I raised my gaze to his face, marked by a deep frown and tight lips. He was an officer in a blue suit.
—Let me pass, please! —my broken voice cried out.
—Stop. No one can pass. It's very dangerous.
His tone was cold, firm, like a wall that would not yield.
Each of his words was a weight that crushed what little hope I had left.
—What's happening?
—A villain... a strange one. He's in that alley.
His words were a dry blow to the chest. That alley... that's where Rinn's tears were heading. She must be there.
—Please... my sister is out there! I need to get in.
The officer pressed his lips. His face was a mask of silent conflict. He hesitated for a moment, as if fighting against an impulse stronger than reason. But determination was written in his eyes.
—I'm sorry, son. We can't risk it.
He tightened the leather of his gloves... and this time, he no longer held me back. He pushed me with such force that my body couldn't resist: I fell to the ground.
—Trust us. Ergos will handle it. For now, go back home... and lock the door well.
My fists closed until they hurt, as if in that fall an entire world was breaking.
—Tomorrow... everything will be fine —I whispered. But the words sank in a sea of lies.
I turned around, dragging my feet. Each step felt wet, unreal. A raw weakness inhabited me, without form or name.
I entered the building as if crossing a plant membrane. The environment no longer felt familiar, but foreign.
I moved like a specter in a world that didn't recognize me. I turned to the sides, just out of habit.
Did the receptionist speak? I don't know. The words crashed against a wall of emptiness. I couldn't hear them. I didn't want to.
I climbed the stairs without changing my expression. There was nothing left to protect. Just a void that expanded in my chest, cold and dark.
The door closed behind me with a dry thud. Exhaustion collapsed me. I let myself fall against the wood, cold and indifferent.
—Please, Rinn... come back —my voice broke, a fragile thread in the darkness—. Forgive me...
The silence of the apartment became a tangible presence. Thick. Almost solid.
Each shadow seemed to look at me. Invisible eyes. Judging me.
And then I understood: that gaze was mine, multiplied. A condemnation that pierced my bones.
Mian's words returned, stuck like daggers:
—Stop lying to yourself, Marl. —Sorry...
—Are you going to continue with your act? —Sorry...
—At some point you'll have to tell her. How will you do it, Marl? —I'm sorry!
—I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'M SORRY!
And then, without anyone touching it, the cake began to slowly slide off the table. As if the weight of absence pushed it toward an immoral fate.
The impact as it hit the floor was a dull echo. A hollow sigh that filled the room with an even denser silence.
The strawberries rolled across the cold tiles, leaving behind a sweet, red trail... like contained blood.
The chocolate, dark and melted, cried silently. It slid in viscous rivers, intertwined with the broken cream, spread like an echo that bled out.
I slid my gaze along that sweet and broken line. And then I saw it: a small, timid sheet, peeking out from under the bed. Almost invisible. Lost in its abandonment.
I knelt clumsily. The body stretching, as if that gesture could catch a fragment of the chaos that was devouring me.
I held it with trembling hands. The paper, wrinkled and fragile, weighed more than it should. Stains of chocolate and dried tears covered its surface, like broken crystals adhered to pain.
I unfolded it.
And there it was.
A drawing. One of those that Rinn made in silence, with that love that asked for nothing in return.
Our family.
Awkward figures holding hands, outlined with uncertain but determined strokes. We all smiled under a yellow and disproportionate sun, as if the sky itself surrendered to her innocence.
The paper trembled between my fingers. And I... with it.
But my figure—the pink-haired boy in the center—had been crossed out with mute rage. A black smudge, brutal, crossed my face. A thick and trembling line separated me from the rest. It cut the hand that once held them. It wasn't a stroke. It was a sentence.
I stayed there, still. With the sheet beating like a poorly closed wound.
Maybe it was the drawing. Or maybe it was my chest.
The void grew. Voracious. Hungry. And for the first time... I didn't know if what I felt was sadness. Or punishment.
Loneliness was no longer silence. It was echo.
And it always returned to the same point: me.
Each breath, a mute confession.
Each heartbeat, a guilt with no hiding place.
I pressed the drawing against my chest with closed eyes, as if clinging to that childish stroke could erase the weight of so many broken decisions.
The sweet aroma of the cake still floated in the air, but it no longer sweetened anything. It only aggravated the nausea in the soul.
That's how the night ended:
On my knees.
Like a believer without faith.
Holding a crumpled paper...
and a mutilated hope.
One that silently asked,
that someday Rinn could draw me again.
Without crossings out. Without shadows.
I closed my eyes.
And darkness embraced me with cold hands, as if it too wanted to remind me that no one was left at home.