A warm glow filled the house, the scent of freshly baked bread drifting through the air. Laughter echoed from the living room as Alex sat nestled between his parents on the couch. His mother's fingers combed gently through his hair while his father playfully ruffled it.
"You're going to be a strong one, Alex," his father said, pride gleaming in his eyes. "Maybe an athlete! Or a scholar!"
Alex grinned. "Why not both?"
His mother chuckled, her voice light and full of warmth. "Then we'll have to get you the best books and the best trainers, won't we?"
For the first six years of his life, Alex had known nothing but happiness. His parents had worked tirelessly for him, pouring all their love into their only child. His father, a dedicated man with a strong will, provided for them well. His mother, the heart of the home, made every day special.
But fate was cruel.
It started as a cough, nothing alarming at first. Then came the fatigue, the rapid weight loss, the sleepless nights. The diagnosis hit like a hammer. Cancer. The word alone sent chills through the household. Alex, barely able to understand, only saw his mother growing weaker. The warmth in her voice faded, her laughter became rare, and soon, even the smallest tasks drained her.
"It's okay, Mom. I'll help," Alex said one night, climbing onto the bed beside her.
She smiled, weak but full of love. "I know you will, sweetheart. You always do."
Years passed. The hospital visits became frequent. His father held onto his strength, never letting Alex see his pain, but the burden was evident. The money they had saved drained quickly. The once bright and lively house dimmed, filled with quiet whispers of worry and grief.
Then, she was gone.
Alex was twelve when it happened. The day started like any other, but by evening, everything shattered. His mother's hand, once so warm, lay cold in his grasp. His father sat beside the bed, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking.
The funeral was a blur. Faces he barely recognized, murmured condolences, the suffocating scent of flowers. He wanted to cry, to scream, but all he could do was sit in silence, numb to the world around him.
And then, his father changed.
Grief swallowed the man whole. His strong front cracked, and soon, bottles of alcohol replaced the warmth of his embrace. At first, he tried to keep it together, but as the days passed, he lost himself. The man who had once carried Alex on his shoulders, who had held his hand so tightly, now stumbled through the house, barely recognizing his son.
Then came the gambling.
"Just one more game, Alex. I can fix this," his father would mutter.
But he never did. The losses piled up, debts grew, and their stable home became a battlefield of unpaid bills and desperation.
The night before his thirteenth birthday, his father raised a hand against him. It never landed. Realization dawned in his father's eyes, horror etched across his face. Without a word, he left. Just like that.
Alex never saw him again.
Days later, the police came. His father had taken his own life. A single bullet. A letter, unreadable through Alex's tears, spoke of regret, of failure, and a final attempt at redemption—his organs donated to give others a chance at life.
Alex didn't know how to process it. He stopped crying. He stopped speaking. The pain was too much.
Orphaned, he was sent away. The orphanage was cold, unfamiliar. No warm hands to hold him, no gentle words to ease his nightmares. He became just another child among many, forgotten by the world.
And then, the debt collectors came.
"Your father owed us. Debts don't just disappear, boy."
He was sixteen when they first arrived. He tried everything. He begged, he promised, he even considered selling a part of himself—anything to escape the ever-growing shadow of his father's mistakes. But no matter what he did, it was never enough.
Then, one day, a man came. Unlike the others, he didn't sneer or threaten. He offered a contract.
"Work with us, and we'll clear your father's debt."
Something in Alex had already died by then. He didn't care anymore. He took the paper, signed without reading. And as he did, something within him whispered that he was sealing his fate.
But fate had one last twist.
The night before he was to begin working, the man returned, holding an envelope.
"Alex," he said, voice softer than before. "I did this behind their backs. This is for you."
Confused, Alex reached for the envelope, but then—
A flash of silver. His own hand, gripping a knife. A swift plunge. The man staggered, his eyes wide, blood pooling from the wound in his chest.
The contract fluttered to the floor, now stained red. The envelope slipped from his fingers, revealing its contents—a letter, money, a chance at a future.
"I was going to help you," the man choked out, collapsing to the ground.
Alex's breath hitched.
No.
No, no, no.
He fell to his knees, hands shaking, eyes wide with horror as the man—the only person who had ever tried to help him—lay dying before him. He wanted to scream, to undo what he had done, but it was too late.
He had killed the only kindness left in his life.
He was arrested. There was no fight left in him. He barely heard the judge's words, barely registered the angry faces of the man's family.
Guilty.
That night, in the cold darkness of his cell, Alex truly died. The boy who had once laughed, who had once dreamed, who had once held onto hope—he was gone.
All that remained was a hollow shell, a mask of smiles and empty words, carried by a ghost of the past.
And then, he woke up.