~ Ard Barfi. (ch.1 pt.1)
If pain is decreed, then mercy is ceased. If suffering is left with silence to follow, then what remains is a hollow. A hollow that cannot be seen, touched or proven does not exists. That is what I believe.
~ Tiya Bakhlovia (ch2. pt.1)
Snow falls, even when it knows it will melt. Even when it knows the ground will swallow it whole. It falls anyway. Without expectation. Without regret. Maybe kindness is the same.
~ Rict Rex (ch6. pt.1)
Some are born special, and some are not. Some are born with talent, and some will never find it. Some will never use it, like a flame that refuses to burn. And then, there are those who chase the illusion of it. They keep chasing and struggling, until the world reminds them that they were never meant to fly.
~ Ronny Rudd (ch6. pt.1)
A curtain of fog smothered the mountain road, swallowing the headlights as the car pressed forward. Ahead, a pair of tail lights glowed dimly in the haze. It followed.
Inside the cabin, the refined aroma of leather was ever-present, but the pine of air freshener drowned it out.
“Picture this,” Ard said while adjusting his golden-rimmed glasses.
The glare from the dashboard of the car danced upon his lenses.
His sharp features and long midnight hair, slightly visible in the dim light. Clothed in a white suit paired with a jet-black shirt and a deep purple tie.
“It was decided to construct a city upon a floodplain,” he continued. “The location, chosen for its strategic trade routes, an ideal one. A famed architect—an individual of considerable renown was entrusted with its design. His reputation was unmatched. He boldly professed that his designs would leave the threat of flooding almost zero.”
He paused, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “Imagine that city, built wonderfully! Fully chirping with life. But…five years later a catastrophe occurs. Excessive rain results in a flood, even the drainage system chokes. Countless lives are swept away.”
“Now my question for you, Tiya,” he said, glancing towards the woman beside him. “Is—who bears the blame? Is it the government who was inept in its duty to manage the city? The populace, complicit in the clogging of its veins? The architect, whose design proved fallible. Or perhaps the very idea of building a city on a floodplain was flawed from the beginning?”
Tiya exhaled, her breath faintly fogged the cold glass.
Her rectangular spectacles framed her dark and dull eyes. Long and raven hair neatly tied back which complimented her white blazer and the black dress underneath.
“The people.” She responded confidently. “They elected their government. They clogged the drains. Their ignorance and indifference led to it.”
As she answered, Ard's glance met hers.
Given her logical approach to problems, he already knew what she was going to say.
The nature of blame is a reflection of the human need for order in chaos. When disaster strikes, the first instinct is not to understand but to assign guilt.
And to lay the blame is to reveal oneself.
With a smirk he said, “Pragmatic like always.”
Tiya's eyes met his, as she pressed on. “So then, what is the answer?”
“Answer?" Ard replied with amusement. “There is no answer… The decision is up to you, Tiya.”
Then her expressions changed, it was like she had solved a puzzle.
She had played these little mind games of his before. Each time he would come up with philosophical riddles like this but their answers would be predetermined. This time was no different.
No one would dare to blame the lone architect. Some might criticize the citizens like her, a few would blame it on the system and in rare cases, some would question the notion itself. But to place the blame on the architect? That was unthinkable.
The architect was meant to symbolize God.
A Contemplation.
A perfect creator would create only perfection. But if the world is flawed, then either the creator is not perfect—or he is, and the flaw was intentional.
Perhaps the notion of a creator is just as misguided as the idea of a perfect city on a floodplain.
“So, it is like a subtle foray into a metaphor. The city, the architect, the flood… they symbolize the universe, God, and suffering, don’t they?”
Ard smirked, like he was expecting her to say that. “Ah Tiya, you understand me so well. Indeed, it is a metaphor.”
The car drifts, a slow, lazy tilt.
“How unpredictable,” she remarked in a sarcastic tone. “Let me guess—you’re planning to use this in the upcoming symposium, aren’t you?”
“Guilty,” He admitted with a soft chuckle. “Though I might refine it before presenting it.”
“Of course,” Tiya said. “After all, the cover of Vector Vizon doesn’t look good without your pseudo-profound quotes. What was it last time? Something about religion and ideals?” She mentioned the fact in a tone of mockery.
Feigned ignorance. Just so he would say it again. For the hundredth time.
That familiar smirk, steeped in self-assured arrogance. That unwavering confidence in his tone. It was predictable, repetitive.
And yet, far too precious to let go.
Ard smirked. “Religions are systems, while God is an idea. Systems are flawed, but ideals are not.”
A fundamental axiom.
A system decomposes from the time of birth, much like a living corpse. Every religion, law, and government begin as a necessity, a response to anarchy. However, with time, any system becomes its own worst enemy, limited by the very rules that were created to support it.
Ideals, though, exist in an entropy-free Universe. They are timeless, pure, unaffected by the imperfections of execution. But what is the point of an ideal if it can never exist?
To believe in ideals yet live within flawed systems. Irony.
Tiya rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah that bombastic quote. Still, I suppose it’s better than nothing.”
“Call it whatever you want,” he replied with his confident smile. “But the logic stands.”
“Logic—Ha, only if a being like God exists,” Tiya countered.
Sudden gust of wind rattled the car's frame slightly.
“It doesn’t hurt to assume for once,” Ard said.
“Cowardly agnostic,” she jabbed with a smile.
“And you, the insufferable atheist,” Ard replied, fuelling the dissonance.
Tiya laughed gently, “It’s been far too long since we engaged in these little debates.”
“Yeah… It has been,” Ard murmured. “I do miss our college days.”
As they began to reminisce about their past, the car’s interior was filled with nostalgic warmth. But outside the glass mist grew thicker, swallowing the road like a constant tide of winter's breath.
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As it is, tragedy does not announce itself…
The brake lights appeared on the car in front of them, pulsing like an anxious heart.
Beyond it, a massive truck emerged from the opposite direction. Without warning, the truck shook violently. Then, it tilted and collapsed onto its side.
The car ahead swerved. Tires screamed. A desperate turn—then nothing. It vanished over the cliff’s edge.
In that split second, Ard’s eyes, limited by the fog, barely grasped the situation as he maintained his pace in search of the car ahead.
“Oh, my goodness,” Ard gasped, as he tried to maintain his composure.
It was too late.
With a forceful slam of the brakes, he found himself trapped—the massive truck was blocking both lanes like a barrier.
Ard jerked the wheel to the left to avoid the truck. The car responded with a skid.
The front wheels tipped over the edge.
The car spun helplessly down the cliff into the darkness.
It collided with the trunk of a huge tree with a severe impact that crushed it to its core.
The windshield shattered into a million shards while the front collapsed under the great force of the impact. Ard’s head whipped forward as the airbag burst into life, cushioning his fall.
A scarlet rivulet trickled down his forehead. Obscuring features in a grim mosaic of blood.
The view in front of him instantly melted away with the approaching fog of unconsciousness.
…
..
.
“A….Aard”, a quiet but broken cry broke through the silence. It was Tiya.
She had remained silent throughout this nightmare, but she couldn’t let her consciousness slip away like this.
She had to get up, try to call for help, an ambulance or anyone. But her body betrayed her, it was almost like she had no command over her body.
Still dazed, her mind wandered back to the point of impact. The nanosecond before it all came crashing down. She had gripped the seatbelt for her life, her fingers curling into the fabric, her body smooshed against the seat belt so hard it would cut right through her. Even now the belt pressed against her with a throbbing pain.
With all that remained of her will, she forced herself to turn. Just enough to look at him.
“Ard…” She barely whispered.
And then—she saw him.
His face—drenched in blood. A Dripping red face turned against the airbag. Her soul shivered.
Nuhh…Nhh… No…. I have to remain conscious. I cannot... Ard, I haven't even... I haven't yet... I can’t die, I can’t when I just began to...
She extended her hand,?fingers shaking. She needed to touch him, needed to know?he was still there, still breathing—
But her arm never made it.
This drained all of the strength she had in her. The curtains of her sight—her eyelids flicked in a desperate but final struggle against fate. The last thing she saw was his faceless face.
The loss of a face is the loss of an identity. The mind may struggle to hold onto a name, a voice, a memory, but when the face is gone, so too is the certainty of existence.
What is a person without their face?
For the end is not in death but in erasure. To be forgotten is the true death.
. {15 Minutes Earlier, in the car in front of them.}
The fog hung in patches, barely present but still persistent. The car moved with unwavering precision through the colloidal expanse.
Its interior mirrored its owner—chaotic, unkempt. Soda cans, crushed wrappers, cigarette stubs.
The outside carried dust, but the true rot was within, soaked into the very fabric of the seats.
The weak source of light in this scene was the car’s info screen which displayed an ongoing call with someone named ‘Evin’.
The car’s dim screen flickered, casting a pale glow over the driver’s face.
His long hair flowed messily, unrestrained like long vines. Eyes, heavy as elephant’s ears and dressed in a business suit.
“Twenty-four,” he began in a mock-serious tone. “Is a magical age where half your mates are mastering calculus at university, while the other half is mastering the art of office selfies and posting them on LinkedIn like it’s some modelling agency for corporate overachievers. And me? I’m perfecting the art of rejection—composed by the corporate overlords.”
From the speaker, Evin’s voice emerged, tinged with an awkward sympathy. “Don’t feel bad, Ronny. You’ll land a decent job soon, I know you will.”
Ronny replied in pretend serious tone. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry for opening up emotionally—that wasn’t very sigma of me.”
“Keep this humour up, and you’ll lose the next job too,” Evin teased, though a genuine concern underpinned his words.
Ronny again in the pretend serious tone. “A paycheck fades, but the soul stays unpaid if it’s silenced. Besides, my humour is the only thing getting up at the moment.”
He sneered at his own words, especially focusing on the last part ‘getting up’. Irony. Humour was the final shield of the broken. When a man was drowning in failure, he did not thrash about—he laughed.
The voice on the call softened slightly. “Seriously though, what happened with that job? I thought that was a done deal. Even Brian made it—no offense, but you know who you are. What’s going on, man? Have you still not moved on from Emily? Do you still miss her that much?”
Ronny exhaled slowly, the playful timbre in his voice giving way to a weight he could no longer disguise. “Miss her? Nahhh. I’ve stopped thinking about her for a while now.” Ronny exhaled while leaning back. “It’s just the time I spent with her. How careless I became and now…”
Facts. It was never about others, the enemy was within.
Own weakness, own excuses, own hesitation. And the worst was its realisation, its awareness.
If ignorance was bliss, then self-awareness was suffering.
After a pause.
“You ever watch your favourite team play, Evin? One of those matches where they’re just one step away from turning things around, but there’s this one player—just one—who keeps screwing everything up? Missing passes, fumbling shots, making you want to throw your remote at the screen?”
“Yeah?” Evin responded cautiously, sensing where this was going.
“That player? That’s me.” Ronny let out a hollow laugh. “And the fan raging at the screen, cursing, screaming for him to get his shit together? That’s my own inner conscience.”
Evin stayed silent.
“It’s not about some girl, man. It’s about watching myself fail, over and over, knowing I should be better. Could be better. But I’m not. And I don’t even have a coach to bench me. Just stuck in the game, screwing up, with no one to blame but myself.”
He sighed. “So no, I don’t miss her. I just hate the guy I’ve beco—”
“Hey, sorry to cut you off,” Evin interrupted him abruptly. “My girlfriend's calling—can I ring you later?”
After a pause, Ronny managed a dry smile. “Sure, talk later.” The call ended with a beep till the time he had finished speaking.
Silence remained.
Ronny stared at the screen, expression unreadable.
It was always like this. A man could pour his soul into another, expose his wounds, share his burdens—but in the end, he stood alone. The moment would always end, leaving nothing behind but emptiness.
People have their own lives, their own priorities and distractions. To expect another to pause their lives for yours is the height of foolishness.
What did I even expect? It’s not like anyone is going to understand me anyways……
He shook his head to drive off his overthinking. Useless to say the least, overthinking was a habit he couldn’t overcome.
He forced his focus back to the road.
The fog thickened, growing denser every passing second. Visibility shrank to nothingness.
Then—a pair of headlights appeared from the turn in the opposite lane. But something was wrong. It shook unnaturally.
A shift. A snap. Fate did not hesitate.
The truck keeled over. Its metal frame screeched. Its cargo shifted as it collapsed sideways.
Ronny panicked as his instincts kicked in. He wrenched the wheel, turned hard—too hard. The cliffside rushed toward him. His heart clenched.
Then, the abyss.
The car plunged down.
It tumbled, flipping endlessly, a helpless plaything of fate. Time fractured. A moment stretched into eternity, then shattered upon impact.
Metal crunched. Glass shattered. Flesh broke.
Ronny lay there, pain flaring like wildfire, his senses drowning in a haze of blood and shock. His breath was irregular, his mind absent. His body screamed, but when he tried to move—agony.
His arm.
He forced his eyes downward. He froze.
His right arm was gone. Sliced in half. A sharp edge of metal glistened wet with blood. The limb lay several feet away, unrecognizable.
Adrenaline surged. His mind sharpened, but no amount of it could mask the reality of his ruin.
Then—visions. A trick of blood loss? No. A cruel jest of memory.
Is that…Is that me?
A scene unfolded, as vivid and as sharp as reality. He saw a younger self, happy and carefree, clutching medals and trophies. Spending his time with his family, every moment of his life was filled with joy.
I was so happy back then… wasn’t I?
The bittersweet recollection was quickly swallowed by a crushing isolation. Visions of neglected calls and abandoned faces replaced the cherished memories.
It hit him, like a rusty dagger straight to heart.
Memories are a cruel kindness. They show you what was, what could have been, what was squandered.
Why did I do this? ... Just pick up the damm call, you idiot!
He had ignored their calls, their voices, their love—all for the sake of some grand ambition, a big dream of achieving some greatness.
But why? He had wanted to make them proud, had he not? Wasn’t it their encouragement, their belief in him, that had driven him forward?
What is success, if earned at the cost of those who cared? What is ambition, if it leaves a man standing alone?
I thought there’d be time… Time to go back to them, to be with them. I’d tell myself later. Later, after I’ve made something of myself. But now…
A pain filled with regret tore through him.
Sharper than any pain his broken body endured.
It’s too late now……
He had lost too much, strayed too far. There was no turning back. No redemption. No second chances.
As darkness covered his coffin his thoughts slowly faded away into silence. He sensed his pulse slowing as he questioned to himself, Is this how my story ends? Is this how I’m gonna die? At least it’s not a suicide.
The world which seemed indifferent and unyielding to his silent cries, swallowed him without any hesitation.
His struggle slowly faded away.