The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing him back into the world of pretense. Artham kicked off his shoes, the sound echoing through the hallway like a judge's gavel—final, decisive, damning.
Home. The word should have meant something. Should have carried warmth, safety, belonging. Instead, it felt like another stage, another performance venue where he played the role of the perfect son.
"Welcome back, honey!"
His mother's voice cut through the silence like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. She appeared in the kitchen doorway, her face radiant with the kind of love that made his chest tighten with guilt. Her apron was dusted with flour, her hair slightly mussed from cooking—domestic perfection wrapped in genuine affection.
"How was your first day at the new school?" Her eyes searched his face with the desperate hope of a parent trying to read happiness in her child's expression.
The question hung in the air between them like a bridge he couldn't cross. How could he tell her about the hollow performance in the classroom? About Julia's demands and his imagined rage? About the way he'd smiled and charmed while feeling absolutely nothing?
"It was fine," he said, the lie sliding off his tongue like oil on water. "The classroom's bigger than I expected."
Her smile faltered slightly—just for a moment—but he caught it. That tiny crack in her joy, the shadow of disappointment that crossed her features before she could hide it. She had hoped for enthusiasm, for connection, for some sign that her son was finding his way back to the boy she remembered.
"That's wonderful!" she said, her voice bright with forced cheer. "I'm so grateful your uncle got you into that school. We should celebrate—my brilliant son, starting his final year!"
She moved toward him, arms outstretched, and he let her pull him into an embrace that felt like drowning in kindness. Her warmth enveloped him, her love so tangible he could almost taste it. But it passed through him like light through glass, beautiful and untouchable.
I wish I could feel this, he thought, his arms mechanically returning her hug. I wish I could be the son you think I am.
Over her shoulder, he caught sight of family photos lining the hallway—images of birthdays, holidays, achievements. In every picture, he was smiling. In every picture, he looked happy. The perfect family, the perfect son, the perfect lie.
"I love you, Mom," he said, the words emerging from some deep well of memory, some echo of the boy he used to be. "You're the best mom in the world."
She pulled back, her eyes shining with unshed tears of joy. "I love you too, sweetheart. Are you hungry? I could make your favorite—"
"Yeah," he said, his voice soft. "That sounds perfect."
She bustled away, humming under her breath, radiating the kind of contentment that comes from believing you're caring for someone you love. Artham stood in the hallway, watching her go, feeling like a ghost haunting his own life.
The kitchen filled with the sounds of domesticity—pots clattering, spices sizzling, his mother's gentle humming. She moved with the practiced ease of someone who had made this meal a thousand times, who knew exactly how he liked everything prepared. Love expressed through perfectly seasoned dishes, through remembering preferences, through the simple act of nourishment.
He sat at the table, watching her work, trying to summon some feeling—gratitude, affection, anything. But it was like trying to squeeze water from stone. The emotions simply weren't there, lost somewhere in the labyrinth of whatever had broken inside him.
"Here you go," she said, setting the plate before him with a flourish. "Made with love, as always."
The food was perfect. Of course it was. His mother had spent years perfecting the recipe, adjusting spices and timing until she could create something that would make her son smile. He took a bite, tasted the care in every ingredient, and felt nothing.
"It's delicious," he said, and meant it, even though the words felt hollow. "Thank you."
They ate in comfortable silence, his mother stealing glances at him between bites, her face soft with contentment. This was her happiness—this simple domestic scene, her son safe at home, sharing a meal she had made with her own hands.
She deserves better than this, he thought, mechanically chewing. She deserves a son who can feel her love, who can return it, who can be real.
After dinner, he helped with the dishes, their hands occasionally brushing as they worked. Each accidental touch was like a small electric shock—not of attraction, but of recognition. This was what family was supposed to feel like. This was what he was supposed to be capable of.
"I have some homework to catch up on," he said, drying his hands on a towel.
"Of course, sweetheart. Don't stay up too late."
"I won't. And Mom?" He paused at the kitchen doorway. "Tell Anora not to bother me when she gets back. I need to concentrate."
"I will. Sweet dreams, honey."
He climbed the stairs to his room, each step feeling heavier than the last. Behind him, he could hear his mother cleaning up, still humming that same gentle tune. The sound followed him up the stairs like a ghost of contentment he couldn't quite grasp.
His room was a sanctuary of shadows. Heavy curtains blocked out the world, creating a cocoon of darkness where he could exist without pretense. The familiar shapes of his belongings emerged from the gloom—shelves lined with books he'd read but not enjoyed, games he'd mastered but not savored, trophies that marked achievements he couldn't remember caring about.
He changed into comfortable clothes, the motions automatic, practiced. In the mirror, he caught sight of his reflection—the same face he'd worn to school, the same features that had smiled and charmed and lied their way through another day. But here, in the darkness, the mask finally slipped.
The boy in the mirror looked tired. Hollow. Old in ways that had nothing to do with age.
He collapsed into his desk chair, the leather creaking under his weight. Around him, the detritus of a life half-lived: comic books with their bright covers promising adventure, novels that had once transported him to other worlds, games that had once challenged and excited him. Now they were just objects, taking up space, gathering dust.
Nothing could distract him from that day. The day everything changed. The day he became this hollow version of himself.
He reached for a comic book—one of his favorites, with a hero who never gave up, who always found a way to save the day. The pages felt familiar under his fingers, the artwork still beautiful, the story still clever. But it was like looking at a painting through fog. He could see it, appreciate it intellectually, but couldn't feel it.
But somewhere, in the deepest part of himself, a small flame still flickered. A desperate hope that maybe, somehow, he could break free. That maybe there was something out there that could make him feel alive again.
He stood abruptly, the chair rolling backward, and walked to the balcony door. The night air rushed in as he stepped outside, cool and clean and carrying the scent of possibility. Above him, stars scattered across the sky like diamonds on black velvet.
The wind tugged at his hair, whispered against his skin. For a moment, he could almost imagine he felt something—not happiness, not joy, but a kind of recognition. The night was vast and full of mystery, and he was small and lost and searching.
Are you satisfied with your life?
The question from the library book echoed in his mind, as sharp and immediate as if he'd just read it. He gripped the balcony railing, his knuckles white.
Am I satisfied?
The stars offered no answer, but he didn't need one. He had been asking himself that question for years, and the answer was always the same.
No. I'm not satisfied. I'm dying inside, and I don't know how to live.
His phone buzzed.
The sound was jarring in the peaceful night, a harsh electronic intrusion that made him flinch. He glanced at the screen, expecting a message from a classmate or some automated notification.
Instead, he found something impossible.
[Hello, Artham. Or should I call you by your other name? I know who you are and what you're capable of. I have an offer for you. An offer that will change everything. (¬‿¬)]
His blood turned to ice. The phone trembled in his hands as he stared at the message, his mind racing. Who was this? How did they know about him? And what did they mean by "other name"?
With shaking fingers, he typed back:
[Who are you? How did you get this number?]
The reply came instantly, as if the sender had been waiting for his response:
[I am someone who sees through masks. Someone who knows what it's like to be trapped in a life that doesn't fit. I can offer you something real. Something that matters. <(@)_(@)>]
Artham stared at the bizarre emoticon. Was this person serious? The cryptic message was one thing, but the face made of symbols looked like something a middle schooler would send.
[Are you... using emoticons to threaten me?]
[They're not threats! They're expressions of my personality! ٩(˘◡˘)۶ Don't you find them charming?]
Despite everything—the mystery, the impossibility, the sheer surrealism of the situation—Artham felt his mouth twitch. Here he was, possibly being contacted by some supernatural entity, and they were having a debate about emoji usage.
[This is the weirdest supernatural encounter I've ever had.]
[Who says I'm supernatural? Maybe I'm just a really good hacker with excellent taste in emoticons. (っ◕‿◕)っ]
[Hackers don't usually know about people's existential crises.]
[Fair point. But you'd be surprised what you can learn from someone's search history. (~_^)]
Artham's blood ran cold. His search history. Oh god.
[Please tell me you didn't see the thing about—]
[The "how to feel emotions again" searches? Or the "is it normal to feel nothing" ones? Don't worry, I found them relatable, not embarrassing. <('o'<)~]
This was simultaneously the most terrifying and most absurd conversation of his life. Here was someone—or something—that knew his deepest secrets, and they were communicating through cute face emoticons like they were discussing the weather.
[Okay, putting aside your questionable communication style, what do you actually want?]
[I want to give you what you've been searching for. Purpose. Adventure. A chance to be more than just a hollow shell going through the motions. A world where your abilities matter, where you can be tested and challenged and pushed to your limits. ٩(˘◡˘)۶]
Artham stared at the message, his breath coming in short gasps. A world where his abilities mattered. Where he could be tested. Where he could feel... something.
[What kind of world?]
[A world hidden from ordinary eyes. A place where the impossible becomes possible, where every choice has consequences, where you can discover who you really are beneath all the lies and pretense. (っ◕‿◕)っ]
The words painted pictures in his mind—vast landscapes, dangerous challenges, mysteries to solve. A place where he could finally, finally feel alive.
[Why me?]
[Because you're special. Because you're lost. Because you're ready to risk everything for a chance at something real. You've been waiting for this moment your entire life, haven't you? <('o'<)~]
The truth of it hit him like a lightning strike. He had been waiting. Every day, every hour, every breath had been leading to this moment. This choice.
[What do I have to do?]
[Leave everything behind. Your family, your friends, your life as you know it. Once you cross over, there's no going back. You'll be starting fresh in a place where the rules are different, where the stakes are higher, where you can finally discover what you're truly capable of. (^◡^ )]
Leave everything behind. The words should have terrified him. Should have made him think of his mother's cooking, his sister's laughter, the comfort of familiar routines. Instead, they filled him with something he hadn't felt in years.
Hope.
[How?]
[In ten seconds, a star will fall from the sky. Close your eyes and make a wish—wish for the life you've always wanted, the person you've always dreamed of becoming. I'll do the rest. ^_^]
Artham stared at the screen, his mind reeling. This was insane. Impossible. The stuff of fairy tales and fantasy novels.
But what if it wasn't?
What if this was real?
What if this was his chance?
He counted in his head, his heart thundering in his chest.
One... two... three...
The rational part of his mind screamed that this was madness, that he was being fooled, that nothing would happen.
Seven... eight... nine...
But the desperate part of him, the part that had been dying slowly for years, held onto hope with bloody fingernails.
Ten... eleven... twelve...
Nothing.
He waited, scanning the empty sky, feeling like an idiot. Of course nothing had happened. Of course it was all a lie. Just another disappointment in a life full of them.
He started to turn away, shame burning in his chest.
Then the sky caught fire.
A streak of light blazed across the heavens, brilliant and impossible and beautiful. It moved like a falling angel, like a piece of heaven breaking loose and tumbling toward earth. The light reflected off every surface—windows, cars, his own wide eyes—turning the world into a prism of possibility.
Without thinking, without hesitation, he closed his eyes and made his wish.
I wish for a life that matters. I wish for a world where I can be real. I wish... I wish to feel alive.
The moment the words formed in his mind, the world tilted. Reality bent and twisted around him like a kaleidoscope coming apart. The solid ground beneath his feet dissolved, the familiar night sky shattered into fragments of light and darkness.
He was falling, or flying, or being pulled by invisible hands through layers of existence he hadn't known existed. The sensation was terrifying and exhilarating, like dying and being born at the same time.
When the world finally solidified around him, he was no longer on his balcony. He was somewhere else entirely—a place where the air tasted different, where the very atoms seemed to vibrate with possibility.
The landscape stretched before him like a fever dream—ancient stone structures reaching toward alien stars, mist that moved with its own purpose, shadows that seemed to watch and wait.
"Welcome," said a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once—smooth as silk, sharp as a blade, and carrying just a hint of theatrical amusement, as if the speaker was enjoying some private joke at the universe's expense. "Welcome to the world you've been searching for."
Artham opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He was here. He had crossed over. He had left everything behind for this moment, this chance, this impossible possibility.
"Welcome to the place where masks are torn away and truth is the only currency that matters. Where you can be hero or villain, savior or destroyer, depending on the choices you make."
The voice carried laughter, dark and rich and full of promise—the sound of someone who had watched a thousand stories unfold and found them all equally entertaining.
"Welcome to your new life, Artham Lanis. Try not to die too quickly. I do so hate boring protagonists."
And for the first time in years, he smiled. Really smiled. Not because he was happy—happiness was still a foreign concept, still locked behind walls he couldn't break down. But because for once, the emptiness wasn't all-consuming. For once, there was something else: anticipation, fear, hope—emotions so rusty from disuse that he could barely recognize them.
Here, in this impossible place, surrounded by danger and mystery and the unknown, he finally felt something that had been missing for so long.
He felt alive.