Kafka didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
His entire body trembled, but no sound came out of him, not laughter, not sobbing, not even a scream.
His mother had sealed his voice, shackled his throat, and left him to suffocate in silence because of her request. And maybe that was fitting.
Because this, this was worse than death.
Worse than never meeting them.
If fate had been cruel in the ordinary way—if he had never crossed into this world, never stumbled into their lives, never been taken into their arms, he wouldn't even know what he was missing.
He wouldn't have tasted their warmth, wouldn't have felt their hands smoothing his hair, wouldn't have heard their voices saying I love you.
He would have lived his life empty, yes, but ignorant.
That would have been a mercy.
