock was noisy, but because there was no other sound. He wasn't used to this kind of silence. In the hospital, there were always sounds: doors opening, nurses laughing, patients chattering, night screams.
Here, it was just him.
He opened his cloth bag, took out a notebook. The previous pages are full of messy images: eyeless faces, severed hands, melting buildings. All done with fast, intense lines.
He opened a blank page. The pen in his hand felt heavy. He sat for a long time, drawing nothing.
Three years ago, he was rushed to the hospital after a night she didn't want to remember. A night that changed everything. He lost everything—his job, friends, girlfriend , family's trust. All in one burst of anger and tears that hecouldn't stop.
Today, he was back. But it wasn't the same Kira.
His phone rang softly. A notification from Arga.
"Don't hesitate to contact me. Seriously."
Kira stared at the screen for a long time. He didn't reply. He just put his phone on the small table, then stood up and opened the window wider. The night wind came in, bringing the sounds of the city from a distance: the sound of horns, footsteps, and laughter from the coffee shop across the street.
The world didn't stop.
And he had to learn to walk again.
For the first time that night, Kira drew. His hand was shaking, but the pen moved. He didn't know what he was drawing—blurred shapes, broken lines, and black shadows. But the page was no longer blank. Just like him.