Prologue – The Boy Behind the Door
Sometimes, the world changes without any signs or hints, leaving me wonder if something or someone is controlling everything, making things happen. Everybody has their own perspective. Some believe they are the most important person, some think they are insignificant, and some feel like they don’t even exist, or wish to be.
Some people attract attention even if they say just a single word, while others struggle to be seen, no matter how much they try to share their whole story. But I am neither.
I wander through my mind, lost in the chaotic mess, full of dust and ashes, trying to block my memories and twist the images of my thoughts. Every step I take only pulls me deeper into my thoughts, searching for a way out. I hear countless footsteps around me, yet I don’t know if any of them lead me to the right path. I have a mind that understands emotions, but I lack the heart to feel them.
I know what a human is, but I don’t know what it means to be human or what being human truly is.
Why is that? I mean, life is still refusing to answer me.
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Let me take you back to one of those quiet memories, the kind that doesn’t fade, no matter how much you try to forget.
It began with a boy named Haruka Fujimori, who stood near the door, leaning in, listening.
Laughter. Chuckles. The sound of joy. The sound of happiness.
His tears began to fall. He wished, no, hoped, that maybe, just maybe, he could go outside and play with his friends, but his parents and brother wouldn’t allow it.
He wiped his tears with his own hand, by himself, no one else.
Outside the door feels like a an unfamiliar world, one that I cannot understand or belong to.
Houses are like separate universes.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
It’s as if we’re all living in different worlds, different stories, different books,
and the author, God, might just be cruel, or bored, or even both,
who wrote mine only so I would drown in the ocean, fall into the abyss.
“Haruka! Get over here right now!”
His brother’s voice thundered through the house, soaked in rage and madness.
“What are you doing there?”
The question was cold. Heavy. It wasn’t really a question.
I answered with silence.
“If you’ve got nothing to do, then help prepare my meal while I’m in the bathroom, okay?”
He didn’t ask. He commanded.
“Yes...” I said, but not because I wanted to. But because I had to.
I gathered the dishes and brought the ingredients. I added a little too much salt, just a little. But he didn’t like that.
“What the fuck is this?”
His voice cracked through the air. The tension shifted. The silence turned sharp.
“Don’t you know how much to use? I already taught you twice!”
He's always like that, aggressive, brutal, unable to control himself. A slave to his own wrath. He does love us... but it's a twisted kind of love, expressed in all the wrong ways.
He wasn’t angry about the salt. He was angry that I existed.
“Oh, I see... The school’s about to reopen, huh? So now you're catching feelings? You don’t want to stay at home anymore?”
Yeah, they always judged me.
They never asked me.
They answered for me.
And then suddenly,
“Big brother… can I go outside and play with my friends?”
It wasn’t really me who asked.
It was something inside me,
something fragile, nameless,
something I didn’t understand.
He turned, eyes already sharp with fury.
“Are you kidding me? How many times do I have to tell you? No always meant never!”
His voice struck like a whip.
My legs trembled. My hands began to shake.
His anger wasn’t just loud, it was suffocating.
“Don’t be so cruel to your younger brother,” my mother said, stepping between us.
“He’s still just a child.”
She tried to shield me.
She always tried.
My mom, she’s a loving, caring woman. Never lazy. She tries. She works hard and never stops, all for us. She always forgave, always spoke with kindness, But over time, especially since the early days of COVID... she has slowly changed, becoming someone I no longer recognize.
“Look, baby,” she turned to me softly, kneeling,
“the world outside right now... it’s not safe.
The country’s gone downhill,
People are stealing cars,
there are kidnappings, gang fights…
Some even chase each other with swords.
And COVID... it’s still not fully gone.”
Her voice tried to hold me together,
stitched with fear, concern, and something like love.
But all I could do
was wipe my tears with shaking fingers,
tears that refused to stop.
My breath came shallow and tight.
“We love you. We care about you,” she said, smiling through the sadness.
“We want you to live happily…
To live your whole life.
That’s why we can’t let you go outside just yet.
But soon… soon you’ll go to school.
You’ll make new friends.
You’ll be free.”
Her words were soft, like a lullaby trying to calm a storm.
And maybe they did, for a moment.
But I was too young to understand anything beyond three words:
Love, care and happily.
Because that’s what I wanted more than anything,
and never received
after I turned nine…
when my eyes finally opened,
but only to darkness.
