So, what is loneliness, really?
A strange and complex feeling, yet also so easy to grasp. You see the world differently than those who are happy, sick, or even those who are always angry at life. To you, the world seems different: duller, less beautiful than yesterday, and you don't even know why. Still, you feel that knot tightening in your chest without end.
Everyone repeats the same advice: "Go outside!" or "Meet people, it will do you good!" But when you truly feel alone, the only one who can save you is yourself—not others. I know you don't believe me, but unfortunately, this truth stands.
Picture yourself in a lake. Around the shores, there is nature, trails, everything to make it a pleasant place. But this lake has one unique trait: it isn't deep. The water rises only to a man's chest—about five feet—so one could say it's harmless to anyone.
Now, imagine yourself in the middle of that lake. The water only reaches your waist, yet you are unable to move. The more you struggle, the more you sink into this shallow water, which becomes for you an endless, infinite ocean. Runners and bystanders on the shore see you and tell you to come back to dry land, but you're stuck. For them, it's simple. For you, it's a death sentence.
You then have two choices:
The first, the easiest for doctors, family, and friends, is to swim back toward them, fearless of falling, for they will catch you. But this solution has its limits: often, after being saved, the condemned return and dive back in… never to emerge again.
The second choice is far more complex and psychological: dive into that endless abyss. Yes, I know—by doing so, there's only a fifty-fifty chance of returning. Yet this reality reveals just how alone we truly are in a world where no one understands us.
Let me guide you into this experience. Let yourself drift with the current of this lake. We dive into its dark waters. At first, it's pitch black, but you can still glimpse sunlight, small fish, or a few underwater plants. But this isn't our final destination. We must dive deeper, far into our brain and spirit, until we reach a destination both unexpected and fantastic, yet real all the same.
Suddenly, you feel as if you're falling. Not like falling off a building, but more like plunging into water. You open your eyes. For this example, let me describe mine so you can picture it: a blinding light pierces my barely opened eyes. My black pupils blend into a green iris flecked with light and dark brown, giving the impression of yellow. The veins stand out. The situation is so strange that we can't comprehend what's happening.
You are in the middle of nothing. Yet if you turn your head to the sky—yes, there is one here—you can almost see waves, and on a distant side, a sun too far to see, yet close enough to prove it exists. And there you float, in this infinite space. No sound. You can almost hear your own breath, even your heartbeat.
Still don't understand? Silence is the world. As simple as saying fire burns. Life, in a way, is the very embodiment of loneliness and sorrow…
But we must leave this place, for the sun grows too near. Though it may be billions of kilometers away, it still manages to burn my right arm. Here, the sun is like the end, for nothing lives except the spirit of our beliefs. I've seen so many things here. Why is this sun azure blue, yet so dark? Why am I even dwelling on this?
If you've followed me, we rise back to the surface, for the goal isn't to burn away. No, not at all…
I snap out of my thoughts. My reflection was important today—but why, really? I'm only watching children trick and manipulate one another…
In the end, it isn't depression I denounce. Maybe… or maybe I should just go do this damn job.
A man approaches me. Not very tall, but wearing a peculiar mask—one given to separate groups. It bore a cross and another incomprehensible symbol. He must belong to one of those factions.
He comes up and says:
— Doctor Mathieu! Doctor Dupont would like to speak with you!
At his words, my eyes instantly lowered. My reaction surprised him a little; I could see it in his slight nod.
I quickly replied:
— Lead the way, I'll follow you closely!
I wonder what he wants from me…
---
I was on the path toward the chapel. The trail stretched ahead, sprinkled with pebbles and patches of grass, leading toward the small chapel. I walked briskly. The bushes were neatly trimmed, making the place quiet and peaceful, almost like a world apart, forbidden to mortals.
Perhaps that's why, twenty or thirty meters off to the left of the chapel, a group of about ten people were chatting among themselves. They paid me no attention. In fact, no one ever notices me in this world… I wonder if even God knows I exist.
I stood before the chapel doors. They were tall, framed in marble, adorned with stone carvings around the heavy oak panels. On the left side of the door hung a small mirror, almost invisible, yet its purpose clear: to force us to confront who we truly are.
Gazing into that mirror, I saw my reflection: me, Pierre, the man always forgotten. But today would be different, for surely, someone would need me.
I pushed the door open and slipped inside, careful that no one saw me cross the threshold. I closed it immediately behind me. Had anyone witnessed it, they would have seen a stranger enter this orphanage… like Death itself, come to claim its next victim.
---
Yvonne walked briskly. She stood before the orphanage, near a smaller, quieter park. Perhaps one or two groups lingered there, no more than twenty people, all searching for a group. She scanned each one, hardly noticing her guest trailing behind.
It was clear she was looking for someone in particular. But neither her guest nor the others who watched them knew who. She took a path leading to a lakeside resting spot. From afar, she saw a figure—indistinct, neither clearly boy nor girl.
As she descended toward the figure, her guest seized her wrist, stopping her. She turned, anger sharp in her voice, and snapped:
— Let me go, Maxime! Why are you stopping me? Release me, you're starting to hurt me!
She struggled to break free, scratching at his wrists, but it was useless. Suddenly, Maxime raised the arm that held her wrist and shoved her violently to the ground. Then, with a calm, almost icy voice, softened by a smile, he said:
— You seem very suspicious to me, even stranger and more mysterious than Pierre. You're searching for someone like a madwoman, as if it's your only concern.
From the ground, she shot back irritably:
— You're insane, ally! He told us to find members for our group. I'm simply looking for a friend to join us.
— No, you're hiding behind a mask, Maxime replied. I want to know your true intentions. Like Pierre, you're keeping something important—perhaps even crucial—hidden.
She rose and marched toward him, firm and determined. Standing before him, she said:
— It's you who's been strange from the start. You accuse everyone of hiding something, yet you seem to know more than all of us combined. And even if Pierre doesn't tell us everything, so what? Everyone has truths they hide.
Maxime clapped, wearing a smile both odd and unsettling. After a few moments, he stopped, looked at her, and said:
— Well said! Truly well said! I admit, I struggle with people too intelligent, like Pierre or you. I prefer Charlie—simpler, more naïve, easier to believe.
— But is it really so bad to think we might be manipulating you? Yvonne continued. Look at us: all of us targets are outcasts of this orphanage.
— Just like him, Maxime answered. I remember him too—always alone. I believe he's manipulating us all. As for me, I don't trust him. Behind his eyes, I see nothing but darkness. That man is more wolf than anything else.
Yvonne was shaken by his words. He wasn't wrong: behind Pierre's eyes, there was indeed nothing but darkness. Yet she also knew his heart was pure, even if she remained cautious. But now, she realized she must also be wary of another… perhaps one far more dangerous.
Their argument was cut short by approaching footsteps. A tall, graceful woman of mixed heritage appeared, about six feet tall. Her curly black hair framed delicate features, her lips fine and lightly pink. Small beauty marks dotted her calm face, and her eyes were striking: her right eye, violet tinged with azure, seemed precious, almost cursed. Sadly, her other eye was blind. Yet she radiated a presence that could not be ignored.
When Yvonne saw her, she exclaimed joyfully:
— At last, Azaka!!!
She ran to embrace her and whispered gently:
— I found a group that wants you!
Maxime and Azaka locked eyes in silence. Then Azaka smiled and said…
---
Inside the chapel, a woman prayed. She was small, blond locks spilling from beneath her nun's habit. I walked toward her; the path was short. The pews stood empty—she knelt instead in the center, as if pouring every ounce of strength into begging not to die. I sat on a bench before her and declared, clear and firm:
— Sister, I have come for you!
The chapel fell into heavy silence. The silence of God in times of hardship. Yet it was quickly broken by her reply:
— Do not call me that, dear. I am no sister, just Morganne. Now, what brings you here?
— I come to offer you a bargain, Sister Morganne. I see no one comes for you. It would be a shame to leave you alone.
At my words, she rose with startling speed and retorted:
— Not interested! And you—what is your name, you who dare propose such a pact?
She was about five-foot-five, but her temper made her seem taller. Beautiful, with makeup painting her face—ironic, for a nun. Brown eyes, but her body was what she emphasized most.
— My name… well, I have many names. Too many, really. But if I were to give you one, it would be useless to you. I am… No One.
Morganne lowered her head, then burst into unsettling laughter.
— Ahahahah!
— What do you find so funny? I asked coldly. It's the truth. If you seek refuge in laughter, that is your choice. But I would not laugh in your place.
She stopped, turned to the Christ statue, then back to me:
— You don't frighten me. The Lord watches over me. Perhaps you could help, but you don't seem like a savior. You seem more like a madman.
As she turned back to the statue, she did not notice the monster behind her. But when she faced me again, terror filled her eyes. My body was shrouded in darkness—only my black shorts and legs visible. My arms lengthened, threatening. I stepped into the light, but the darkness clung to me. Slowly, I approached, my voice warped as I spoke:
— Do you think the Lord will save you if I kill you now? I say He will do nothing. Do you know why? Because God has left, and you cling to a dream.
Fear gripped Morganne's heart. She stumbled backward, fell, kept crawling as I advanced. Cornered against a pillar, she stammered:
— Y-you lie! God is always here! Why spout such nonsense to a servant of the Lord?!
I leaned over her, one hand braced on the wall, the other on her habit's button. Though hidden by shadows, she knew my gaze was upon her as I whispered coldly:
— You know no one would hear if I attacked you now. Religion cages us in golden bars to blind us. Today, I've come to free you. Join me—I have a plan for everyone.
As she raised her head, the darkness lifted. She saw me again as I had entered. I offered my hand, pulled her up, and as I drew her close, I said:
— Now, you will listen to what I propose. Understood?
— Yes… I understand.
— Then here it is…
---
I followed the guard, one of Doctor Dupont's men. We climbed staircase after staircase, until we reached the roof of the orphanage's cafeteria, split between two buildings. Still we rose higher, as if ascending deeper into the sky—or sinking into the earth—until one day we would surely fall from too great a height.
At the top, the guard opened the door, then shut it behind me. In the distance, I saw Doctor Dupont speaking with two colleagues. At my arrival, they turned. Dupont called out:
— Come, Doctor Mathieu, let me introduce you to your future colleagues!
As I advanced, unease crept in. I didn't belong here. But there was no turning back—the door was surely locked. At last, I reached them. Dupont, seeing my surprise, made the introductions:
— Here is my dear friend, the Professor. He has worked here for forty years. And second, Father Daemon Caelestis. He has served here since the age of eighteen. I hope you'll welcome us not only as colleagues, but as friends.
The two unsettled me. The Professor? Surely a pseudonym to hide his true identity. Old, wrinkled, seventy-five at least, hair white-gray. His yellowed, blackened teeth revealed when he spoke. Barely five-foot-three, eyes dead, as if he had seen horrors beyond comprehension.
Father Daemon Caelestis seemed much younger, maybe in his thirties. Light chestnut hair, bright hazel eyes, calm—too calm, distant. His skin was pale, almost luminous, dressed in black and white priest's robes with a golden cross at his chest. But his gaze, like the Professor's, measured me carefully.
I wondered if things would truly go well. Still, I replied politely:
— Thank you for the introductions. Allow me to introduce myself in turn.
I drew a breath.
— I am Doctor Mathieu. Pleased to meet you.
The Professor gave a strange smile, while Father Daemon Caelestis turned away, annoyed. Doctor Dupont continued:
— Five minutes remain before the project resumes. Let's head to the cafeteria registry to observe the groups—and especially the final group.
At those words, they all moved. The door opened once more. I wondered what awaited us, what this boy Pierre was preparing, and why he was gathering children as lost as himself.
End of this episode.
Thank you for reading.