The days in Orthid did not pass. They stretched out like shadows, dragged on like wounds that would not heal.
Ethan sat in the same spot where he sat every day—a corner of the warehouse, his back against the stone wall, his eyes fixed on the void. The training sword leaned against him, untouched. The food Wermilyass had left him, before leaving to attend to "matters" he hadn't explained, was still in the clay bowl, untouched, the bread hardened, the soup curdled.
Wermilyass had left two weeks ago. He said he would return in a few weeks and had left Alerua in Ether's care. The eight-year-old girl, whose memories the man had tried to steal, now slept in a corner of the warehouse, wrapped in a woolen blanket, the broken mask still on her face. She slept a lot. Ethan didn't know if it was because of the trauma or if it was just how the children of Orthid learned to survive—sleeping as much as possible so they wouldn't have to face the silence.
Ethan didn't sleep. Didn't eat. Didn't speak.
He just existed.
Dark circles carved his face like scars. The beard he had never let grow now covered his chin like a shadow. His eyes, once full of stubborn hope, were now dull, as if the light that illuminated them had been extinguished.
Ether watched him from across the warehouse, motionless, his smooth porcelain mask reflecting the pale neon light. He said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched.
On the third night, when Ethan finally fell asleep—not a deep sleep, but a stupor of exhaustion—Ether approached. He knelt. His gloved hand touched Ethan's shoulder with a lightness that didn't seem to belong to that man.
"Ethan," he called, his voice muffled by the mask, but still distinct. "Wake up."
Ethan opened his eyes. His eyes were red, dry, as if he had cried until no tears remained.
"What?" he asked, his voice hoarse, broken.
"Do you want to see your world again?" Ether asked. "Before we proceed with the training?"
Ethan didn't answer immediately. His eyes fixed on Ether, trying to discern if this was a trap.
"Why?" he asked, finally. "Why would you take me there again?"
Ether didn't answer. He just extended his hand.
"Because," he said, his voice low, "I don't want you to lose yourself. Not before I need you."
Ethan looked at the extended hand. Then, slowly, he took it.
+-+
Earth was the same and different.
The same smell of wet earth and flowers. The same blue sky, now with clouds moving slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. But there was something different—the streets were calmer, people walked with a tranquility Ethan hadn't seen in decades. There was no hum of machines. No surgical silence of Orthid. Just life.
Ethan and Ether were on a rooftop, the same one they had been on last time. The city stretched around them, illuminated by the morning sun. Alerua, in Ether's arms, was sleeping.
"Don't follow me," Ethan said, his voice low. "I need to do this alone."
Ether tilted his head. The porcelain mask, which he had put on before crossing the portal, showed no expression. But his eyes, behind it, seemed to understand.
"I'll be here," Ether said. "When you want to return, I'll be here."
Ethan descended the building's stairs. The streets were full of people, but no one looked at him. No one noticed the purple hair, the strange clothes, the lost look. He was just another person in a city full of people.
He walked.
He didn't know where he was going, but his feet guided him. He passed a bakery where the smell of warm bread made him stop for a moment, remembering Júlia, laughing, telling him he should eat more. He passed a school where children ran in the yard, their laughter echoing like music. He passed a park where couples sat on benches, hands intertwined, eyes fixed on the horizon.
And then, he arrived at the place where he had died.
The street was different. The asphalt, once stained with his blood, was now clean. The lamppost he had leaned against before being run over was still there, but now it had a plaque. A small plaque, of metal, with an inscription:
"Here, Denis Mello Young gave his life for a better world. His memory lives in every step we take toward freedom."
Ethan fell to his knees.
Denis. His name. The man he had been. The man who died run over by a car, on some street, with no one but the machines watching.
And yet, there was a plaque. A tribute. Someone had remembered him.
The tears came, finally. They were not tears of sadness. They were tears of relief.
"She remembered me," he whispered, his voice faltering. "Júlia remembered me."
He stood up. His legs trembled, but he kept walking.
Júlia's house was the same. The same stone facade, the same dark wooden door, the same windows with lace curtains. Ethan stopped in front of it, his heart beating so hard it felt like it would burst from his chest.
Part of him wanted to leave. To return to Orthid, to the silence, to the void. But another part—the part that still loved Júlia—forced him forward.
He knocked on the door.
The sound echoed in the silence of the street. A dog barked in the distance. A child laughed, somewhere.
The door opened.
The man who appeared was tall, with dark hair and brown eyes. He had the same smile as Júlia, the same sparkle in his eyes, the same way of tilting his head when confused.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice polite but cautious.
Ethan couldn't speak. His eyes fixed on the man's face, searching for any resemblance, any trait that connected him to Júlia.
"Who is it, Dad?" asked a voice behind him.
A twelve-year-old girl, her hair tied in a ponytail, peeked from behind the man. Her eyes, brown and curious, fixed on Ethan.
"I don't know," the man replied, not taking his eyes off Ethan. "Are you okay, sir? You look... lost."
Ethan felt tears rising to his eyes. He realized he was trembling.
"When did Júlia get married?" he asked, his voice hoarse, broken.
The man frowned. His eyes, once curious, were now suspicious.
"How do you know my grandmother?" he asked.
"Please," Ethan whispered. "Just tell me. When did she get married?"
The man hesitated. He looked at his daughter, who stared at Ethan with wide eyes. Then, he sighed.
"My grandmother got married when she was forty," he said, his voice lower. "To my grandfather, a man named Miguel. She waited a long time. She always said she was waiting for someone, but that someone never showed up." He looked at Ethan with a strange expression. "I never understood who it was. But she talked about him. Sometimes, when she was alone."
Ethan felt his heart tighten. The pain was so great he could barely breathe.
"Thank you," he whispered, stepping back. "Thank you for telling me."
"Wait," the man called. "Who are you?"
Ethan didn't answer. He turned and walked away from the house, his steps fast, almost running.
The man stood in the doorway, watching him. The girl, beside him, tugged his sleeve.
"Dad, who was that man?" she asked.
"I don't know," the man replied, his voice low. "But Grandma Júlia had written in one of her diaries: 'I want to dye Denis's hair purple.'"
The girl looked at the place where Ethan had disappeared.
"Is it him?"
The man closed the door without answering his daughter. In the diary, it was also written that this Denis had skin too dark for the purple hair dye to look pretty, but she still wanted to see his hair purple. This was one of Grandmother's wishes. "Weird guy," the man thought.
+-+
Ethan walked aimlessly.
The streets, once full of life, now seemed empty. The people, once smiling, now seemed like ghosts. The world around him had lost its color.
'She waited for me.'
The words echoed in his mind like a mantra. Júlia waited. She waited for decades, until she finally gave up. And he, meanwhile, was in another world, training to become a weapon, falling in love with a sadist who called him a slave.
He felt shame. A shame so deep it almost made him vomit.
*She waited. And I... fell in love with another.*
Night fell without him noticing. The city lights came on, one by one, like fallen stars on the earth. Ethan kept walking, his feet dragging on the asphalt, his head empty, his chest heavy.
When he finally looked up, he saw Ether.
The masked man was sitting at a café table, on the terrace of a small establishment. The mask rested on the table, next to a cup of coffee that must have gone cold. Ether's face, bare and vulnerable, was illuminated by the faint light of a streetlamp. His beige, curly hair fell over his forehead like a curtain. His eyes, a darker beige, were fixed on Alerua, who was playing with a child the same age—a dark-haired girl, daughter of the woman sitting next to Ether, talking to him as if they were old friends.
Ethan approached. His steps, heavy, dragged on the ground.
Ether looked up. He said nothing. Just watched, as always.
"What does it take to kill Zirinos and go to the world of the dead?" Ethan asked, his voice low but firm. "Tell me. And I'll do whatever it takes."
Ether was silent. His dark-beige eyes fixed on Ethan's, as if measuring the depth of his pain.
"You'll need to cut away your emotions," Ether said, finally. "The First Cut. You'll rip out your ability to feel grief, to feel love, to feel pain. And then, you'll be a weapon."
"Then I'll do it."
Ether tilted his head. The streetlamp light illuminated his face, creating shadows that danced like specters.
"Do you really want to do this?" he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Cut away your emotions. Become a Void. Lose everything that makes you human."
Ethan looked at the sky.
The moon, pale and round, shone among the thin clouds. The stars, small and distant, trembled like candles in the wind.
Ethan's eyes, once full of tears and pain, grew harder.
The moonlight reflected in them, and for a moment, they seemed made of steel.
Ether waited.
The woman beside him, distracted by the children, didn't notice the silence that had settled.
The wind carried his words away, whatever they were...