Haman stood in the middle of a vast desert, its end nowhere in sight. The scorching heat was relentless, and thirst consumed him until he was on the verge of collapse. He longed desperately for even a single drop of water. There was no one around—only his lonely figure stretching forward. The more he walked, the longer the desert seemed to extend, like an endless labyrinth.
In the midst of the barren wasteland, a little girl appeared. Her eyes mirrored his own, and her face carried an innocent purity.
"Brother—brother! Come back," she cried, reaching out her hand to him.
Before Haman could take another step, an impenetrable darkness engulfed everything around him. He could see nothing—only shadows everywhere. From within that darkness, a voice echoed:
"Recognize your true self!"
Haman's head spun.
Suddenly, Haman awoke. It had been a dream, yet it felt so real as if he had truly lived it. Confusion clouded his mind; he could not make sense of what he had just seen. Deciding not to dwell on it further, he tried to calm himself. Despite the freezing cold, sweat drenched his skin.
Exhaustion weighed on him—not just from his battle with death itself, but from the fatigue of his soul. Everything he had endured had drained him completely, leaving him weary even of his own existence. He had never felt like this before.
Rubbing his face with his hands, Haman climbed down from his bed and walked out of his room toward the kitchen in search of water. There he found Hamail, calmly enjoying a cupcake.
"You're still awake?" Hamail raised an eyebrow, glancing at him with ease.
"I was thirsty, so I came here for water," Haman replied, still standing at the doorway.
"The water's right there," Hamail said, pointing toward a bottle on the counter.
"My brother used to get up at night for water too," Hamail added with a sad smile. His expression struck Haman deeply, filling his gaze with silent compassion.
"Why don't you tell me something about your childhood or your family?" Hamail asked, steering the conversation toward him.
"My childhood? My family?" Haman murmured to himself, sinking into deep thought. Do I even have parents? Brothers? Sisters? Countless questions swirled inside his mind.
"What's wrong?" Hamail snapped his fingers in front of his face. "What kind of question pulled you into such deep thought? If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I won't force you."
"I don't remember anything," Haman admitted quietly, staring at the floor.
"What?" Hamail looked puzzled.
"I don't remember my childhood. I don't remember my family. I don't even remember who I am or where I came from," Haman said, pressing his hand against his forehead, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
"That's a serious problem. But they say every problem has a solution. I think I know one for yours," Hamail replied with sudden seriousness.
"What solution? Tell me, quickly," Haman asked eagerly.
"The solution is… you should dance." Hamail burst into laughter. Haman could only frown in annoyance.
"Do I look like some old witch to you who can solve problems with tricks? Oh, wait—actually, I just remembered. There is a witch who might answer your questions. Want me to take you to her?" Hamail asked, struggling to control his laughter.
"You're insane! Making fun like this is something only you could do," Haman muttered, irritated.
"I'm not joking. There really is a witch. Her name is Basah, and she might be able to help you," Hamail insisted.
"Fine. Take me to her," Haman replied firmly.
"Alright, tomorrow then. For now, go to sleep—it's already late." Hamail walked away with a smile.
"Liar." Haman muttered to himself as he watched Hamail walk away.
After drinking his water, Haman too returned to his room and drifted back into sleep.
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Haman and Hamail arrived at a desolate place where no snow was falling. Everything—from the ground to the sky, from the trees to the very walls—was drenched in a bloody red, as if an endless stream of blood was flowing through it all.
There stood a tiny house, no larger than a single room, painted in the same deep crimson. The strange thing was that it floated four feet above the ground, suspended in the air. In front of the house was a creature, no more than two feet tall. Its entire body was blood-red, its face covered in coarse crimson hair. The figure resembled an ant, though with a thick, elongated tail curling behind it.
Hamail stepped toward the creature and, with his right hand, circled the air around his head four times. At once, a door opened within the small being itself. Hamail gestured to Haman to enter first. As Haman moved closer and passed by the creature, he felt an uncanny vibration reverberate through his body. Together, they stepped inside.
Within, they found eight doors. Each one bore an inscription—except the last.
First Door: "Carve your own path… yet at the end lies only a graveyard of darkness."
Second Door: "Enter, if you dare."
Third Door: "Give something, take something."
Fourth Door: "Know...but forget."
Fifth Door: "Here, there is nothing but astonishment upon astonishment."
Sixth Door: "One more chance."
Seventh Door: "All is over."
Eighth Door: Nothing was written.
"Do you know what lies behind these doors? Trials—tests designed to break you down, so that only at the very end does one discover whose desire brought him here in the first place," Hamail said, stretching lazily, his voice calm and assured.
"I thought it would all be simple… but this—" Haman's eyes widened as he pressed his hand against his forehead in disbelief.
"Nothing is ever simple," Hamail replied, placing a steady hand on Haman's shoulder before moving toward the fourth door.
Haman followed close behind.
As they stepped inside, the sight before them was one of ruin. Objects lay scattered across the floor—here, a broken chair; there, loose papers and other remnants. Strange shapes were etched onto the walls. From the ceiling, a heavy crimson sheet hung down, suspended by rods that fixed it against both ceiling and wall.
Behind that sheet sat an old woman. Before her rested a bowl filled with red liquid that released a faint smoke curling into the air. Around her lay herbs, medicines, and a lone knife.
"What is it you wish to know?" the old woman asked.
Her name was Basah.
"My friend's past," Hamail said, pointing toward Haman. At the word friend, Haman's eyes widened in surprise. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as he turned to look at Hamail.
"Then you must let a few drops of your blood fall into this bowl," Basah said simply, handing over a knife, a small crimson cloth, and the same bowl from behind the hanging sheet.
Haman glanced at Hamail.
"Do as she says—don't waste time," Hamail instructed him firmly.
Haman picked up the knife, pressed the blade against his palm, and made a cut. A few drops of blood slipped into the bowl. Then he wiped his hand with the small cloth and pushed the bowl back toward Basah, sliding it under the heavy sheet.
Basah closed her eyes and began chanting over the bowl. When she finally opened them and looked down, the red liquid inside had turned pitch black. Within it, a strange image began to take shape. Basah's eyes widened in shock, frozen in disbelief—then suddenly, she let out a horrifying scream.
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