It's been too long since I've felt the sun's warmth on my skin.

The only reason I've remained confined to the suffocating walls of my house is that I couldn't find a compelling enough reason to step outside.

Sure, I could have left the house, but there wasn't much to do. I could have watched stray kittens meander about the streets looking for their mother or a flock of birds perched on the city's dispersed electrical lines, but there was nothing I could have done.

There isn't anyone looking for me either, so I don't need to go outside, no matter how pathetic that sounds.

But that changes today.

I stood at the window with the curtains drawn just enough to let a glimmer of sunlight peek through the darkness. The sliver of light cut through the dim room, casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.

I reached out, touching the warm beam with tentative fingers, feeling the heat seep into my skin. It was a small, almost insignificant sensation, but it was a reminder of the world beyond these walls.

I took a deep breath, feeling the stale air of the room fill my lungs. I pulled the curtains open wider, letting more sunlight flood the room. The brightness was almost blinding after so long in the darkness, but I welcomed it.

I took in the mess that had gathered over the years as I looked around the room. Books, papers, and pictures were strewn in random heaps. I picked up a photograph from my desk, wiping away the dust to reveal a younger, happier version of myself.

I could barely remember what made life so promising back then. The faces of my parents are almost a blur to me now; their features have faded with time and distance. Yet I could still make out their smiles, their eyes filled with pride and hope.

The photograph slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the ground. I stood there for a moment, staring at it, before bending down to pick it up. I placed it back on the desk and went my way to the bathroom to prepare for the day.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep and the haze of uncertainty that clouded my mind. As I combed my hair and dressed in clothes that felt foreign after so long, I couldn't ignore the nervous flutter in my stomach.

Before I knew it, the longer I stared at myself in the mirror, the more I started to second-guess myself.

What good will it do for me when I visit this museum? I never heard of an art museum asking authors like me to display their work in such a stately setting. Painters and inventors only get the chance to express themselves and provide entertainment for their audience.

Nobody has the patience or interest to read long passages of writing. Certainly not in this day and age. Because their minds could only afford to be as attentive as a goldfish, they would all choose to look at pictures.

Why the fuck am I invited, then? Simply because one of the employers chose to utilize their influence to extend an invitation to me since they're fans? I hope not. In the end, I am still skeptical about the invitation this Apate de los Reyes gave me.

Regardless, I agreed to come to this event anyway, so it’s not like I have a choice on the matter.

I gave myself a good, hard slap on the face and quickly snatched up the pill bottle off my desk and tucked it inside my sling bag. Deep inside, I am hoping that this change of scenery will be a good one.

With the pill bottle safely tucked into my sling bag, I grabbed my coat, which still held the faint scent of the last time I went outside. I slipped it on, feeling its familiar weight settle on my shoulders. The anticipation of stepping out into the world again sent a shiver of both fear and excitement down my spine.

I took one last look around the room, my sanctuary, and my prison for so long. The clutter, the dust, the memories—all of it would still be here when I returned. But for now, I needed to break free from it, even if just for a day.

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I opened the front door and stepped outside. The sunlight was brighter than I remembered, making me squint as my eyes adjusted. The air smelled different—fresher, cleaner. I stood on the porch for a moment, taking it all in. It felt like I was stepping into another world.

I made my way down the street, my steps hesitant at first but growing more confident with each stride. The city around me bustled with life. People moved with purpose, cars honked, and the distant hum of conversation filled the air.

As I approached the bus stop, I couldn't help but notice the curious glances from passersby. It had been so long since I was part of this world that I felt like an outsider, but I held my head high, determined to see this through.

And while I was waiting for the bus, a sudden cough beside me caused me to startle. I looked to my right and saw an old lady that I failed to notice.

“You’re Avel, aren’t you, boy?” The old lady's voice was raspy yet gentle, carrying a tone of familiarity.

I blinked in surprise. "Yes, I am. Have we met before?"

“You forgot about me?” The old lady let out a chuckle and stared off into the distance before speaking with a sad sigh. “You used to visit the park near this city’s cathedral. You would sit on the bench by the fountain, scribbling away in that old notebook of yours. Sometimes, you'd read aloud to yourself, lost in your world of words."

I blinked again, trying to place the old lady's face among the hazy memories of my past. The park near the city's cathedral—that brought back a flood of images. The fountain, the bench where I spent countless afternoons, and the notebook that was once my constant companion.

Slowly, recognition dawned on me. "Mrs. Garcia?" I asked hesitantly, searching her face for confirmation.

Her eyes twinkled with amusement. "Close enough, dear. You used to call me Tita Carmen back then."

I smiled faintly, a rush of memories flooding back as I recalled Tita Carmen, the kind old lady who frequented the park near the cathedral. "Tita Carmen, I'm sorry. It's been so long. I didn't recognize you at first."

Tita Carmen waved off my apology with a wrinkled hand. "No need to apologize, my boy. Time has a way of changing everything, including our memories. But I never forgot you. I always wondered what became of that young boy who writes all the time."

"...I never thought I'd run into you here," I admitted, my voice tinged with emotion. "I haven't been back to that park in ages."

Tita Carmen nodded knowingly. "Life has a way of pulling us in different directions, doesn't it? But it's good to see you out and about again, Avel."

I glanced at the bus approaching in the distance, torn between the desire to catch up with Tita Carmen and the urgency of the event awaiting me at the museum.

"I'm actually on my way to an art museum event," I explained quickly. "Someone invited me, and I decided to step out of my comfort zone for once."

Her eyes lit up with interest. "An art museum event? How wonderful! I always knew you had a way with words, Avel. I'm sure your presence there will be a bright spot in their day."

I chuckled softly, a little touched by her unwavering faith in me. "Thank you, Tita Carmen. I hope so."

The bus pulled up to the stop, its doors opening with a hiss. I hesitated for a moment, reluctant to leave the conversation hanging. "I'd love to catch up sometime," I said earnestly, "if you're ever around the park again."

Tita Carmen smiled warmly. "I'd like that, Avel. Take care of yourself.”

With a final nod of gratitude, I boarded the bus, feeling a renewed sense of purpose and connection. As I found a seat and settled in for the ride, Tita Carmen's words echoed in my mind. Her unexpected presence had been a gentle reminder of the life I once knew.

As the bus carried me towards the museum, the initial warmth from my encounter with Tita Carmen began to wane. The familiar feeling of emptiness settled back in, reminding me of the walls I had built around myself over the years. Despite Tita Carmen's kindness and the memories she evoked, the connection I felt with her quickly dissipated.

I glanced down at my hands, clasped tightly in my lap. They trembled slightly, betraying the internal ache that bubbled beneath the surface. Despite my commitment to finally make a change, I can’t help but feel doubt run down my spine.

"I hope I'm doing the right thing," I muttered under my breath, a whisper barely audible amidst the hum of the bus engine and the faint chatter of other passengers.

As if in response to my thoughts, my gaze drifted toward the window. There, on the roadside, stood a lone child. He couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old, with tousled hair and a slightly oversized backpack slung over one shoulder.

The bus slowed as it approached a traffic light, affording me a few moments to study the child. His eyes were locked in the distance, as if he were lost in thought, or perhaps in the enormity of his surroundings.

But what caught my attention were the bruises that adorned his arms and face—dark, angry marks that stood out against his pale skin.

Despite the obvious signs of injury, no one around seemed to bat an eye. Pedestrians hurried past him, and drivers focused on the road ahead. It was as if he existed in a world of his own, invisible to the hurried masses around him.

As I continued to observe him, questions began to swirl in my head. Was anyone aware of his plight? Did he have someone waiting anxiously for his return home? I don’t understand how anyone could ignore a kid like that standing so close to the road alone.

And then, for a fleeting moment, our eyes locked through the bus window as if he sensed me. He smiled at me, a small, cryptic gesture that felt like a silent acknowledgment. In that brief exchange, it was as though he recognized that I saw him.

His smile, however, did little to mask the haunting emptiness in his eyes. They looked dull and deranged, void of the innocence one would expect from a child his age. Everything felt cold as if a dark cloud had descended upon us both in that passing glance.

The bus finally pulled away, carrying me further away from the child and his unsettling gaze. I couldn't help but replay the moment in my mind, and for a moment, I found myself lost in a whirlwind of emotions and unanswered questions.

I glanced around the bus as it moved through the city streets, trying to distract myself from the encounter. Other passengers seemed engrossed in their own worlds—tapping on phones, reading books, or staring out the window with expressions.

The usual chatter and occasional laughter filled the air, but none of it could dispel the heaviness that lingered in my thoughts. I sighed heavily and slumped back into my seat, trying to reassure myself.

"Don't think too much of it," I murmured to myself. "That kid will be alright. Today, it's all about me and no one else."

Deep down, I knew that it wasn’t enough to simply dismiss what I’d seen. Perhaps it was a silent plea for attention, a cry for help that went unnoticed by everyone else.

"It's all about me today," I muttered, trying to recenter my thoughts on the evening ahead. The museum awaited—a place where I was supposed to find inspiration, validation, and perhaps even escape. Yet, the heaviness in my heart refused to dissipate.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and leaned against the window. I’m worried. I’m very worried, but I should get rid of this heaviness as soon as possible.