Morning returned again—but brought no promises with it.

  A weary body stirred, as if its existence was nothing more than an accident—soulless, hopeless. He sat cautiously on the edge of the couch, whispering to himself in a voice too faint to escape the prison of his chest:

  — “Another morning… How long must I remain chained to this slow death?”

  A single tear, bck as sorrow, traced a path down his cheek—a map of torment carved by time. He whispered, as though bidding farewell to whatever pieces of himself still remained:

  — “I don’t want to open my eyes anymore… The killer must die. And I must die with him.”

  His name was Sevrin—but now, it was only the echo of a name long since abandoned, scattered like a torn page from a story he no longer wished to tell.

  He rose with effort, dragging behind him the weight of an entire sky of regret. Step by step, he moved toward the bathroom, where the mirror awaited him like a silent judge.

  He stood before it, eyes fixed on the hollow face staring back at him—then at the faint, warped reflection. Two strangers, bound only by pain.

  — “Even you… want to leave me? Looks like we’re both trapped in the same silent prison.”

  He lowered his gaze. His voice dropped, heavy with grief:

  — “But I’ll try to live… just a little longer. Maybe after I eat something…”

  He opened the fridge. Silence spilled out—louder than emptiness. Nothing.

  His hand reached into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against a st flicker of hope.

  A worn-out bill—ten dolrs, guarded by despair.

  He stepped outside. The world greeted him with wind and anxiety, squeezing his chest like a storm that never ends.

  On his way, he passed a dog—injured, its legs crushed beneath indifference. He paused. Their eyes met. And in that look, he saw himself: broken, bleeding beneath life’s wheels.

  — “You suffer… and I suffer… Were we born cursed? Or are we just the ones caught in a prison with no door?”

  A tear fell—this time, a silent scream only he could hear.

  He walked on, until the scent of coffee cut through the fog of his mind.

  He whispered, clinging to the moment like a lifeline:

  — “Maybe this is my st meal… A quiet end to a noisy pain.”

  He stepped into the café. The warmth inside greeted him like a ghost from a past life.

  — “Welcome… Please, have a seat,” said the waitress, offering a gentle smile.

  He sat in the far corner, his breaths uneven, his silence louder than the world around him.

  — “Thank you… But I don’t deserve kindness.”

  The waitress gnced at him, her eyes soft, searching.

  — “What’s your name?”

  He replied, voice brittle:

  — “Sevrin.”

  Then added, half-ughing, half-wounded:

  — “No need to know the rest… You won’t see me again.”

  She smiled—a look that held questions but demanded no answers.

  Inside, he whispered:

  — “If they knew what I’ve done… They’d never let me sit here. If they knew who I truly am…”

  Thoughts tangled like thorns in his mind.

  — “After this coffee… Do I return to that apartment? Or find a new grave to rest in?”

  The waitress’s voice broke through:

  — “Here you go—coffee and water.”

  He sipped slowly. Each taste dissolved into fading memories.

  Then, two men sat nearby—one with dark curls, the other with sun-touched blond hair.

  The first spoke:

  — “You look happy today. What’s the occasion?”

  The second answered, smiling faintly:

  — “I finally got rid of my guilt.”

  Sevrin’s ears caught fire.

  He leaned in, curiosity quietly burning:

  — “How?”

  The man replied:

  — “I went to the House of Confessions, in the abandoned city. I walked in, screamed my sins—and faced them.”

  Sevrin froze.

  Then trembled.

  He stood briefly—then sank back down, as if death had become his only option.

  He whispered within:

  — “This is it… I won’t run anymore. I’ll face it—and die with it.”

  He left the café, his coffee half-cold—just like his heart.

  From that moment on, he no longer saw life.

  Only guilt.

  Relentless, eternal.