Adam remained as he was, pressing his forehead against his knees, trying to gather the scattered remains of his ragged breath. Every inhale felt like it tore through his chest from the inside, and every exhale came with a strange shiver, as if he were expelling a small piece of his mind with each breath.
Long minutes passed… perhaps hours. He no longer knew the time. Eventually, he lifted his head very slowly, his eyes red and swollen from crying. The tears had dried, but their traces lingered on his face—faint lines intersecting with a wilted smile he no longer knew how to erase.
— It's okay…
He said it in a low voice, then let out another short laugh. This time it was less sharp, but more bitter. He raised his hand, as if waving to someone who wasn't there, then leaned his back against the seat.
His eyes stared at the ceiling without seeing it. No images, no memories, nothing. Just an endless void stretched above his head… as if he were staring into a quiet white grave.
— It's okay…
He repeated it again, more slowly. That phrase was the only thing he had left to say. He didn't believe it… but he couldn't find another sentence that might offer him an excuse to keep going.
Then, a flicker of thought came to him. Something shook his chest for a brief moment:
Is this rock bottom?
He thought rock bottom should be more obvious. Maybe if he were crying and screaming all the time, he'd know he was breaking down. But what terrified him was this distorted balance between laughing and crying, between tasting tears and mocking everything.
He placed his hand on his chest, searching for any pulse, any proof that he was still alive. He found it there, weak… but steady.
— If only I could… just… turn it off.
He said it like a plea. As if asking his heart to stop trying.
But his heart kept beating. Kept insisting on keeping him here.
— Damn you…
This time, he said it while letting out a short laugh, without a clear tone.
Then he lay back on the couch, staring into nothingness, his mind twisting in its own void, echoing with contradictory thoughts:
I don't want anything… I don't want anyone… I don't want myself…
And among those fragmented phrases, he felt a new tear forming… but he no longer knew if it was real, or just leftover fluid from his earlier crying.
Long moments passed, or maybe just a few minutes, before Adam raised his hand to his cheek and wiped away the trace of that unknown tear. He didn't seem to believe it had truly come from him. As if he couldn't accept that his body was still capable of reacting to anything.
He closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he found no image of his mother, no image of Mila, not even of himself. As if he had become a blank space with no identity, no specific guilt, and no specific hope either.
— Maybe…
He whispered the word.
— Maybe this is what I deserve…
He tried to stand, but his muscles didn't respond right away. He remained frozen for a full half minute, his head drooping forward, hair covering his eyes, his body swaying lightly as if it no longer knew which way was up.
When he regained some balance, he sat slowly, staring at his hands. His trembling fingers looked like those of an old man, not a fourteen-year-old boy.
Am I still me?
He was no longer sure. He didn't know the answer.
Then a cruel thought occurred to him… one that, for a moment, seemed completely logical, painfully simple:
If I jumped from the window… I wouldn't have to endure this anymore.
He lifted his head to look at the glass. He saw his faint reflection in it, like the shadow of a ghost with no known body to belong to.
But something heavy, something unclear, kept him seated. It wasn't courage, nor regret. It was that sick indifference that had seeped into every cell in his chest.
It doesn't matter…
He murmured as he wiped away more tears that slipped in without permission.
It doesn't matter if I live… or die…
He let out a short laugh, which died in his throat before it was complete.
Then he sank into a heavy silence, during which he stared at the floor of the room without raising his eyes.
That was all he had left: a cold room, a heavy body, and a consciousness that refused to grant him the peace of an ending.
And so… he sat there.
Waiting for something he didn't know,
and didn't believe would come.
Minutes of eerie silence passed before he saw something in his mind he never expected:
Krista's face.
That strange look in her eyes when she talked about her dream of becoming strong enough to be a princess.
That moment when she seemed so honest… even if it felt naïve to him.
He wondered quietly to himself:
Do people really live just because they have a goal?
He felt something sharp tap his chest from the inside, like a small stab.
Not pity, not sympathy… but a strange envy, with a hint of mockery.
If I could believe in anything… maybe I could've been like her.
He leaned his head back and rested his tired body against the cold wall.
A long moment passed in which he didn't move, except for those heavy breaths that seemed to escape from a pierced chest.
Then… he slowly opened his eyes.
He didn't know why, or how, but a thought rooted itself suddenly in his mind—clear, solid—as if it were the only thing he could hold onto in that inner wreckage:
I will train.
The idea wasn't filled with hope, nor did it shine with enthusiasm.
It was a cold, gray thought… but it was a thought.
Something he could do, simply because nothing else awaited him.
He told himself:
— Even if the world is meaningless… even if I no longer believe in anything… I can become stronger.
His voice came out as a broken whisper, but his eyes fixed on a point in the darkness before him.
Maybe that was what remained of his will.
Or maybe it was just blind repetition of what others did.
It didn't matter.
In the end, he didn't need to know the answer right now.
I will train…
Until I reach what my mind can't understand and my heart doesn't want.
He said it to himself, then closed his eyes.
For the first time in days, he felt his body could move again.
Even if it was just a single step.
With the pale sunrise that he no longer bothered to look at, Adam began his new daily ritual: training.
At first, his body refused to cooperate.
His muscles, heavy from inactivity, his shallow breath, his bones that felt like they shattered with every movement.
But something inside him—something he didn't know the name of—forced him to get up every morning and start again.
He sat in an abandoned yard behind the house, placing his palm on the cold ground, gathering the shards of his magical energy.
Every time, he discovered that the dark reservoir inside his chest was deeper than he thought.
Gradually, he began to notice a strange pattern:
His mother's energy.
That curse Julius had mentioned…
The energy that had been part of her life, left behind in him without his knowing.
For the first time, it seemed that her death hadn't left him completely empty.
Even the void she left behind… wasn't entirely void.
When he tried to focus his energy in his palm, he felt a faint warmth radiating through his veins.
A strange sensation…
Not comforting, nor safe—more like a small fire slowly devouring his heart.
And yet, he didn't stop.
A week passed, then another.
Every time, he repeated the same practice:
– Sitting in silence.
– Trying to shape the energy into a solid thread.
– Failing, then trying again.
But over time…
His body grew lighter.
His energy responded faster.
And when he stood to leave, he noticed the air around him had changed slightly, as if that unknown force had started to acknowledge his presence.
One evening, while watching a small magical spark flicker between his fingers, he whispered to himself:
— Mom… did you really leave this for me?
He didn't know if he was thanking her… or hating her more.
But he kept going.
Because even if he didn't know the reason, or the purpose, or the point…
That training, for the first time, made him feel alive.