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Chapter 4 - Chapter 4: Transparent

Chapter 4: Transparent

Shin had begun to accept his solitude—not as a five-year-old child would, through tears or by complaining to a parent or a teacher. No, he had accepted it as one accepts a pet or a new friend. He didn't reject it in the slightest; after all, that would have been pointless, and he knew it.

If one tried to reject loneliness, it would cling to them like a parasite, a leech—an undesirable and detestable creature one cannot rid themselves of, its closeness and fear intertwined with the degree of one's connection to it. If one did not accept it, it would consume them. Shin, however, understood this truth: it was better to have loneliness as a friend than as an enemy.

He reflected on this during the first hour of the lunch break. Having no one to talk or debate with, he decided to get up from where he sat beneath the protective shade of the tree. The moment he stepped into the sunlight, no one noticed him—not even himself. Yet within the shadow of that same tree, a faint movement could be seen. Not one caused by the shifting light, but a subtle, nearly invisible ripple—imperceptible to anyone present. Even if an adult had seen it, reason would have quickly overridden perception, inventing a logical explanation for what the eyes had caught for an instant.

That faint tremor within the shadow was, therefore, invisible to humankind.

Shin began walking in slow circles around the schoolyard, thinking about matters far more logical than those that had occupied his mind under the tree. After about twenty laps, the bell rang, announcing the end of the lunch break and the return to class. As soon as he heard it, he calmly walked back to his classroom. Once seated, he waited patiently for his classmates to return and for the teacher to arrive.

When the teacher entered, Shin glanced around him. All the students had come back, yet not a single one sat beside him. He turned his gaze to the board and listened. After five minutes, what she was saying failed to capture his interest—she wasn't teaching yet, only explaining how the year would be organized. But Shin didn't care. He only wanted to learn.

So he listened absentmindedly, eyes fixed on the blackboard, pretending to pay attention while his thoughts wandered. His mind drifted into a fog—he became transparent to himself. To the others, he was still there, visible, a quiet child seated in his place. But to himself, he felt invisible, hollow. It was as though his consciousness had separated from his body. He no longer felt it. He felt nothing. Nothing but emptiness.

That realization brought him back abruptly to his physical body. Suddenly, he could feel everything—from the surface of his skin down to the smallest fibers of muscle, even those whose names he didn't know. He felt his tendons, his bones, his organs—every single part of his being. The most terrifying sensation was that he could even feel his nerves. The chill that coursed down his spine wasn't caused by fear, but by the signals transmitted through those very nerves.

Shin could perceive them all. But for a five-year-old child, even one gifted with remarkable intelligence and composure, receiving that flood of sensory information was unbearable. In truth, it would have overwhelmed anyone, regardless of age or mental strength.

A sharp pain split his head open from within—indescribable, unendurable. The fact that no scream escaped his mouth was a miracle. The fact that he didn't collapse entirely was another. Shin didn't realize the sudden surge of sensory data overtaking him; he only felt the beginning of it, and that was fortunate. His brain instinctively shut down the flow of incoming signals. But the initial surge had already harmed him—not physically, but psychologically. The damage was of a different nature, yet equal in severity to a wound of flesh.

Within five seconds, Shin began to hyperventilate. Only then did the teacher notice him—after hours of complete indifference. She told him to go to the nurse's office alone, a reckless order for a child clearly unwell. But Shin's brain wasn't listening anymore; it was too busy trying to survive.

His body moved on its own, driven by something other than conscious thought, walking toward the infirmary he had visited earlier that day. His movements were automatic, devoid of will.

His vision flickered—black, white, mist. He saw nothing, yet somehow avoided bumping into tables or chairs. Step by step, he advanced toward the door. Upon reaching it, he pressed down the handle and pushed it open.

In the hallway, his sight improved slightly. The world was still blurred, but shapes began to emerge. As he staggered forward, his muscles weakened, his strength draining from the upper half of his body. He began to sway uncontrollably, his balance faltering, his center of gravity shifting erratically.

He leaned too far to his right once and stumbled, the metallic clang of lockers breaking the silence. He hadn't fallen—he was using them as support. Slowly, he dragged himself along, one trembling hand brushing the cold metal at his side. Each step produced a soft, echoing sound—a rhythm of survival and despair.

Every step carried him further toward nothingness. Shin wasn't aware he was still walking. His mind was locked within a protective fog, shielding him from the chaos inside his body.

Then suddenly—a voice.

It pierced through the haze like sunlight through clouds. He couldn't make out the words, but their tone scattered the fog within his mind. His consciousness snapped back. He could see again, he could feel again—his body, his surroundings, everything.

He raised his head toward the source of the voice and then—

Nothing.

Darkness.

The void swallowed him whole.

His body collapsed silently onto the cold floor of the corridor. No one noticed. The sound was too soft, too faint—like the whisper of a shadow fading away.

In that instant, Shin ceased to exist to the world around him. He had truly become what he felt inside all along: transparent.

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