In his dream, he saw a faint light in the distance of the endless void that engulfed him. It felt cold instead of warm, fresh instead of stale. He could sense its presence, but not touch it—floating in the deep darkness with only that small beacon to guide him.
As he followed the light, fragments of memories surfaced—moments spent laughing and playing with his sister. They'd played games like tic-tac-toe, run through fields together, and spent hours at the playground—especially on the slides, which were their favorite. She was the only reason he'd felt he had a purpose in life, unlike his parents, who treated him as if he were worthless, casting him aside like a stray cat. If they found out about his sister's death, he feared he'd barely survive it—she had always been their favorite, while he, the eldest, had given just as much to the family as his mother had.
Their home was no place for games—it felt more like a rigid workplace than a safe, comforting space. For him, it was nothing short of hell: he'd be shouted at, forced to do endless chores, and slapped across the face again and again, with no reprieve. Still, he kept himself in check and composed, he couldn't let the torment drive him to lash out, because they were his family. As the eldest son, he was expected to do everything without complaint.
If his father gave an order, he obeyed at once. If his mother needed help, he rushed to assist her. If his sister came to him for guidance, he dropped everything to teach her. In that one household, he learned to be obedient, stay level-headed, and master control over his emotions.
Because of all that—he learned when to feel happy, sad, modest, or angry in any given situation. His parents weren't exactly perfect, but they were certainly the best at teaching him how to mature quickly and be cooperative.
Then another vision surfaced—the worst times he could imagine. In them, his parents showed up in the harshest ways possible, and he became a tragic victim of every circumstance, tossed around like a small, helpless puppy on the verge of death. Yet he endured all of it just so his little sister could graduate from elementary school.
And then came another vision—the car crash. That earlier tragedy he'd survived was enough to make him break down, tears streaming as he cried uncontrollably.
Eventually, he was given hope—a silent reminder that nothing is truly left behind in this cruel world. But how could he be seen as a shameless bastard when he'd done everything he thought was right, only to find it all mistaken as wrong? Truly, this world is cruel.
"Follow me."
A small, quiet voice called out to him. Before him stood what seemed a divine being—like a nephilim in comparison to his own broken state.
She was a woman: kind-hearted, elegant, and striking to behold. He followed her, all too aware of the tangled thoughts and emotions weighing on him. Suddenly, she paused, and he stumbled to a halt.
"Why did you stop?" he asked.
The nephilim turned slowly, her face hidden from view. For if even one glimpse of her countenance touched his eyes, it could either trap him in an eternity of unchanging memories—or worse, twist him into a psychopath whose mind bent memories to its own will. Her voice, when she spoke, was gentle as a whisper.
"I shall grant you two wishes—but in exchange, your memories will be wiped clean. You may take all the time you need to decide, even until the end of your days. I will wait for your choice."
He paused to consider, then replied.
"I'll think about it."
The nephilim smiled warmly. "Understandable. Call for me in your sleep whenever you are ready."
With that, she vanished into the shadows like smoke into an abyss.
He jolted awake in his hospital bed, his eyes darting to the calendar on the wall—two months had passed. How could so much time slip away in what felt like just one dream? Without hesitation, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, finding himself fully recovered. As he made his way out of the room, he realized something odd: he hadn't seen a single nurse who should have been tending to him. Still, he pushed the thought aside—there were far more pressing matters to attend to than worrying about one missing person he only just met in just minutes.
Even though it was the middle of the night, he walked over a kilometer to reach his house. What met his eyes was emptiness and stillness—no clatter of dishes, no steady tap of his father's keyboard against the silence. The quiet was so heavy it felt loud and grating, as if the place had been abandoned weeks ago, while he'd still been in the hospital.
"What happened here?..."
He wandered through the rooms. A full moon hung bright on the horizon, casting pale light through every window—all of which stood suspiciously wide open. Cabinets had been left ajar too, as if someone had ransacked the house. Fear trembled in his legs, but he kept moving, making his way upstairs where shadows seemed to hold more danger than the dark below. Thinking ahead, he'd slipped a kitchen knife into his pocket before climbing the stairs, ready in case of a sudden attack.