London, 1987.

A group of children is playing in a field. It is a happy scene—an ideal one for a painter to capture on their canvas, for a photographer to frame, or for a writer to immortalize in words. But the truth is, there is no such thing as an ideal scene. The society we live in can't create a truly ideal scenario.

Because whenever someone is happy, there is also someone who is alone, who is scared, who is starving, who is crying, who is sad. Our society isn't equal for everyone. It is ruthless. It is warm for those who have money, authority, and power. It is cold for those who are poor and powerless.

Society needs to be equal. If it's not equal, then it's not society.

However, I am just a writer capturing a particular boy's life. I wish I were a fully invisible observer. But I am only an abandoned existence. It's not an unfortunate thing but a very beautiful one. Human life is a beautiful journey in its own way.

I am writing about a boy who is considered a cursed child. Although he is not cursed, I have lived a long life and seen many lives end. I can say that this boy isn't cursed, but he is very unlucky. Very unlucky to be born in this place.

Back to the scene: everyone is very happy except one boy. There are 13 kids playing some games, but they didn’t include just one boy. You might be wondering why that is, right?

It's because they think that this boy’s mother is a witch. The kids aren’t afraid of him, and they don’t hate him, but they won’t play with him because their parents told them not to get involved with him. Their parents don’t see this boy as human. In this time period, calling someone a witch is rare, but in the past, it wasn’t rare at all. I have seen many women meet their end because they were considered witches. Considered by whom? By society. However, his mother isn’t a witch. Long ago, at the end of 1892, his great-grandmother was set on fire because people thought she was a witch. After that, a rumor spread that his whole family were witches. That rumor still lives among the local people.

Oh, it’s evening already! The parents of those fortunate children have come to take their children home.

Some parents are saying among themselves, “This evil child is here too.”

Some mothers are asking their children, “Did you get close to that evil kid? I told you not to come to this field!”

One child is going to be punished because he came to this field where the “evil” kid stays. His mother said to him, “I told you not to come here!”

The child replied, “But there’s no field near here! And how is it my fault that the evil kid is here?”

That child is very angry. He looked at the "evil" child and said, “Don’t come to this field anymore!”

As he said this, he threw a stone at the "evil" child. No one said anything. Because even if you hurt him, no one objects. Also, the child who threw the stone is the son of the local governor.

The stone hits his forehead, and a little blood begins to leak. It hurts, but he is used to being hurt.

After all, he is the "evil" child.

When the "evil" child reaches home, his mother sees his wound and asks him warmly, "What happened? Did they harm you?"

The child doesn’t reply directly. Instead, he asks, "Mom, are you a witch?"

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His mother replies, "No, my son, I am not a witch."

The boy says, "I know, right? Such a warm person can't be a witch."

His mother adds, "Remember, my son, I can’t be a witch because you are my son. I can’t be evil to my own kind, right?"

But one day, all the local adults raided the house of the "witch," the house of the "evil" child, the house of that boy.

They found some things which clearly showed, to them, that she was a witch, an expert black magician, an evil person.

The local people set the house on fire, thinking the "evil" boy was somewhere inside.

But that "evil" boy—no, that innocent boy—was outside the house, watching and listening to his mother’s screams.

He wasn’t crying, nor was he smiling. He was empty.

Suddenly, he remembered a line from his mother: "I can’t be a witch because you are my son. I can’t be evil to my own kind, right?"

That boy, with a broken heart—no, it can't be called a broken heart; instead, I should say with no heart, no humanity left inside him—understands the true meaning behind her words.

She meant that "An evil person can't be evil to another evil person."

"A witch can't be evil to an evil child because they are both evil."

This is how his mother thinks. This is why I said that this "evil" boy is very unfortunate to have been born here. That boy's name is John. John, the "evil" child.

When the fire had almost consumed everything, he understood the real meaning behind his life.

His mother thought he was evil, but he hadn't done anything evil. This meant he wasn’t the same as his mother. He was different from her. This couldn't be right! He needed to be evil! Because if he didn't become evil, he would be an enemy of his mother.

The reason behind his birth was evil.

Present:

John stands before his death. He is in front of the gallows. The gallows loom before him, but he doesn't seem afraid of death.

Jebi is also here to witness the execution of his little toy.

John said something, but no one understood the meaning behind his words.

He said, "Finally, I am the same as her. And you are the evil spirit she summoned, right? I knew you were with me the whole time. You were writing about me, weren't you? You were the unfortunate one!"

John directed these words at "the writer."

Suddenly, Jebi noticed a man. Jebi moved closer to the man—a young, blond man wearing glasses, holding a pen and a book.

Jebi asked the man, "Who are you?"

The man looked a bit shocked but replied, "Wait until death meets him."

Jebi didn’t say anything after that.

It was time for John to say goodbye to this world. He was totally happy with his death after everyone had given him the title of "EVIL."

He had a warm smile as he faced death. And so, his story ended.

Jebi looked at that guy who was writing something. The guy came in front of Jebi and said, "Nice to meet you, Mister Jebi Astry. My name is the Writer."

Jebi responded, "It's nice to meet you too. How do you know my name?"

The Writer replied, "I know everything except the memories you don’t know."

Jebi asked, "Hey, can you please step outside?"

The Writer responded, "Of course."

They both entered a narrow alley.

Within the blink of an eye, Jebi grabbed the Writer's neck and twisted it with brute force.

The Writer was dead, or at least that’s what Jebi thought.

The Writer’s neck snapped back into place.

"Impressive! You were able to see me and kill me in the blink of an eye!" the Writer said.

Jebi retorted, "What do you mean by 'seeing' you? You aren’t invisible. John could see you too!"

The Writer explained, "That’s true. I am not invisible, but I am not visible to all. I am like a trash bin that no one notices. Only people with high observational skills can see me."

Jebi demanded, "Who are you? How do you know about me?"

The Writer replied, "I am a being closer to god. I am an observer, a writer. I can travel between worlds and dimensions. I can’t be killed, as you saw. I just want to write beautiful things."

Jebi asked, "What do you want from me?"

The Writer answered, "I used to write John's life, but from now on, I will be writing yours!"

Jebi retorted, "But you were unfortunate!"

The Writer responded, "Oh, come on. I don’t have luck, you see! It was her bad luck that she met me. I’m talking about John’s mother."

Jebi said, "Do what you want, but turn invisible completely. Can you do that?"

The Writer replied, "I can, but I don’t like to be fully invisible. You see, if I am invisible, you won’t be able to understand how it feels to be dead."

Jebi, puzzled, asked, "What are you saying?"

The Writer continued, "Nothing, just a prophecy for you. You will die soon. I can see your future."

Jebi questioned, "How is that? Are you some kind of omnipotent being who can see the future?"

The Writer clarified, "Not omnipotent, but nigh-omnipotent! And about the future, it constantly changes. No matter how much the future changes, there’s a very thin possibility that you will live. No, there’s no chance that you will live!"

Jebi was silent.

The Writer noted, "You are surprisingly calm after hearing your death news!"

Jebi replied, "I have to be calm. If there’s no possibility I will live, then I will just create new possibilities for my survival. It’s not too late, right?"

The Writer laughed, "You really are an interesting human! Hahaha!"