A black void. A place so dark it devours the light, where every step forward feels like sinking deeper into an endless abyss. No matter how far you go, the darkness clings to you—like a curse that refuses to let go.
But look closely.
This isn't just any place. It's a dungeon. A cruel, forgotten cell carved into the bones of the earth. Silence rules here—not the silence of peace, but the silence of death. A silence so absolute, it chokes hope before it can even breathe.
The only sound is the slow, rhythmic drip... drip... drip of water falling from an unseen crack above. Each drop echoes like a heartbeat in this tomb of shadows.
Then, within the gloom—movement. A faint shimmer, a trembling shape.
A boy.
No older than a teenager, his body hangs limp, suspended by chains that dig into his wrists. His arms stretched upward, his feet barely brushing the cold stone floor. Skin pale, lips cracked, his ribs visible through the torn remains of his clothes. He hasn't eaten in months, and yet—he's alive.
Barely.
His entire body is a map of suffering. Wounds old and new crisscross his limbs. Blood oozes from deep gashes on his hands and legs, painting the floor beneath him in crimson streaks. His face, once full of light, is now smeared with blood and dust, his eyes closed, as if he's been lost in another world.
But then—he stirs.
A twitch. A faint breath. Slowly, painfully, he lifts his head. And his eyes… they open.
Faint, hollow, yet burning with a question no one has ever answered.
In the silence of his soul, he speaks—not aloud, but within:
"Why? Why does this always happen to me? What sin have I committed that every time I reach out for life, the world shoves me back into the jaws of hell?"
His voice, though silent, rings louder than any scream. A cry not just of pain—but of betrayal, of despair, of a soul still clinging to something no one can take away.
Hope.
In that pitch-black darkness, there was no one else—only him. A single tear slipped from his eye. It wasn't a tear of sorrow. It wasn't a tear of joy. It was the weight of memories—memories that still clung to his soul like chains.
In that moment, his whole life played out before him, like a slow-burning film etched into his mind.
He saw himself as a child.
"The moment I was born," he thought, "my mother died. And with her death, my father shattered completely. He was never the same again."
His voice in his mind trembled.
"By the time I was just six months old, my father abandoned me."
It was a night darker than nightmares—a cold, trembling night, so bitter that if someone accidentally stepped outside, they'd freeze to death within minutes. Yet somehow, he had survived that icy night. He didn't know why he hadn't died. He didn't know why life had kept him breathing.
When dawn broke, a man found him. Just someone from a nearby settlement. He picked up the half-dead baby, and upon touching him, realized the child was burning with fever. Without hesitation, he rushed the baby for treatment—and saved his life.
"Life slapped me across the face once again," the boy thought, "and forced me to go on."
As he grew older, he learned the name of that man.
Peter.
A mute man, about 30 years old. He couldn't speak a single word. And yet, in five years of raising him, Peter had said more with his actions than most people say in a lifetime.
For those five years, the boy stayed with Peter in that city. But the city's people—
They hated him.
They'd point and whisper,
"He's cursed."
"Wherever he goes, misery follows."
"He's bad luck."
The children mocked him cruelly.
"First he killed his mother, then even his father left him. And now he's here to ruin all our lives too."
No one played with him.
So he learned to play alone.
He drifted into his own world, his thoughts his only company.
One day, lost in his imagination, he wandered into the street—oblivious to the world around him. He didn't see the royal carriage charging toward him. He didn't even hear the cries to move aside.
But Peter did.
In a split second, Peter leapt in and shoved the boy out of harm's way.
The horses reared. The carriage screeched to a halt. The door burst open, and out stepped the king himself—furious.
"You filthy beggar," the king roared, "how dare you stop my carriage?"
Peter said nothing. He couldn't.
The boy, trembling, stood speechless beside him.
The silence enraged the king further.
He looked at the mute man, then the boy. And without a second thought, he declared:
"Let this beggar be punished by death."
The next morning, the town square was filled with uneasy faces. A wooden platform had been raised. Peter was dragged up, and before the eyes of the entire city—his throat was slit.
The crowd, though silent, was heavy with grief. They knew Peter was a good man. A kind man.
But the boy…
He didn't see it happen.
He couldn't.
His body had no strength left to watch.
When he arrived at the square later, it was already over.
He saw only the aftermath—the horror.
Peter's head… was impaled on a spike.
Displayed in the center of the town.
That moment shattered something inside him. His knees gave out. The world turned black—and he fainted.
He had no friends. No family. No place to belong.
And now, after Peter's death, the people hated him even more.
"He's a curse," they whispered.
"A walking disaster."
One night, he overheard a few men talking.
"We'll kill him tonight," they said coldly.
"If we don't, he'll bring ruin to all of us next."
That night, without a second thought, he ran.
Into the forests. Into the unknown.
He didn't know where the jungle would lead him…
He didn't know where it would leave him…
He just kept running.
He kept running.
And running.
But every time he somehow made it out alive—out of the darkness, out of the forest—he would sit in silence and think to himself:
"If only a wild animal had devoured me that night… Why am I still alive? What am I even living for?"
Eventually, he reached a new city.
He didn't know what it was called.
He didn't know who lived there.
He just wandered—tired, lost, aimless.
Everyone who passed by glanced at him with a mixture of curiosity and disgust.
A filthy child.
Covered in dirt and dried blood.
His body so thin and frail it looked like he hadn't eaten in days.
No one wanted to come near him. They avoided him like a disease.
At last, he slumped beneath a tree, clutching his stomach in pain. His breathing was shallow. His eyes, heavy.
And then…
A voice.
Soft. Sweet. Gentle. Like music in a world that had long forgotten sound.
A girl's voice.
"Would you like some food?"
His eyes snapped open.
Standing in front of him was a girl—maybe a little older than him—with kindness in her eyes and a piece of bread in her hands. She placed it down gently in front of him and repeated:
"Would you like to eat this?"
He was stunned.
His voice caught in his throat.
All he managed to say was:
"Why?"
The girl paused, looked at him for a moment, then smiled.
"Because… just looking at you, it seems like you're very hungry."
"Go ahead. Eat the bread."
He couldn't hold back.
His hands shot forward and he grabbed the bread.
He began eating it as if his life depended on it—because it did.
The girl watched him with soft eyes.
"You really were starving," she said gently.
"Eat slowly. If you need more, just tell me."
He looked up at her, confused, unsure if this kindness was real.
She then asked:
"What's your name?"
He froze.
A name?
He had no answer.
His mother had died the day he was born.
His father had abandoned him when he was just a baby.
And the man who raised him for five years—Peter—was mute, and never gave him one.
He didn't know what to say.
He didn't have a name.
In his mind, he thought:
"I'm a nameless being…
A soul without an identity.
How strange… that I exist in this world, yet belong to no one and nothing."