---
Lucas turned and saw Mia standing in the hallway.
She was clutching her little doll, eyes half-closed, her hair messy from sleep. In a faint voice she called,
"Brother…?"
Lucas quickly wiped his tears and forced a calm tone.
"Why are you awake, Mia?"
She rubbed her eyes and murmured,
"I had a bad dream… I couldn't sleep."
Then she looked at him with innocent eyes and asked,
"Were you crying?"
He hesitated, then gave her a faint smile.
"No, don't worry… everything's fine. Let's go back to bed."
He took her hand, but Mia suddenly stopped, staring toward their parents' door. She whispered, her voice trembling,
"I want to see Mom."
A sharp pain stabbed Lucas's chest, but he quickly replied, trying to sound natural:
"Mom went to Auntie's… but she'll be back tomorrow."
Mia's eyes widened slightly.
"What? Why didn't you tell me?"
Lucas forced a playful grin.
"But I'm here—don't you want to stay with me?"
She pouted, then muttered, "I was just joking."
Lucas bent down and gently patted her head.
"Yes… so you need to sleep now, and when you wake up, you'll find her back."
Mia hugged him tight, holding her doll, then closed her eyes, reassured. Lucas stayed silent… hiding his tears in her hair, knowing deep down the tomorrow he promised would never come.
---
[Luka's Perspective]
I watched them in silence. My heart pounded, my chest tight. When he said to his sister, "Mom went to Auntie's… she'll be back tomorrow," it felt as if the words had come from my own mouth. His tears touched me, even though I didn't cry. It felt like a memory that belonged to me.
---
Three years passed since that night.
I was nine now. Since losing my mother, silence had haunted our home.
And my father? He was there… but distant, as if I was invisible.
Mia became everything. Her laughter alone could light up an entire day.
That afternoon, after school, I returned home with Mia and Mark — my closest friend, classmate, and neighbor. His mother often helped take care of us. To me, he was more brother than friend.
It was midterm break.
Mark grinned broadly:
"Let me guess… you got first place again, didn't you?"
Mia frowned, annoyed.
"Of course he did. He does nothing but study."
I smirked.
"Right. Unlike someone who placed second-to-last."
Mark's face flushed.
"At least… I wasn't last this time!"
We all burst into laughter.
But soon Mia lifted her eyes to the sunset and teased mischievously,
"Your mom's going to scold you when you get home."
Mark chuckled awkwardly, then almost pleaded,
"Then… can I stay over tonight?"
Mia smiled.
"Of course."
But before he could breathe in relief, a familiar voice cut through from behind:
"Stay over? And who exactly gave you permission, young man?"
Mark froze. A playful hand tugged at his ear.
"Ah! Mom! I was just joking!"
She shook her head, half-smiling.
"Joking, huh?"
Mia and I said in unison, unable to hold our laughter:
"Good evening, Aunt Mary!"
She gave us a brief smile before dragging Mark away, his voice fading as he cried dramatically,
"Traitors! Save me!"
We kept walking home, laughter still echoing around us.
---
And from that moment, everything began to change.
The years passed… Lucas grew up living on the margins.
A father distant as a stranger, a mother who left without returning.
All that remained was Mia — the only light in his darkness.
He trained, studied, excelled.
At fourteen, he stood in the center of the arena, champion of a national tournament.
Crowds roared, his coach patted his shoulder proudly… yet his eyes searched endlessly among the faces.
He longed for one glance, one smile from his father in the crowd.
But it wasn't there.
What was the value of glory… if the one you wanted to be proud of you never came?
Slowly, his heart began to freeze.
---
Three years later.
My final year of high school.
I sat on the rooftop, far from everyone. I stubbed out my cigarette, then pulled a small plastic bag from my backpack.
Inside: eleven neatly folded letters.
Each one written by my mother. I had found them by chance, locked away in my father's desk drawer.
Every one began the same way:
"To Lucas, on your birthday…"
One for each year she had missed — from seven to seventeen.
I held the first envelope. Just touching it brought everything back.
My tears that night. The silence. My innocent question:
"When is Mom coming home?"
Year after year… no word. No call. No visit. Not even a card. Until now.
I clenched the envelope tightly.
"Enough," I muttered.
A match flared. A small flame. Then fire.
The words burned.
One after another — I set them all alight.
I didn't read a single word. I didn't care what she had written.
I didn't want to know why she left, or how much she claimed she loved me "from afar."
If she left… then there was no rewriting the ending.
When it was over, I watched the smoke drift into the sky.
"This door is closed forever."
I walked away from the rooftop, backpack slung over my shoulder.
The battle inside me was finished — but no one would ever see the scars.
My steps were slow. My eyes unfocused.
But when I looked up… Mia was there.
Waiting by the school gate.
Her summer jacket fluttered gently in the breeze.
Her dark eyes sparkled as if they belonged to another world.
When she saw me, a small smile broke across her face — soft, yet strong enough to pierce through the fog I carried.
She had held on with all her strength. The little girl I once knew was still there.
Then she smacked my arm.
"You were smoking again, weren't you?" she scolded.
"How did you know?"
She pointed at her nose.
"The ash, the smell, your tired eyes. I'm not stupid, Lucas."
I sighed but said nothing.
Her voice softened.
"You know I hate it when you do that… You're only hurting yourself."
Lucas let out a weary half-laugh.
"I'm not punishing myself, Mia."
They walked together — slowly, in silence. Not the silence of distance… but the peace of two people who no longer needed words.
For once, life gave them a moment of calm.
But peace never lasts.
"Lucas! Watch out!"
Mia's scream tore through the air — but it was too late.
A motorcycle shot around the corner, roaring like a demon. Two riders — a driver, and a second man with a black scarf, swinging a metal bat.
The strike landed.
CRACK.
The blow hit Lucas straight in the head. Time slowed. A scream echoed. Pain exploded in his skull. Then… darkness.
The last thing he saw was Mia — crying, her hand reaching for him in vain.
One rider leapt off, grabbed Lucas's limp body, and hauled him onto the bike.
The engine roared.
Mia tried to run, but the back wheel spun violently, kicking dust into her face.
In seconds, the motorcycle vanished around the corner.
All that remained was dust… and her hand, reaching toward someone who was no longer there.
---
In an abandoned factory on the edge of the city, where rust ate through iron and dust choked the light leaking through shattered windows…
In the middle of the dim hall sat a teenage boy tied to a metal chair.
His hands were bound behind his back, his feet strapped tightly to the legs of the chair.
His head slumped to the side, eyes closed, dried blood staining his face.
That boy was Lucas.
Before him stood two burly men in dark clothing, faces hardened with menace.
Between them, a young man in his twenties, hair neatly styled, a crooked, mocking smile on his lips.
He stepped forward with confidence, the echo of his boots hollow across the cracked tiles, until he stopped before Lucas.
"Wake up, Prince of Sorrow…" he sneered, raising his hand.
---