Beneath the weight of shock, a girl recoiled as if brushing dust from her face:
"What's wrong with you? Since when do you speak so harshly? I don't know what angered you, but I'm sorry in advance."
But he paid no heed to her words, engrossed in smoothing his disheveled hair without so much as a glance in her direction. His fingers trembled as they traced his face and ears before wiping them away in a nervous gesture.
When he finally raised his eyes to hers, he found her staring back with sharp, expectant glares, as if anticipating an explosion. His lips twisted as though chewing bitter words before spitting them out:
"And if I spoke the truth? Tell me, on what grounds do you take my things?"
Her lips quivered, her gaze instinctively darting away from his. Darin gritted his teeth, fury overtaking his expression before he surged forward like a flood:
"In the end, it was you, Merilda, you little rat! Who else would steal my belongings and return them damaged? Were you tossing them into alleyway dumpsters before fishing them back out?"
She realized the depth of the trap she'd fallen into. She tried to calm him, but her efforts were in vain. He pressed a hand to his forehead, dragging it down slowly as if wiping the anger from his face.
Then, suddenly, the creases of rage melted into a whisper of a smile:
"Just joking… but I will sort out my things seriously this time."
Her relief vanished in an instant. She turned toward the door, irritation sharp in her voice:
"Change your clothes and fix that beggar-like appearance of yours!"
He didn't respond—her words had struck too true.
She shut the door behind her, waiting outside. As he sluggishly changed out of the sleepwear he'd been too lazy to swap that morning, fragments of memory resurfaced, yet he couldn't grasp what he truly needed.
While arranging his clothes, his gaze caught on the closet handle. When he reached for it, a faint electric current prickled through his arm—neither gentle nor violent. He withdrew slowly, then opened the door to find her leaning against the wall like an exhausted bird.
A mocking smile curled his lips as he spoke:
"Did waiting tire you out?"
Her light tone barely masked the sarcasm beneath:
"Not as much as the time I spent knocking without an answer."
At her words, he suddenly turned to the clock.
A cold shiver slithered down his spine.
The hands pointed exactly to twelve-twenty.
His eyes darted to his computer—shut down, no trace of recent activity. He bit his cold-blue lips as a whirlwind of uneasy thoughts churned in his mind, all centering on one burning question:
When did this nightmare begin? And why?
He pushed the thoughts aside with fragile conviction, assuring himself the truth would reveal itself in time.
As they descended the stairs, she explained she'd called for him repeatedly with no answer. He apologized, claiming he'd been asleep, trying to soothe his frayed nerves. She accepted the excuse, accustomed to his strange mood swings, ignoring the memory of him kneeling, his face flushed with rage.
They reached the dining table, where his parents and middle sister sat with scrutinizing eyes and heavy silence.
At that moment, Darin remembered his mother's missing glasses after she'd left. He muttered aloud:
"Yes, that was the moment. Why hadn't it occurred to me before?"
The family startled at his sudden remark, as if doused in saltwater. He sat among them while the others sank into uneasy contemplation.
He forced down his meal with difficulty, as if spooning gravel into his mouth. His father noticed and spoke with suspicious levity:
"How strange! You're eating stuffed vine leaves as if they're rocks, though you used to love them."
Recognizing the jab, Darin replied, masking his disgust:
"I'm full already, but I'll eat so I don't starve by evening."
His father's suspicions waned, and he lightened the mood:
"See? Doesn't my brown hair suit my strong features? Took me forever to comb it."
Darin swallowed another bite, forcing a smile:
"Why not wear glasses to look intellectual in Mom's eyes?"
A brief silence, then stifled laughter. His father retorted proudly:
"I'm an educated man—don't mock me when you've barely passed high school."
Darin gulped down another mouthful, seething:
"Let's tell him, Nailsa—he'll never surpass me academically."
His mother laughed while his father floundered:
"Firla, do something! Every time, he traps me in his arrogance!"
Ignoring him, his mother turned to their youngest daughter:
"Merilda, why were you late for lunch?"
She repeated the same excuse Darin had given. At this, the parents and Nailsa exchanged cryptic glances.
Then his mother's whisper pierced his ears like the toll of an abandoned temple bell:
"If you can hear me now, it means something terrible happened to you this morning."
He spat out his food in shock, the taste of blood flooding his mouth from how hard he'd bitten his lips.
When his eyes met his mother's penetrating gaze, he glimpsed an old hatred and a rift as deep as an abyss.
He gestured toward the living room with his thumb:
"Come… let's finish this inside."
***
In the spacious living room, Darin sat stiffly, one leg crossed over the other like a king's statue, while the others settled with wary anticipation, as if awaiting a war declaration.
The scene suffocated him—a golden cage trapping a bird.
Without warning, his father asked a bizarre question:
"Can you see the tiny particles floating in the air? Like dust, but not dust?"
Darin stared silently as all eyes fixed on him with wolfish hunger. Finally, he answered in a voice laced with suspicion and buried loathing:
"Shouldn't I be the one asking questions here? Since when am I the accused? You sit like a jury, waiting for my answer like obedient slaves!"
His father lunged to strike, but Firla stopped him:
"At least answer once, and perhaps your tangled thoughts will unravel, no, Firkel?"
Darin's voice turned hoarse:
"Yes… I see them. Glittering like pure snow under moonlight."
Their eyes flooded with a cryptic joy he couldn't comprehend. He straightened, malice darkening his gaze:
"Now, enlighten me—what do they mean? And reveal your true identities."
His parents stiffened, sweat beading on their brows as if thorned vines coiled around them, gnawing at their hearts.
He pressed on sharply:
"At the very least, you should've hidden your nationalities. Those fake university degrees were easy to uncover."
He cleared his throat, glaring at his mother through narrowed eyes, teeth bared in anger.
Then, with rehearsed precision, he recited their profiles—every detail memorized from relentless study.
Firla Leras, graduate of Hensik College, majoring in organic chemistry. Forty-two years old. Nearsighted. Long red-orange hair, usually tied in a ponytail. Wide green eyes, delicate features. Works with my father at 'White Feather' company. Lives in Florida.
He turned to his father, a mocking smirk splitting his lips:
"Now you. You're not exempt from judgment. I, Darin, am a fair and impartial judge seeking my rights."
In the same tone, he continued.
Firkel Leras, Firla's husband and cousin. Studied at Meta Link University, degree in electronic engineering. No need to describe your appearance—just know you're tall, short-haired, with sharp hazel eyes and a face burdened by duty. Your build suggests you belonged to some secret organization.
He exhaled, chest tight from the long monologue, as if filling out an endless job application.
Silence thickened. Darin grinned like a victor clutching treasure, while his parents stood frozen, statues of despair, sweat trickling as his laughter echoed like scraping at buried secrets in a ruined shrine.
His features twisted with sick satisfaction, devouring their stunned faces like seasoned beef.
"Why the stares? These are basic facts… I haven't even reached the interesting part."
His mother struggled to compose herself, lost between his words and smile, then blurted:
"Did your nightmares turn your rationality into madness that torments us?"
His father added, ignoring Darin's shifting expression:
"Where is that mature, level-headed boy?"
His father's face hardened into a mask of sternness:
"And how did you uncover our false identities?"
Darin's triumph faded at their hollow words. His scowl deepened as if shadows of suffering pooled in his chest like toxic gas:
"What's the point of explaining the past if you weren't there to comfort me then? You think a feeble thread can mend the cracks you made? You were absent, chasing fake careers, rootless, craving luxuries you don't even deserve. As for your evasive questions? I'll answer under duress, not generosity."
Silence. Neither showed remorse. His tolerance petrified, and with cold indifference, he said:
"Fools, if you think forged degrees and connections solve everything. If that were true, drug lords and arms dealers would rule this world openly."
No reply—they knew he was provoking them. His frown deepened:
"I spent three years verifying your documents after realizing my father's incompetence with computers."
He recounted his relentless investigation, the two years spent digging through their records before uncovering the fraud. He spoke as if narrating an epic struggle, not mere suspicion.
Amid the clash of forgiveness and hatred, a filthy mediator named *exploitation* was born—welcoming anything that served his motives.
Remembering their empty condolences, a bitter laugh bubbled up, quickly stifled. Their presence back then wouldn't have helped—only magnified the selfish spectacle.
"I don't need pathetic explanations for your crumbling masks."
His mother pleaded:
"Ask me or your father anything to ease your heart."
But his father cut in, stern:
"At least stop this behavior, Darin. You're teetering on madness—one step from an irreversible fall."
The words trembled inside him but summoned no grief—only scorching disgust:
"What does it matter if I go mad?"
His father insisted firmly:
"Because we're your parents, and we fear for you."
Darin spat, disgust sharpening his features:
"You fear me, not for me. My respect for you as parents vanished with time. I wasted three years trying to fix a broken bond, deluding myself with noble lies."
His voice was steady, devoid of tremors, immersed in the true self forged by exploitation. He was done debating identity and emotions he'd only show when convinced.
They listened in forced silence, crumbling inside. They'd never imagined their son hid this, dismissing it as passing depression.
His mother burst into tears, her facade of strength shattered, while his father tried soothing her.
But Darin watched with detached pity, knowing tears wouldn't earn his mercy. His eyes darkened like voids swallowing all useless things.
"I… I'm sorry I never showed you care when you needed it," his mother whispered brokenly.
"I missed the signs, your pain veiled in tattered cloth."
His father added:
"No excuse will lessen this bitterness… We're truly sorry. Let's start anew, free of grief."
Darin's reply was ice:
"Hold that fresh page tight… I don't need it. People like you only see themselves. You think I'd accept a new start after three wasted years, after severing every rotten thread between us?"
His father roared:
"Respect yourself! We admitted our faults and apologized—don't be so insolent! We raised you!"
Darin didn't answer, the urge to lunge and kill him surging. But a glance at his father's eyes told him he'd die before succeeding.
"Did you accept *my* efforts before demanding I accept your apologies? You ignored me when I needed you most. You forced me to raise my siblings despite my age, and now you demand respect? You don't deserve it."
He poured out his rage, blending it with feigned sorrow to extract sympathy, framing truth in gilded lies.
Inside, he thanked them for the lesson:
Relying on others is torment. Trusting the unworthy is chains for the soul.
His mother wept again, her last shreds of maternal pride gone. His father stayed silent, hiding something like faint satisfaction in his frozen chest.
Darin stepped back, his heart emptied. He approached his mother slowly, resting a gentle hand on her head like a child, his tone tender yet laced with ambiguity:
"It's fine… If you truly try for a fresh start, I might weave a thin thread for us to live as a family… though I doubt its nature."
She removed her glasses, wiping swollen eyes, and hugged him fiercely:
"Yes, yes… Even if it costs me my job, I'll give my all so you won't regret this last chance."
His face turned blue, breath failing, the sound of cracking bones echoing from his chest despite his strength. He patted her back weakly, gasping:
"Le… let go… I… can't… breathe!"
She released him, and he staggered back, agony radiating from his chest to his spine. A doubt flickered—had this all been an illusion?
His eyes caught on tiny specks dancing in the air.
'Is this dust… or some magical power, like in anime or fantasy novels?'
His eyes gleamed with a bright smile, its brilliance hiding something best left unspoken.