The wind was howling fiercely in that narrow street, swirling the dead autumn leaves and pushing them to dance in the darkness, like weightless ghosts fading with every cold whisper. The surrounding walls were covered with a thin layer of frost, reflecting the faint moonlight that was not enough to dispel the deep shadows of the night.
There, in an abandoned corner, lay a worn-out body leaning quietly against the wall, as if the wall was its last refuge, the only embrace on that harsh night. That body carried within its bones a soul weary from a long battle—a battle fought alone, without weapons, without friends, without family.
Kyle—that name no longer echoed in anyone's memory—was dying. A rare disease with no known cure, called "Kaidos," slowly devoured his body mercilessly, like a hungry child destroying everything in front of it. Pain was nothing new to him; it had become his constant companion until silence was his only refuge.
The cold stung his skin, but it could not compare to the coldness of his heart. Kyle's eyes, despite all the horrors he endured, had not lost that strange calmness. His gaze was cold, as if he saw beyond this world, as if he did not belong to it at all.
He did not cry, did not scream, did not beg. There was no one to hear. All those who said they loved him fled when the real pain came. All those who claimed to be friends abandoned him just as life itself had abandoned them.
He thought about them all, but could only accept that silent betrayal. There was no anger, only a coldness that crept into his soul.
"There's nothing left for me…" he whispered in a hoarse voice, as if the words themselves weighed heavily on his chest.
Kyle's hands trembled from the severity of the illness, but he tried to keep them steady, lost between consciousness and his growing pain. Every heartbeat reminded him he was still here, but he no longer had the strength to resist.
In his ear, the sounds of the city were distant, unclear, as if coming from another world. A noise he no longer cared about, no longer wanted to hear.
He remembered his mother, the woman who left this world early, who died before he truly saw the light. He recalled her last words, which he did not understand at the time, but he thought her love would be enough to keep him warm. He was wrong.
He remembered his father, the distant man who gave him nothing but coldness and neglect. He never knew how to love or even be a father. He left him alone in the worst moments of his weakness.
He had no regrets. He did not ask for mercy. He just wanted to leave with dignity, to close his eyes without seeing more betrayals and abandonment.
No tears fell, for tears are not for everyone. Some people grieve silently, and some die silently.
Kyle was the latter.
With every breath, the pain intensified, engulfing his body like a merciless raging wave. He tried to scream, to call for help, but his throat was broken, and his voice was faint, as if too distant from this world.
"No… I don't want to leave yet," he muttered inside himself, but the words found no way out.
His last gaze was toward the sky, toward that cold moon watching the city mercilessly. He felt something strange, as if that moment was not the end, as if something greater awaited him, but he could not explain it.
The wind intensified, carrying with it the scent of rain that had yet to fall, and the rustling of nearby trees.
His head fell onto his chest, breathing with difficulty, as if his soul was trying to escape his body before he left this world.
Despite everything, his eyes remained open, despite the pain and sadness. His gaze remained silent, cold, telling no one what he had suffered, revealing no weakness.
The sky watched, the city slept, and Kyle was silently bidding farewell to the world.
And at that moment, before losing consciousness forever, he said to himself:
"Death… is not the end, but the beginning of a new silence."