The room was quiet—too quiet for something as important as a birth.
A thin line of pale morning light slipped through the cracked blinds, stretching across the floor and stopping just at the edge of a small, worn crib. Dust floated through the air, slow and weightless, like even time itself had decided to move carefully in this place.
And then—
A cry.
Sharp. Sudden. Alive.
Jinzu's chest rose for the first time, his tiny body shaking as air filled his lungs. His fingers twitched, curling and uncurling like he was trying to grab something that wasn't there. His eyes opened slightly, unfocused, staring into a world that didn't greet him back.
No celebration.
No voices saying his name.
No parents.
Only silence.
A woman stood near the doorway—his aunt. She didn't rush over. She didn't smile. Her arms were crossed, and her eyes weren't soft… they were cautious. Like she wasn't looking at a newborn… but at something she didn't fully trust.
For a moment, Jinzu's crying slowed.
His tiny hand lifted… slowly… weakly…
Reaching.
Not for her.
But toward the empty air above him.
Like something was there.
Something only he could feel.
By the time Jinzu turned one, the house had a rhythm.
Not a happy one—but a quiet, controlled one.
The floors creaked the same way every morning. The window always let in just enough light to wake him up. His aunt moved through the house like she was used to being alone, even though she wasn't anymore.
Jinzu didn't cry much.
That was the strange part.
Babies were supposed to cry, scream, reach for attention—but Jinzu would just… stare. Long, quiet stares at walls, ceilings, corners of rooms where nothing existed.
Sometimes, his eyes would follow something.
Something invisible.
His aunt noticed.
She always noticed.
One afternoon, she sat him down on the floor with a small toy—something simple, something normal. Jinzu picked it up, turning it slowly in his hands.
Then he stopped.
His body went still.
Completely still.
The toy slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a soft clack.
His eyes stayed open… but empty.
Gone.
"…Jinzu?" his aunt called, her voice low.
No response.
For a few seconds, nothing moved.
Then—
He blinked.
And just like that, he was back.
He looked down at his hands.
Quiet.
Confused.
Like something had happened…
But he couldn't remember what.
At age two, the feeling started.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Something heavier.
Jinzu would wake up in the middle of the night, sitting up in his small bed, his blanket half-fallen to the floor. The house would be silent, the kind of silence that made even the smallest sound feel loud.
He would look at his hands.
And sometimes…
They weren't clean.
A faint green stain would sit across his fingers, smeared lightly across his palm like wet paint that had already begun to dry.
Jinzu didn't understand it.
He would rub his hands together, slow at first… then faster… then harder.
But it wouldn't come off right away.
His breathing would get uneven.
Not full panic.
Just… discomfort.
Like something was wrong, but he didn't have the words to explain it.
From the hallway, his aunt would watch.
Not entering.
Not asking.
Just watching.
By age three, Jinzu started going outside more.
Short walks.
Quiet parks.
Places where people existed—but not too close.
The sky always felt… bigger to him.
Too big.
Like it stretched farther than it should.
One day, while walking past a small fenced area, Jinzu stopped.
There was nothing there.
Just air.
But his eyes locked onto something.
His body stiffened.
His fingers twitched again—just like when he was born.
"…Jinzu," his aunt said sharply.
He didn't move.
A second passed.
Then another.
And then—
Black.
When he opened his eyes again, he was on the ground.
The world felt tilted.
Like it had shifted slightly out of place.
His head hurt—not sharp, but heavy.
He pushed himself up slowly, his hands pressing against the pavement.
That's when he saw it.
Green.
Again.
On his hands.
Thicker this time.
Not just a stain.
A smear.
He froze.
His aunt grabbed his wrist suddenly, pulling his hand closer to her face. Her grip was tighter than usual.
"…What did you do?" she whispered.
Jinzu didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because he didn't know.
That night, something changed.
The house didn't feel the same.
The air was heavier.
The silence louder.
Jinzu sat on the floor near the couch, his small legs pulled close to his chest, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
His aunt stood across the room.
Watching him again.
But this time…
There was fear in her face.
Not confusion.
Not curiosity.
Fear.
"You…" she started, then stopped.
Her hands clenched slightly.
Jinzu looked up at her.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Their eyes met.
And for a second…
Everything felt still.
Too still.
Her expression shifted.
Her fear turned into something sharper.
Her arm raised—
Fast.
Too fast.
Jinzu didn't understand.
Not the movement.
Not the reason.
Only the feeling.
A sudden rush of panic in his chest—
And then—
Black.
Silence.
When Jinzu opened his eyes again, he was in the same spot.
The room looked the same.
Nothing was broken.
Nothing was out of place.
But something felt… wrong.
His aunt stood farther away now.
Frozen.
Her hand slightly shaking.
Jinzu slowly looked down at his own hands.
Clean.
This time… clean.
But the feeling didn't go away.
That heavy, sinking feeling in his chest.
Like something had happened again.
Something he couldn't see.
Something no one would explain.
He pulled his arms close to himself, curling slightly, his body small against the quiet room.
And for the first time—
Jinzu felt it clearly.
Not confusion.
Not curiosity.
But fear.
Not of the world.
But of himself.