I couldn't understand why I was crying.
Maybe some dust got in my eye?
I tried to convince myself of that lie. Standing in front of the mirror, I stared at my reflection. Time seemed to freeze. A single tear rolled down my cheek, and in the silence of the room, I could almost hear the faint plip as it hit the floor.
I stood there, paralyzed, mesmerized by my own weeping reflection.
Suddenly, the silence shattered. My father's voice drifted in from the other side of the door.
"Durlav... did you fall asleep again?"
His familiar voice snapped me back to reality.
"No... I'm coming," I answered quickly.
The moment I responded, I pushed the thought of those strange tears to the back of my mind. I needed to focus. Today was the date. The first step toward fulfilling my dream. All my attention shifted to that singular burning desire.
Consumed by these thoughts, I rushed through my morning routine—brushing, showering, and dressing. I pulled my outfit from the drawer:
a black t-shirt and a matching pair of black pants.
To be honest, fashion was a trivial, secondary concept to me. I felt most comfortable in these two items, and I never wasted a second thinking about what to wear. My goal was what mattered, not my attire.
Dressed and ready, I walked into the next room. Breakfast was already laid out on the dining table. There were three chairs around the table. My father, Noman, sat in the head chair.
On the dining room wall, a hanging clock ticked away. The time was exactly 9:00.
I quietly sat in my designated chair. Directly across from me, the third chair remained empty, just as it always had. It wasn't unusual. Since childhood, I had seen that chair empty—as if someone was supposed to be sitting there, but never arrived.
Ignoring the empty seat, I started eating. A smile crept onto my face—an uncontrollable grin fueled by thoughts of the future, of what would happen after today's seminar.
Dad had already finished his meal. He picked up the kettle and began pouring tea into a white cup.
Noticing the goofy grin plastered on my face, he spoke up.
"So, Durlav. I see you've been beaming since this morning. What's the matter? Won't you tell me? Or are you seriously getting married?"
He finished pouring the tea and set the kettle down. Taking a sip, he looked at me with a teasing glint in his eye.
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
He knew the answer. He knew such relationships were nearly impossible for me. I wasn't like 'Noah'—I couldn't just walk up to girls and talk to them without hesitation.
Besides, I wasn't handsome enough for a girl to propose to me—unless she was blind or the last desperate woman on earth! Whenever I was in front of a girl, my heart rate spiked, my tongue tied itself into knots, and making eye contact was out of the question.
Strangely enough, if a girl was even within an arm's length of me, my body temperature would skyrocket. It felt like I was standing next to a pool of lava! I didn't know why it happened.
Maybe the main reason for this is that I haven't interacted with girls that much since I was a child.
Simply put:
I was terrified of women.
My annoyance flared up.
"What nonsense have you been spouting since this morning? Today is the mandatory seminar before going to the camp. Simply put, I'll be gone for two years."
I paused and looked directly at him, my voice firm.
"After finishing training, I'll become a Quad Cop first, and then eventually, a 'Prime' just like you."
Dad smiled softly at my declaration.
"You've grown up quite a bit. So, I suppose this is the last time I'll see you for a while."
His voice suddenly turned cold.
"Maybe we'll meet again in two years."
There was a deep, chilling detachment in his tone. He knew I was leaving for two years, yet he didn't seem particularly heartbroken.
He paused, then added, "And... I am sorry."
"Why are you saying that again? What are you apologizing for?"
I asked, bewildered.
"No, no special reason. You're leaving today, and I almost forgot about the date. I didn't even get you anything... To be honest, I haven't been sleeping well lately. I've been thinking about my final mission."
"Final mission!!? ...You just became a Third Tier Prime a few days ago! It hasn't even been a month! How can you have a 'Final Mission'!?"
Shock and disbelief dripped from my voice.
Dad looked at me, breaking the momentary silence.
"No, don't pay attention to that. I just want to tell you simply:
Good luck. I believe... you will definitely be among the next generation of Primes."
He took the last sip of his tea and closed his eyes.
"Because I believe that exactly five years from now, when I stand there as a retired Prime and pin your new badge on your chest—that will be the best moment of my life."
Hearing this, I was overwhelmed with joy. My happiness knew no bounds. A huge, radiant smile broke out on my face. Seeing me smile, Dad smiled too, but that familiar shadow of melancholy was unmistakably there. I knew he was genuinely happy for me, but that hidden sadness always pricked at my heart.
…
And I knew the reason—my mother, Mitu.
Seeing his sadness, my smile faded slightly. In an instant, my joy turned ice cold. My gaze drifted back to that empty chair—standing in the corner of the dining table like a silent witness, a symbol of an unanswered question.
Truthfully, I wasn't emotionally attached to my mother. I had never seen her, not once since the day I was born. According to Dad, my mother, Mitu, had tragically died while giving birth to me. He also mentioned that she had been incredibly sickly during the pregnancy.
But there was a deeper, colder pain buried inside me.
It was impossible to have a picture with my mother, but I didn't even have a picture of myself as a baby! It was baffling—my father possessed no keepsakes, no visible proof of my early childhood. This lack of evidence created a hollow void inside me. It was as if the first four or five years of my life were a empty void.
It hurt when I saw other kids with their childhood photos, framed memories of their birth. But I had never seen that dark chapter of my own life. I didn't know what I looked like. The photos I did have started when I was six or seven—right around the time I started kindergarten. Before that? Nothing.
And the reason behind my name, 'Durlav', was also her.
Dad had wanted to welcome me and Mom with a bouquet of flowers. When he went to the shop to buy them, the shopkeeper asked him what he would name the child.
Dad had fallen into a deep, emotional silence. He had said:
'My child's name... I will name him after I see him. Whatever unique feeling and difficult situation arises in my heart at that moment... I will name him to preserve that feeling.'
And so, I was named 'Durlav.' The Rare One. Something difficult to obtain.
Something that requires a great price.
Just like me—to get me, my father had to lose my mother forever.
A question often peeked into my mind:
What if Mom had lived?
What if there was pure joy on both their faces?
Maybe my name would have been different. Maybe I would have been 'Anando'. Or maybe 'Surjo'.
A happy family, a happy name.
That would have been better than this sorrowful name. Not that I felt the lack of a mother—Dad never let me feel that. But still, a strange, unspoken pain lingered.
…
I tore my attention away from the food and looked at my father.
This man had lost everything. No, he still had me! I was his last hope, the person closest to him, his only child. My father was a successful man, a 'Prime.' But he had to carry this irreparable loss and silent pain all alone.
"Durlav!... DURLAV!!"
Dad's sharp shout pulled me back to reality. I realized I had zoned out, lost in thoughts of Mom and his pain.
"What happened? Finish your breakfast, or you'll be late. Have you packed your bag?"
I looked at the clock on the dining room wall—9:00.
"No, no problem. I'll pack it quickly. I still have a full hour. And I'm taking the Omnibus anyway."
Dad frowned, a look of genuine concern washing over his face.
"One hour? What nonsense are you talking about? And you haven't even packed yet!"
He pulled a chained pocket watch from his vest, clicked it open, and held it in front of my face.
The hands were frozen at 9:40.
"You think you have time!? Stop slacking off!!! You have twenty minutes. Headquarters is a long way from here; even the Omnibus takes ten to fifteen minutes!"
I pointed a trembling hand at the wall clock.
"But... that one says it's nine o'clock?"
Dad spoke in a calm, grave voice:
"That one says 9:00 PM. It died last night."