12 July 1979. Southwestern Iran, a dusty town near Abadan, inside a small hospital that smelled of oil and fear.
The light in the delivery room was wrong. Not the usual yellow glare of a cheap bulb, but something pale and silver, as if a thin thread of moonlight had slipped down from the sky and hung motionless above the bed.
The doctor's hands trembled as he lifted the newborn. For a second he froze.
"God protect us…" he whispered, voice cracking.
The baby's hair was white. Not pale blond, not greyish — pure, untouched white. As if all the sunlight in the world had gathered inside that tiny skull and was now pouring out.
The mother, exhausted and bleeding, smiled weakly and reached out.
"Give him to me… he's mine."
The doctor placed the child in her arms. She pressed her forehead to his and breathed the words like a prayer:
"How beautiful you are… so white… like an angel fallen from heaven."
The father stood just outside the door. Reza. Cancer was already eating his lungs, but on this day he still looked strong. He stepped inside, took the baby, and stared at him for a long time. Then, almost as if reciting a vow, he said quietly:
"Your name will be Uriel. God's fire. If this world is drowning in darkness… then you will be the one who brings the light."
The mother gave a tired smile.
"Fire… that's a heavy name for such a small boy."
"Exactly," Reza answered, eyes never leaving his son. "This world doesn't need warmth. It needs fire."
But the world did not love the light.
Three years later, in the summer of 1982, Uriel was allowed outside alone for the first time.
The neighbourhood children were playing in the dusty street. One of them noticed the boy's hair — shining white under the sun — and screamed:
"Albino! Son of the devil! White demon!"
Stones flew. The first one struck his forehead. The second hit his cheek. Uriel did not cry. He simply stood there, watching them with large, calm grey eyes while blood painted red streaks across his white hair.
Reza burst out of the house with a stick in his hand. The children scattered. He scooped his son up, carried him inside, and slammed the door shut.
That evening, after washing the blood away, Reza placed a cheap black dye bottle on the table.
"Does it hurt?" he asked gently.
Uriel nodded.
"But… why does everyone hate me?"
Reza stayed silent for a long time. Then he ran his rough hand over the boy's hair and spoke softly:
"Because inside you is something they don't have. The world prefers darkness, my little lamb. You are the light. Until you grow up… until you understand the power you carry… you must stay hidden."
The sharp smell of cheap black dye filled the room. It was the first real lie Uriel ever learned.
Reza dyed every strand carefully. When he finished, he stepped back and looked at his son in the cracked mirror.
"Now you look like an ordinary boy," he said.
But both of them knew it was a lie.
Outside, in the deep night, something ancient and vast was watching. Not with human eyes. Not from this world. It simply watched.
Uriel was only three years old. And the whole world had already decided he should not exist.