'In the silence of the beginning, a house of terror sired the sound of its first breath. Vanity and wisdom had blinded the fools; for they had known their end, yet could not see the dread that came with it. There was no breath, nor was there any sound. The night had died, and the day began.'

...

'The moon is beautiful, isn't it?'

As I stood beneath the graceful, ever-so-callous, I was reminded of that phrase. So proud in its piety, the moon spectated the night in all its misery.

'I never liked the moon.'

A raven-haired man lay in a closed room, dressed in white nightwear. People might have mistaken him for a duvet if not for his dark hair. Sealed inside a room with only a window to peek out, Ainar found solace in his bed.

The warmth of the soft and accepting embrace gave him pleasure beyond the cold night's brilliance.

Perhaps it was a chrysalis for a change. It was a pity that his existence felt so meager. A flawed shell for a flawed man. He could only rot inside.

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The doctors had advised him to be treated at the hospital, yet all he wanted was to stay in his bed.

As sane as one could be—a happy man, a dying man.

‘I would have liked to be weaker.'

He reached into the drawer next to his bed to grab some medicine. He managed a trivial attempt to take charge.

‘Seems like I have no more pills.’

'Well, it doesn't matter I am about to die anyway.’

Just as the last word escaped his mouth, his eyes became moist. His whole body began to shake.

'It’s okay. It's fine, I am content with my life.’

If only he was fine.

Ainar was a pitiful man, not that he lacked adventure; his travels had taken him to the most obscure places, from the shamanic tribes of the Amazon to the pyramids of Giza.

He experienced all the pleasures of beauty and bounty. Yet, he only wished to encounter the absurd, believing that it was the only thing that could give him answers.

He never found it.

The eyes that once saw vibrant hues had lost their vitality.

‘I wish I could see something magical for once. Something mystical that steals all my powers.’

‘Something that gnaws at my efforts and births something lacking an aim. Yet it gives me power all the same.'

His thoughts slowly faded, yet his room remained unchanged.

‘I wish I had ...'

‘I wish I ...'

…

And then he died.

…

I opened my eyes one day and I could fly.