(A soft knock on the door… then it opens.)
Doctor: Welcome, Mr. Jeremy. Are you alright? Please, have a seat. So… how have you been? How are you holding up?
Jeremy: He sits slowly, as if every bone in his body groans beneath the weight of memories:
" Fine… fine. You know… the life of the elderly holds nothing worth telling, doctor."
Doctor: leans back slightly at his desk:
"Alright… regarding the tests, we've done them, and the results are out [the phone rings...] excuse me… may I answer this?"
Jeremy: (gives a faint nod with a trembling hand) Go ahead. Take your time.
The doctor speaks with his wife for five whole minutes, while Jeremy sits, eyes drifting to a framed photo on the desk—a real family, no masks, no lies, no hollow smiles.
When the doctor approaches, Jeremy gently puts the photo down.
Doctor returning to his seat:
" Sorry… perhaps I kept you waiting."
Jeremy shakes his head, staring somewhere far away:
" No… no problem. I waited two weeks, a few minutes won't hurt. So, doctor… is there something wrong with my head, please tell me.?"
(The doctor lifts the file, reading it while his hand aches.)
Jeremy noticing the tension:
"Does your palm hurt? Near the thumb?"
Doctor glances at his hand, surprised :
"Yes… but how did you know?"
Jeremy with the wisdom of a man who has carried a lifetime:
"During the war, I treated the hands of soldiers injured from carrying their weapons. Give me your hand… I'll make the pain vanish."
(The doctor extends his hand. Jeremy makes a single practiced motion—the pain disappears.)
Doctor twists his wrist, astonished:
" Impressive, Mr. Jeremy. Thank you."
then, his tone returns serious The results… are as follows:
"You have a malignant tumor in your brain.It has grown too far, and there is nothing we can do about it.It's only a matter of time before you die.You might even be lucky you're still alive."
Jeremy stares at the doctor—at his cold, indifferent face:
"Jeremy's thoughts: A tumor… and yet no sympathy? Why...He sees no value in my life...To him, I am just a man who has overstayed his welcome in this world. Perhaps he's right… Perhaps it's time to leave.
(Jeremy stands and walks out of the doctor's office without another word.)
__________________________________________________________________
London, 1967.
In one of its quiet, affluent neighborhoods where the city breathed slowly,lived a man past his seventies—short, frail of body… heavy of heart.
His wealth could have built an entire district, perhaps two…yet there was one thing he never possessed, what humans need more than money:
companionship.
His name was Jeremy.
He had seven children—each with spouses and families.
They visited him on special occasions, laughing in his presence, offering warm words…then leaving again.
As the door closed, silence devoured the house whole.Only in those moments did Jeremy see the truth:
humans are not what they appear.
They wear their masks perfectly—hiding weakness, desire, opportunism behind manufactured smiles.
He saw all of this effortlessly.
That ability—more curse than vision—is what pushed his life into a freezing solitude.
The villa he lived in had thick walls, graceful gardens… but no soul.
Servants moved within it like well-calibrated machinery. measured steps, precise speech, expressionless faces.He regarded them as tools, not people—not out of cruelty…but because he rarely glimpsed anything resembling a living human behind their vacant eyes.
On one of his identical days—on the seventh of December—Jeremy dressed in his black suit slowly.Each button he fastened felt like a wound tearing open in his chest.
This day was unlike any other, His son, Brad, was to be buried.Brad died with his wife in an accident,leaving behind a boy no older than ten—now living with his aunt.
Jeremy descended the stairs, repeating a single truth in his mind:
[ Parents are not meant to bury their children.It is cruelty authored by nature itself.]
At the cemetery.The rain was gentle, but not merely cold—it carried the weight of grief, as if it mourned with them.They stood around the open grave, faces wrinkled with tears.Jeremy fought to hold himself together,
to remain as he had always been—a man not easily swayed.He lost.
A single tear slid from his eye, then vanished among the wrinkles of his skin.
He lifted his gaze, searching for something—anything—to anchor himself.
Then his eyes stopped on his daughter Madeleine's family…and the child who had lost everything… Brad's son.He stood there, silent, frozen…his face lifeless.He didn't even try to cry.Instead, he spat on his hands and rubbed it into his eyes,as if to imitate the others—or to convince himself he belonged among them.
In that moment, Jeremy felt something strange,the child wasn't crying… because he couldn't.Perhaps he was lonelier than Jeremy himself…even though he had never truly known life.
The funeral ended.
They exchanged cold embraces—words of sympathy that held nothing but social obligation.When everyone left, and Madeleine took the boy with her,the sky opened,and rain poured harder.A servant approached with an umbrella to shelter him,but Jeremy pushed it aside gently:
"Hold it over your own head...and go back....Just go.I want to be alone walk alone."
He looked at the grave one last time,touched the soil lightly,then walked away.He wandered aimlessly through London for hours,the cold chewing at his hands and feet.
He sat on a bench in a small park.A pigeon landed beside him.Jeremy offered a soft smile, wanting to say something—but nothing came.He wanted to give it something—but he had nothing to offer.
The pigeon left,and Jeremy remained…alone... again!
as if the entire world had collectively agreed to abandon him.
London hadn't changed—time had.The world had become fast,unwilling to stop for anyone.The elderly were burdens on the streets,moving slowly as everyone rushed past without a glance.
And within the chaos…Jeremy vanished.
__________________________________________________________________
(After Jeremy's disappearance.)
His children searched everywhere.
They plastered his face across train stations, bus stops, old neighborhoods.The police investigated, searched the villa, interrogated the servants, even the neighbors.
But nothing surfaced.
The inheritance froze.
Their lives stopped at the gate of the money they depended on.For the first time in their lives…they tasted poverty.They all settled in the villa—
not out of love,but out of fear…fear of collapse.
Meanwhile, Brad's son lived with Aunt Madeleine, her child,and the children of the rest of the family.A cramped room shared with too many chaotic nights, frozen mornings.
Madeleine's son, Matilda, was painfully stupid.
Brad's boy—though internally shattered—was terrifyingly intelligent.He answered questions effortlessly,watched his teachers as if he knew what they would say before they spoke.
He did not smile....He did not grieve....And when he spoke…children recoiled from him.Yet every student followed him—not because he was fun…but because he was the smartest,the one who shocked them with questions—ethical, twisted, foul for their age.
One day, the orphan said to a child:
"What if a baby grew up alone on an island?Would he develop any human traits at all?"
The child frowned.
" what about that?"
He said:
"So what if the others hunted him… and ate him?Would it be wrong?
After all, he'd be more animal than human."
The boy gaped at him,then muttered something about needing the bathroom,and ran.
Later, he told his mother what he'd heard.She forbade him from ever speaking to Brad's son again.
The day of the final exam came.Madeleine's son's future hung on it.
The results shocked everyone:Brad's son and Madeleine's son both fail in the final exam.
But Brad's son advanced anyway,thanks to his perfect previous grades—
while Madeleine's boy failed despite his excuses.
They returned home.The house boiled with rage.Madeleine seized the orphan,dragged him into the bathroom,and locked the door tight.She whipped him.Dozens of strikes.
He did not scream...He did not cry...He did not plead.
He only stared at the mirror…at himself…and then beyond the mirror and smiled.
When her arm finally went numb, she spat at him:
"You're leaving school.My son will continue and become a successful man…you'll serve him like a dog."
The boy lifted his head and said, with chilling calm:
"Your son is stupid.I doubt he'll ever succeed."
She lunged at him like a wounded animal—but didn't get far.Her husband pulled her away,leaving the child in dead silence.From that night on,he was locked in the children's room at six every evening.
The family gathered in the dining room—Plotting and scheming—as if he were nothing but an extra piece to be crushed.
Months passed....
Their conversations grew darker.Jeremy's disappearance wasn't a tragedy to them…it was an opportunity.
His death would've served them—but his absence was safer.So they found a homeless man with no identity,gave him a small house…made him believe he finally had a place in the world.
A week later…
they burned it down.
The man died.
His identity died with him.
Jeremy's documents were planted at the scene.Police arrived.The family collapsed in tears,demanded investigations,played the role of grieving victims.
Eventually… the case closed.
A body that never belonged to them was buried.They attended the funeral as if burying their father.Even the children cried—truly convinced it was their grandfather.Only one child did not cry.
Brad's son.
Not because he couldn't…
but because he knew everything—and saw beneath the masks,just like Jeremy his grandfather.
Weeks later, they held a grand dinner in the corridor.Food… laughter…the echo of children playing.They celebrated the end of poverty:
the inheritance would now be claimed.
Then the bookshelf moved.It slid slowly—as if an unseen hand gripped its side.Jeremy stepped out of the darkness, wearing simple clothes,
an apple in his hand,a small smile on his face…the smile of a man who did not die.
He spoke softly, without raising his voice:
"Did you miss me… my children?"
Everyone froze. Even the air stopped.Then a single sound erupted Hysterical laughter… the laughter of the orphaned child.
Brad's son.\ Emmanuel./ Em.
As if he had finally found
exactly what he'd been waiting for.