To wake up or not to wake up… does it even matter?
I'm just a pathetic slave, too weak to leave his own room—not because anything's stopping me, but because I'm a coward haunted by my past in every moment, in every breath.
But really, despite all this, I can't do anything except stay trapped in this dust-choked room.
The stench of mold sticks to my throat, and dust covers everything until even the air tastes like rust.
The narrow room has only a mattress on the floor and a hole in the corner they call a bathroom.
Other than that, nothing but walls that dry my heart and a silence that strangles me slowly.
I feel the dust weigh on my body with every movement, clinging to my bare skin, forming a layer like a second hide.
Sometimes I look at my fists just to see the lines buried under ash.
The smell of the walls crawls into my nose until I almost vomit.
I'm surprised I haven't gone insane yet… or maybe I already have, and I just don't know it.
Is it lunchtime? Breakfast? I can't tell anymore. The hours, the days—all melted away in this place.
All I do is wait.
"Footsteps"… dragging dust behind them.
Soft, but enough to make my heart tremble.
That woman is coming again.
Maybe she brought soup as usual… that sticky broth that's more like salty water than food.
Hehehe… who am I kidding? Chicken and meat left me a long time ago.
I don't even know who she is, but she doesn't seem to like the soup much either.
I can't remember the last time I ate anything else.
He pressed his ear against the cold wall, its hardness making his skin crawl.
"Hmm… looks like she's gone already!"
He cracked the door open, slid out his frail, trembling hand, and pulled the bowl in while the old woman's teary eyes watched him.
She was at the end of the hallway, brown hair clinging to her wrinkled face, eyes shining as if clutching a last hope she refused to let go of.
She stared at his hand like it was the last proof that life still meant something.
That old woman was the boy's grandmother…
The woman who sacrificed everything for him.
She had once been beautiful—men in the neighborhood competed for her—but that beauty withered when she chose her grandson over the love of her life.
It had been six years since I last saw her face; even her features were fading from memory like a dream.
She left for her room, and the boy sat on the floor eating the soup that no longer tasted like anything.
Each spoonful made a faint sound…
He'd get up only to sit again, sleep and wake in the same cycle… yet never actually sleep in the end.
The pillow was hard, smelling of sweat and dampness, and the sheet made it worse.
Many sleepless nights had passed, but he got used to it, just like he got used to hunger and loneliness.
For hours he lay on the bed, staring at the cracked gray ceiling, his chest groaning with every breath.
His frail body, pale skin, and sunken eyes… for six years, he had lived like an unburied corpse.
And every moment he whispered, "I wish I could just die alrea—"
A scream shook the room. The walls quaked, dust fell from the ceiling like rain.
He jumped up, heart pounding violently as the air grew heavier by the second.
The wall split open before him, and from it emerged a towering being dragging a scythe glowing with strange light.
It wore a black suit, its face distorted like a forbidden vision, and its black hair tied back in a ponytail.
The boy fell to his knees, tears pouring uncontrollably. He laughed and cried at once, his voice cracking.
"Hehehehe… kahahaha!!! Finally?! My wish… it came true???"
He pointed to his neck with a trembling finger:
"Here… come on, do it!"
Before he could finish the scream, his head rolled.
He heard the sound of his neck snapping, the smell of blood mixing with the dust.
His eyes watched the figure as it leaned down slowly, whispering something into his ear before vanishing as suddenly as it appeared.
Time froze.
Then, after hours—or maybe days—blood began to gather on the floor, thin threads rising into the air, weaving body and head together with glowing red strands.
Within minutes, the dead was alive again.
He breathed. Trembled. Opened his eyes, waking from a deep slumber that lasted four days.
But the air… felt unnervingly clean.
Something was wrong.
After six years of isolation, his door was open.
He stood still for a few seconds, unsure what to do, then slammed it shut.
"Heh… damn daydreams."
In that moment, I sat on the floor, gasping. Silent tears streamed down my face.
That was when I realized… death doesn't come that easily.
I made sure the door was locked tight and went back to bed, staring at the ceiling again.
"Honestly? Maybe I am dead… just in a slightly larger grave."
I raised my hand, watched it tremble, then smiled.
"At least I can still move it. Guess it's a special perk for premium corpses."
My stomach growled loudly.
I smiled despite myself—but then I noticed the light under the door fading.
I opened it cautiously, reached out… no bowl today.
The air was still, dust floating through faint light.
She'd never been late before. Not once.
He sat on the floor, listening to his own breathing—each exhale like a groan.
Hunger tore through his insides slowly…
until the line separating man from beast began to blur.
But he'd already decided.
"I'll never leave this place… I'll stay until death comes to me."
Yet after hours of silence, he found himself crawling toward the door.
His legs scraped against the cold floor, every inch a struggle through hell.
"Damn this cursed tomb!"
But he kept going. Because this time, he'd decided to leave…
and he wouldn't come back.
When he reached the door, he gripped the handle with a trembling hand.
"What keeps me alive…? Water?"
He opened the door slowly, light spilling in.
"No… what keeps me alive is that I just haven't died yet."
The light burned his eyes. He stepped out slowly, each movement heavier than the last.
He turned back, gazing at the room that had been his prison—the womb that had remade him.
A weak smile crossed his face, and he kept walking.
He saw a neat, well-kept room, free of dust, with a shining, spacious bathroom like something out of a dream.
He chuckled softly, the sound halfway between laughter and tears.
"If I were excrement, this is exactly where I'd want to be flushed."
He kept walking… until he saw the body of an old woman lying before the door.
The air was still. The smell of dried blood mingled with decay.
And in that moment of terror and confusion…
from the cracks of her rotting body, glowing white butterflies fluttered out.
With every flap, the darkness receded a little… then a burst of blinding light filled the world.
He raised his hands to cover his face as the light consumed him. Then—darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, he was transparent.
His body floated, the faintest breeze lifting him from the ground.
"Ugh… I really hope this is just a hallucination."
He looked around—the corpse was gone. No blood, no smell. Only silence.
Then he heard the kitchen door creak open slowly.
The old woman—dead only moments ago—walked out, moving sluggishly, her features weary and her eyes pale.
She passed through him like mist, sending shivers through every inch of his body.
She stopped before the old wooden door, staring sadly at the cold bowl of soup.
"It's been two days already…"
she whispered, trembling, tears gathering in her eyes, her hands gripping the handle like she was clinging to life itself.
"I must… I have to do it!!"
She flung the door open.
There lay her grandson, asleep on the floor, face calm, breathing steady, drool on his lips…
In that moment, she wanted to run to him, to hold him tight—but her body betrayed her.
Her legs gave out, and she collapsed to the ground.
Still, she crawled toward him, lifted his head into her lap, and stroked his hair as she wept.
"I'm… I'm your grandmother. Don't you remember me?"
She held him close, whispering with a tear-soaked smile:
"You know… I'd rather die now, with you in my arms."
"But believe me… however I die, I'm sure it will be peaceful!"
She closed her eyes and lay beside him, finally at peace.
But the sound of the doorbell woke her after a long while.
She opened her eyes, kissed her grandson, reassured herself that he was still alive—still sleeping deeply.
She rose slowly, picked up the bowl of soup, and went to the kitchen.
"Maybe I should make him something different next time?"
"He always asked me for soup when he was little… but he's grown now!"
she murmured with a faint smile.
The bell rang again.
"All right, I'm coming!"
She walked toward the door, slow and tired, but suddenly remembered—she'd left her grandson's door open.
"Oh… I forgot…!"
A black dagger pierced her stomach.
She gasped and fell, blood pouring out hot and fast.
She lifted her head with effort, looking toward the room.
"My grandson… Noctis…!"
She coughed blood, tears filling her eyes.
"I knew… it would be a peaceful death…"
"Ah…! Ghhhk…!!"
Each cough ripped through her body in agony.
"I told you already…!!"
And on her face remained nothing but a beautiful smile and endless tears…
The man grabbed her hair and drove the dagger into her forehead with perfect precision.
Her smile froze, and silence returned once more.
The boy watched helplessly, his transparent body unable to shed tears.
"You… you're the one!!"
"You're the one who cut off my head!!"
The man looked at him and smiled coldly, his voice calm:
"So, Mr. Noctis…" he gestured toward the corpse,
"Isn't this a beautiful sight?"
Their eyes locked, sharp and unwavering, time itself holding its breath.
Then in an instant, a blinding light engulfed everything, as if the world refused to let darkness exist beside it.
The light devoured all.
Sound vanished.
Only white remained.
When the glow finally faded…
Noctis awoke suddenly before the rotting corpse of his grandmother.
The stench filled his nose; flies buzzed around her.
And with a weary voice, Noctis muttered:
"Well… I'd bet this isn't a hallucination."