The day began with a voice slicing through the fog of half-consciousness.
"Don't you have to go to work today?"
My sister's tone was sharp, impatient—but beneath it, concern lingered.
I forced my eyes open. My body protested, every limb heavy, as if I were sinking deeper into the mattress. The ceiling above blurred in and out of focus.
It's been like this ever since Mother died and Father left us to fend for ourselves.
Looking back now, not much has changed.
I'm still the same workaholic nerd who doesn't know how to enjoy life.
My sister, however, has changed—especially as her health has declined in recent years.
Though I love my work, I'm notoriously lazy in bed. I often arrive late because I fail to wake up on time. Today was no exception.
I didn't need to check the clock. I already knew—I had overslept.
Last night, I stayed up late watching fireworks with my sister.
A rare moment of peace. The bursts of color reflected in her eyes, filling them with something I hadn't seen in a long time—wonder.
It was genuinely fun spending time with her, teasing her as we used to.
For a little while, we forgot everything.
She laughed, and I allowed myself to believe, even if only for a few hours, that things were normal. That everything was fine.
But reality has no patience for illusions. It always returns, unrelenting.
Three hours.
That's all the sleep I managed over the past several nights.
My body felt like lead, thoughts sluggish and tangled.
My chest ached—not from illness, but from something deeper—a pressure that had settled there long ago.
I ran a hand over my face, willing myself to move. Get up. Move. Survive.
No time to rest. I had work.
I stumbled out of bed, each movement slow and deliberate.
Dressing became an automatic process—shirt, jacket, shoes.
My own hunger could wait. It always did. But my sister's breakfast—that was non-negotiable.
Stepping outside, I nearly tripped over something.
A box.
A small, metal box sat directly in front of our doorstep.
I stared at it, my sluggish mind struggling to register its presence.
It wasn't there last night.
A misplaced object? Perhaps. Neighborhood kids often left things behind.
But something about it—its precise placement, the strange symbol etched into its lid—made me pause.
I bent down, fingers brushing the cool metal. Locked.
A strange unease settled in my chest, but I shoved it aside. No time for mysteries. Not today.
The sky rumbled.
Rain.
Of course.
No umbrella. No time to walk to the bus stand.
The cold air bit into my skin as I hailed a cab.
The weight pressing on my chest tightened, exhaustion settling in my bones like an unwanted guest.
The driver was an old man, his face weathered, his gaze sharp.
The kind of person who had seen too much of the world.
"Sir, are you the famous prodigy Kamanuzzaman?"
His voice was light, curious. But my patience was already thin.
I didn't answer.
He chuckled to himself. "The rumors are true then. You don't speak much. Sir, you look tense—too tense for a man your age. Something on your mind?"
I exhaled slowly. "That's none of your business."
"Heh. Young people these days... always burning with something—anger, ambition, or despair. You carry too much in that head of yours, sir. Look around you. The world breathes, the rain sings. Even the most brilliant mind needs rest."
I laughed under my breath, the sound bitter. "The damn rain doesn't sing. It just falls."
The old man only smiled. "Ah, you remind me of someone I once knew. Let me give you something, though I don't know if a man like you will remember it."
His voice softened:
"The river does not stop for the fallen leaf,Nor does the wind weep for the scattered petals.A moment exists, then is lost—So drink deep, while it still lingers."
The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror, eyes shadowed under the dim streetlights.
His fingers tapped lightly on the worn steering wheel, as if measuring something unseen.
Then, he spoke.
"The snake that devours its own tail never dies—only changes. You, boy... you carry the scent of something that does not belong to this world."
His voice was calm, almost absentminded, as if he were speaking to no one in particular.
The words sat heavy in the air, thick like the coming rain.
I closed my eyes for a moment, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave.
His words lingered, fragile yet persistent.
And yet… they felt familiar.
Something about them scratched at the edges of my memory, like an echo from a distant past.
Had I read them somewhere? Heard them before?
The sensation unsettled me, but I couldn't place why.
For the first time, I looked at him.
He had the eyes of someone who had lived too long.
I frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Nothing you'd understand right now."
Silence settled between us.
I scoffed. Another old man spewing nonsense. The city had plenty of them.
The car slowed to a stop. "This is your stop, sir."
I stepped out without another word, slamming the door shut behind me.
The rain greeted me instantly, cold and relentless.
I had already forgotten the driver's words.
But the words had not forgotten me.
I was already late. The meeting had started without me.
My boss was probably furious. But none of it mattered.
I didn't go to the conference room. Instead, I walked to the research lab.
Inside, the machines hummed softly, their steady rhythm grounding me.
I exhaled. The lab was the only place where the weight on my chest eased, even if just a little.
I picked up a research paper from the desk, scanning the formulas.
But my mind drifted.
Back to the old man's words.
My thoughts still anchored to the taxi driver's cryptic message.
"The snake that devours its own tail never dies—only changes."
Ridiculous. Empty words from an aging man trying to sound wise.
And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that his gaze had pierced through me, as if he saw something I couldn't.
"The river does not stop for the fallen leaf."
I clenched my jaw.
"Nor does the wind weep for the scattered petals."
I pressed my fingers against my temple, trying to shake off the exhaustion.
Trying to ignore the weight that never seemed to leave me.
"A moment exists, then is lost—"
A bitter thought crept into my mind.
Maybe some people never get to drink deep.
Maybe some of us are just meant to drown.
But there was no time to think about that.
Something felt off.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a cold, sterile glow over the lab.
The air was still—too still.
My workstation was exactly as I had left it, papers arranged in the same scattered pattern, my laptop lid slightly open, the faint hum of the machines filling the silence.
Everything was normal.
Except it wasn't.
Because then I saw it.
The box.
My breath hitched. My entire body went rigid.
The same metal box from my doorstep.
Sitting there. On my lab table.
Impossible.
I had left it outside. I was certain of it.
There was no way—no logical explanation for how it had appeared here.
No one had entered the room. No one had touched my things.
And yet…
Here it was.
My gaze swept the room, searching for an answer, a flaw in my memory.
Nothing.
The silence of the lab pressed against my ears, heavy, suffocating.
I stepped closer, staring at the box, heart pounding.
It was locked, just as before.
But now, the strange symbol on its lid seemed clearer, sharper, as if it were demanding to be understood.
A single thought cut through my exhaustion like a knife.
I am running out of time.
For what?
The symbol on its lid seemed even more distinct now, the grooves etched into the metal catching the artificial light like scars.
Something about it stirred a deep unease in me, a pulse of familiarity I couldn't place.
I took a slow step forward, my heartbeat a drum against my ribs.
The room felt smaller. The air, heavier.
I reached out—hesitated.
My fingers hovered over the lid, the weight on my chest pressing harder.
I swallowed, steadying my breath.
And then—I touched it.