He was alone. Completely alone. No "almost," no "temporarily." Full solitude.
No friends. No conversation partners. No random passersby you could mistake for company.
Only silence that no one breaks.
The pain stuck in his chest wanted to burst out, but stayed deep inside. Motionless. Hidden. He didn't release it and wasn't going to.
He chose silence.
It happens when there's no one around. No close person, no friend. Just no one. That's normal for closed-off people. The kind who say "everything's fine" when it's all falling apart.
They say people are born open. Probably that's what they call freedom, when you talk about everything. When you don't hide, don't shy away, don't filter. When you pour it out, whether about today or last year's pain.
Freedom of feelings. Freedom of words. Freedom to be yourself.
But everything changes when you face others. Not "bad" ones, not "enemies," just people. Harsh. Unfriendly or indifferent. Not everyone's perfect. More precisely, no one is, but some can admit fault, apologize, understand. And some can't.
That's the whole difference.
If you're unlucky, you close off. Not because you want to, but because it's safer. Some don't change, don't listen, don't feel. And there are plenty like that, unfortunately. You're among them like inside a wall.
Loneliness.
Right now, Enua is in that state. Completely alone, and it doesn't matter who you are — a human or something more. Even gods feel loneliness, especially when no one hears them.
I knew little about his past. Only about that war against Yahweh and others, but now he's not a warrior. Not a god, just someone in pain.
He didn't talk about it. Not because he didn't want to, but because there was no one to talk to. He didn't even notice I was in the room.
Has it gone that far?
One thought was clear. Maybe I'm the only one who can help him now. He turned, and I saw emptiness in his eyes. Direct. Unblinking.
"Sorry... I've been acting really stupid this whole time, it's my mistake," I finally broke the silence. "I should have realized how hard it is for you to be alone right now, and I wasn't even there."
"Don't blame yourself, it's not your problem, only mine," he said in the voice of someone who'd lost hope but not memory. "I know you've been trying everything to prove my innocence to the others and kept losing but fought to the end."
"I really appreciate that, even though we never knew each other in life, but you're the only one I've truly enjoyed being around."
Something clenched inside. Why is he talking like I was there? I wasn't, but still — this wasn't my pain. His pain was bigger. Deeper. Heavier.
He lived long before anything I could imagine.
"What are you talking about... I was never there when needed most. I just tried to convince the others you were right, but failed over and over. How could I have been useful to you at all?"
I told him everything I felt. Admitted it even to myself. I'm a failure.
How many lives have I saved? The question hung in my head. The answer was silence. One girl flashed in memory. She always saved me, was always there, wherever I was. Always with an outstretched hand.
I could rely on her, but could she on me? We went through a lot, but I couldn't protect her. She died in my arms. I remember her look and last words.
'I love you.'
A confession before death. And even then, I didn't respond.
Does that make me a monster?
I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.
When I snapped out of these thoughts, he was gone. And I remembered: I wanted to ask... was he involved in the library murders?