Quicksand of Fate

As the doors closed behind him, although it was almost noon, his frustration made the apartment seem dark. Though he wasn't cold, he felt a chill that wasn't tied to temperature—he wasn't afraid, but he felt empty, as though he had lost something precious, something he could never regain. And in the isolated corner of his heart, like a dying ember of hope, he still awaited that lost thing.

He collapsed onto the black leather sofa, his frozen eyes fixed on the ceiling, its engravings etched into his memory from countless hours of contemplation. He still couldn't find an outlet for his frustration after returning from the outing with Sandro.

The apartment was quiet except for the cat meowing annoyingly for reasons Lorenzo couldn't care to figure out and the robotic assistant's voice, which echoed like a separate melody in the silence, repeating every four hours.

"There are several pending matters, Young Master Lorenzo Accardi. Should I review them now?"

Lorenzo remained motionless, his dark gaze unfocused.

"Okay," the assistant continued, unfazed by the lack of response. "Item one: Your new cat, Marcel, is ready for pickup from the breeder's facility."

The words floated in the air, landing somewhere in the fog of Lorenzo's mind.

"Item two: Sentinel Academy's entrance exams are in two weeks. Your registration for the exam has been confirmed."

Silence.

"Item three: Dr. Vittorio Belardi called. He requested a follow-up session before the exams begin."

Still, nothing but silence.

The voice continued to reel off reminders—each one a string of information Lorenzo couldn't summon the energy to grasp.

The promise.

Lorenzo's body remained still, but that promise from the past, which had surfaced after his return, became clearer with each passing second. Her soft voice began to resonate in his ear, like a gentle symphony, and with it, a confusing swirl of feelings for this woman.

It wasn't love, not in the way one loves a lover.

It wasn't the kind of feeling one has for a friend, a maid, or even a guard.

"Mother..."

He spoke quietly, but it didn't feel familiar, which only deepened his confusion, adding to the chaos swirling in his mind.

The forced outing Sandro had imposed on him had done nothing but bring back fragments of something long buried—a vague memory that scratched at the edges of his consciousness.

The promise.

It came in pieces: a pale hand cupping his cheek, white hair shining like frost, a soft voice whispering comforting words.

"I'll be back," she said.

And he waited.

He waited quietly.

He waited in the dark.

He waited until everything around him lost its taste, color, and meaning.

His chest tightened as the memory pressed against him, demanding recognition. He began to see cracks appear in the ceiling, and with a disturbing cracking sound, his mind jolted awake. Yet, once again, he felt these cracks in the ceiling reflected his fractured identity.

The cracks seemed to widen and grow, as if the world itself was splitting under the weight of his chaotic, incoherent thoughts.

At some point, Lorenzo fell into a restless sleep. When he awoke, the place was dark.

His eyes snapped open, and his chest began to heave, as though he had been running. His hair stuck to his damp forehead, and cold sweat clung to his body. He sat up for a moment, confused and silent.

The silence around him was suffocating. For the first time, he hated being alone. For the first time, he refused the quiet.

He rose from the couch with unsteady legs and stumbled to the kitchen, his awareness hazy, his hands shaking, and his breathing ragged. He felt his heart tear in his chest.

It hurts.

I wouldn't like this.

Stumbling, he entered the kitchen, grabbed a glass, and tried to fill it with water. The water flowed erratically as his trembling hands couldn't control the motion, but he didn't focus on that. His mind sank again, his thoughts wandering, the promise echoing in his head, dragging him deeper into the abyss.

"I'll be back..." She had said something else, a name—he needed to remember it.

A name that belonged to him, but one he could no longer recall.

His confusion deepened. He wasn't even sure of his own name anymore.

It felt as if his mind had ceased to function on that question alone.

What is my name?

The water spilled over, flooding the table and the glass. Lorenzo didn't notice until the glass pitcher slipped from his hand, crashing to the floor, which jolted him out of his stupor.

He looked at the mess with annoyance and exhaustion. With reckless abandon, he grabbed the glass, even though it cut his hand. He didn't notice the pain.

With a violent motion, he threw the broken pitcher into the trash can. The noise seemed louder than ever, as if he were trying to escape from his thoughts, his memories, the chaos in his head that almost denied his very identity, rejecting his thoughts, his memories, his entire existence.

He yanked open one of the drawers, searching for a towel to wipe the water. But there was nothing. His movements became faster, rougher, as he tore through each drawer and cabinet.

"Nothing," he muttered, his voice low and tense.