Hunter often told Michael things like this:
You’re different from other people. You need to know that fact.
His words left Michael with questions. I’m different from other people? Why? Michael still couldn’t define himself. But because of Hunter, he had to face the fact that others didn’t have the same kind of dreams as him.
People don’t live in a world like yours, where past, present, and future are complexly mixed together.
Then what kind of world do you live in?
The flow of time is consistent. Past is followed by present, which is followed by future. This order is absolute and can’t be changed.
…Why am I different?
Hunter couldn’t answer the final question. The longer the silence stretched, the more Michael’s curiosity grew.
And he received an answer from an unexpected person.
You’re a god, Michael.
It was Herick who once addressed him with a voice full of conviction.
A god?
Yes. An omnipotent being. You know everything, don’t you?
Hunter, who was watering the garden with a hose, snickered as Herick, only nine years old, eyes shining. He sprayed water on Herick, who was irritably asking why he was laughing, and raised one corner of his mouth in a long smile.
You’ve earned yourself a grand title, Michael.
Michael blankly watched Herick, who was glaring at him while wringing out his soaked clothes with his small hands.
What is a god? Omnipotent? An immortal being? Whatever it was, it was incredibly grand, just as Hunter had said. But even in this way, defining himself made Michael feel somewhat relieved.
Am I really immortal? Michael tried to recall the dreams he’d had recently, but no matter how hard he racked his brain, he couldn’t remember ever having a dream about his own death.
A life without end. He was overcome with vague anxiety. As time passed, the content of his dreams piled up like mountains, and the emotions of others became jumbled and mixed together, to the point where even his own emotions had become dulled.
Confusion adds to confusion, and the result calls forth yet more confusion. What if he had to repeat this endlessly?
The weight of the burden he had to shoulder in exchange for accepting himself was greater than he’d thought. Being different from others meant he couldn’t expect understanding, and even if he felt unable to handle it, he couldn’t abandon his solitude.
No, I’m not the only one like this.
The only person in this world who can understand me. Just her existence was a comfort to Michael.
And a few days later, he was able to meet Maria, whom he had been longing for. She was conversing with a blonde woman wearing sunglasses.
I already know how I’ll meet my end.
She said as she put down a teacup that smelled strongly of cocoa.
And I’d like only you to know about my end.
He poured coffee into the empty cup of the woman sitting across from Maria. This time, it seemed he wasn’t Hunter but a man who worked at the mansion. The emerald green eyes behind the sunglasses, glimpsed from the side of the woman’s face, trembled as if disturbed.
At the woman’s gesture, he quietly backed away, gathering the plates on the table. As he moved away from them, he glanced at Maria, who gave him a slight smile.
As he was reorganizing the precariously placed plates and walking toward the kitchen, he faintly heard Maria’s voice through the door.
You must keep this secret, Enya.
* * *
Michael, waking from sleep, pondered.
The end must mean death. Is Maria going to die? She already knows what her death will be like?
Then what about me?
He struggled for days with loneliness that had grown uncontrollably. No one noticed Michael’s unstable state. In truth, they were only interested in his abilities, not in him as a person. No, they didn’t even make an effort to get to know him.
Thus, his loneliness and emptiness, far from improving, festered and damaged his mind.
Without any healing or growth, Michael turned fifteen. Judging by his appearance, noticeably shorter and younger-looking than his peers, it seemed that not only had he failed to grow internally, but he had also failed to grow externally.
No matter how much time passed, he remained trapped in the pitch-black room of his uniqueness. Having Herick, who worshipped him, nearby only added to his anxiety. It was as if someone had locked the door from the outside when he was already feeling suffocated.
Eventually, his sleep patterns began to unravel. Thanks to his previously regular sleep schedule, he had been able to distinguish between reality and dreams, but when even that fell apart, the boundaries became blurred.
That wasn’t the end. Emotions that he had clearly been able to control until then began to revive. He started to be swayed by the content of his dreams.
One day, as he was writhing in solitary agony, Michael once again fell into the world of dreams.
In the dream, he was sitting weakly with his back against a wall. Looking down at the throbbing sensation, he saw a knife stuck in his chest.
No, don’t. This wasn’t what I meant to do.
A man, covering his face with both hands, sobbed as his limbs trembled violently.
I’m sorry, Michael…
Between the gaps of his slowly opening fingers, blood from a nosebleed trickled down. His face was smeared with blood, as if he had rubbed it with his hands.
Michael’s vision gradually became blurry. The hand he stretched toward the man eventually fell to the floor without reaching him. Finally, in the darkened vision, as if the lights had gone out, he called out the man’s name with all his might.
…Choi.
Michael, bolting upright in bed, let out a terrible scream. Marsha and Herick, who burst in through the door, tried to calm him down, but they froze when they saw him pick up a statue beside the bed and smash it to pieces.
And so, Michael finally saw his own end.
