The sea was calm that evening.
Small waves rolled onto the shore, leaving thin lines of white foam on the sand before quietly retreating back into the water. The sun hung low in the sky, staining the horizon with shades of orange and fading red, as if the day itself was slowly bleeding away.
A young man sat alone near the water's edge.
He looked to be somewhere between twenty-four and twenty-eight years old. His clothes were simple—nothing torn, nothing stylish, just ordinary. The kind of clothes worn by someone who blended into crowds and was forgotten moments later. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his hands resting loosely on his knees, his gaze fixed on the endless sea.
His name was Ethan Heart.
He had been born on Earth, into a poor family.
But poor did not mean unloved.
His parents never had much money, yet they had tried their best to give him a good life. His father worked long hours, often coming home exhausted, his clothes smelling of sweat and dust. Still, no matter how tired he was, he would smile when he saw Ethan, ruffle his hair, and ask about his day.
His mother was gentle and quiet. She knew how to stretch a small amount of money into full meals, how to mend torn clothes so well they looked new again. Sometimes she would sit beside Ethan at night, speaking softly about the future—about how things would get better, how he would grow up to become someone respectable.
Those were simple days.
Ethan remembered eating together at a small table, laughing over trivial things. He remembered the warmth of home—not because it was large or comfortable, but because it was filled with people who cared.
For a time, life was good.
Then, one day, it all collapsed.
The accident happened without warning.
Ethan didn't even understand what was happening at first. One moment, he was waiting. The next, he was standing in a hospital corridor that smelled sharply of disinfectant, his ears ringing with words that felt unreal.
His father died on the spot.
The doctor said it calmly, professionally, as if it were just another case. As if a man hadn't just vanished from Ethan's world forever.
His mother survived—but barely.
Machines surrounded her bed. Tubes and wires kept her alive, her face pale and unmoving. Ethan stood beside her, holding her cold hand, afraid to let go.
Then came the words that truly broke him.
The operation costs too much.
The doctor explained it carefully, gently. They needed money. A lot of it. Immediately.
Ethan was only twelve years old.
He didn't have that kind of money.
He called distant relatives. Some didn't answer. Others offered empty sympathy. Friends of the family avoided him, uncomfortable with his desperation. No one wanted to be responsible for such a heavy burden.
Days passed.
The machines slowed.
Ethan watched helplessly as his mother's breathing became shallow. He wanted to scream, to beg, to trade his own life if it meant she could live.
But the world didn't care.
She died quietly, her fingers twitching weakly as she whispered his name one last time.
After the funeral, the house felt unbearably empty.
There were no more voices. No more warmth. No more place that truly felt like home.
With no one left to take him in, Ethan was sent to an orphanage.
The years there passed slowly.
He was fed. He was clothed. But he was never wanted.
He learned early not to expect anything from anyone. Birthdays were forgotten. Praise was rare. Dreams felt foolish. When he turned eighteen, he was handed a small bag and sent out into the world, just like that.
No goodbye.
No encouragement.
Just silence.
He tried to live.
He worked whatever jobs he could find. He studied when he could afford it. He applied, failed, reapplied, failed again. Every time he thought he had found an opportunity, someone else was chosen instead—someone with better qualifications, better connections, better luck.
Ethan never hated them.
He knew it wasn't their fault.
It was his.
Born poor.No special talent.No striking looks.No safety net.
Even surrounded by millions of people, he felt completely alone.
Sitting on the beach now, Ethan let out a slow breath.
If this were a movie, he thought bitterly, this would be the scene where sad music plays and the audience understands how pathetic the main character is.
He almost laughed.
The sea, however, remained indifferent.
He wondered sometimes if there was any meaning to his life at all. If anyone would notice if he simply disappeared. There was no one waiting for him. No place where he truly belonged.
The waves kept moving, endlessly, as if mocking his stillness.
Then—
A scream pierced the air.
Ethan's head snapped up.
A woman was running along the shoreline, her face twisted in pure terror. She screamed again, pointing toward the water with shaking hands.
"Help! Someone help!"
Ethan followed her gaze.
A child—small, fragile, no more than four or five years old—was being pulled under by the waves.
His heart slammed violently against his chest.
For a brief moment, his mind froze.
What should I do?
Then his body moved.
Ethan stood up and ran