They say, be careful what you wish for—it just might come true.
But no one ever says what happens when your wish becomes a prison.
My name is New Chandergan. I'm 437 years old.
And I was never supposed to stay.
I was born on January 9th, 1587, in the quiet heat of Thailand. My earliest memories are simple—running barefoot along dirt paths, chasing shadows with my father's laughter echoing behind me. But that warmth didn't last long. When I was ten, my father died in an accident. I don't remember the moment, only the silence afterward—how the air felt too still, like even the wind was holding its breath.
After that, my mother and I returned to Japan. She said it would be easier, that it was time to go home. And for a while, it was. We were poor, but not hopeless. She opened a small street stall selling warm food and sweet rice cakes, and I helped her between school and part-time jobs. She smiled often then, though her eyes rarely did.
Somewhere in all of that, I found him—my reason. My lover, my other half, the one who made those gray years feel golden again. We were just students, but we dreamed like kings. We both entered medical school, determined to change the world, even if we only had each other. We talked about the future like it already belonged to us.
He wanted to open a clinic. I wanted to buy our mothers a house by the ocean.
We promised to build something from nothing. Together.
But simple dreams are dangerous when they don't fit the world's design.
In the eyes of others, we were a threat. Not because we broke laws. Not because we hurt anyone. But because we loved each other—and because we were Christians.
It was one month after my 20th birthday, the day we celebrated four years of love.
We lit candles. Made cheap dumplings. Laughed until our stomachs hurt.
I remember thinking, If this is all life gives me, it's enough.
And then the door burst open.
A crash.
Masks. Guns. Footsteps that didn't hesitate.
They came like a storm made of shadow and metal.
The first shot tore through the air before I could even stand.
My lover fell, a sound half-gasp, half-choke escaping his lips. I caught him before he hit the ground. The second shot came fast—my mother screamed, and then she was gone. Just like that.
Blood. So much blood. The world turned red.
I pressed my hand against his chest, trembling. The bullet had gone straight through. I could feel his heart slowing beneath my palm. My other hand clutched the cross around my neck like it was the only thing keeping me breathing.
"I don't want to die... they have to die."
That was the wish.
It wasn't poetic. It wasn't noble. It came from the part of me that broke the moment I saw their bodies collapse.
Then they shot me.
I remember the heat. The sound. The flash. I felt my body jerk back—my skull cracking against the floor.
And yet... I opened my eyes.
I didn't die.
I rose.
Something inside me tore free—rage, sorrow, power—I don't know what it was. But I got up. My body burned, but it obeyed me. I picked up one of their guns with bloodied hands and returned what they gave me tenfold. I didn't stop until every last one of them was dead.
Silence.
Smoke curled through the air. Blood soaked into the floor. I stood there, shaking, surrounded by bodies—and none of them were the ones I wanted to hold.
It was February 9th, 1607. The night time froze.
The night I became something else.
---
I don't remember much of the weeks that followed. Time felt meaningless. I stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. Every morning I woke up hoping not to wake up again. But I always did.
I tried everything.
I slit my wrists. No blood.
I stabbed a blade into my chest. Nothing.
I threw myself off a cliff into a ravine. My bones shattered, but days later—I was whole again.
I wasn't alive. I wasn't dead. I just… remained.
Eventually, I fled Japan. There was nothing left for me there. I returned to Thailand—not because I believed it would save me, but because I thought distance might soften the memories. But the past followed me like a shadow I couldn't unchain.
Years turned to decades. Decades turned to centuries.
People came and went. Wars rose and fell. Countries changed their names.
And I stayed.
I built a company. I made money. I became powerful. The world called me a genius, a success story, a man of vision. But none of them knew the truth:
I am a grave wearing a smile.
Today, I own one of the largest entertainment companies in the world. My face is on magazine covers. Investors trust me. Strangers worship me. I sign contracts with a hand that once held a dying lover's heartbeat.
But inside, I'm still holding his name.
I don't sleep anymore—not truly. I don't pray. I stopped looking at stars because they only remind me how small I still am, even after all this time.
I have seen a hundred thousand sunrises. But I have not seen him.
I think I've forgotten the sound of my mother's voice.
Sometimes, I wonder if the wish worked too well.
Not just immortality… but memory that never fades.
Pain that never dulls.
I walk through this world like a ghost with a heartbeat.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, in the corner I won't look at too closely, I wonder…
Will I ever love again?
Can I?
Or is that the final part of the curse—
to have known love once
and never again?