Mario gasped awake in his bed. His chest felt heavy and tight. He placed his right hand on it subconsciously before slowly sitting up.

  Thump… Thump… Thump…

  His heart beat erratically, making it harder for him to breathe.

  He drew in air slowly, then released it, repeating the motion in an effort to steady himself.

  After several minutes, the rhythm of his breathing eased, and he regained a slight measure of calm.

  "I feel like I had a long dream… a dream that lasted a lifetime," he murmured, a hint of confusion lingering in his eyes.

  He couldn't recall it in full. Even the fragments he retained felt remote, as though something stood between him and the emotions attached to them.

  His right hand rose instinctively to wipe at his blurred vision. When he lowered it and glanced down, his fingers were damp—slightly sticky.

  'Tears…?'

  His brows drew together as he stared at his hand, sensing the faint moisture clinging to his skin. '…Did I cry?'

  Before he could dwell on it, a sharp pulse of pain scattered his thoughts.

  Urghhh!

  Both hands flew to his temples as he bent forward.

  The haze in his mind began to clear—still distant, but enough to send his thoughts spiraling for a few moments.

  Then they vanished.

  The memories settled quietly in his mind, and his heartbeat slowly steadied, leaving behind a faint sense of relief.

  Though the pain was gone, a shallow heaviness still pressed against his chest.

  Mario tried to contemplate it, but before he could, a sudden pang struck his stomach first.

  He immediately set those thoughts aside, pulled his supplies from the plastic bag overhead, grabbed his pot, and walked out.

  ***

  Mario set the steaming bowl of ramen on the plastic table and tucked a damp cloth beneath the pot.

  He ate quietly, but with each bite, vague recollections of solitary meals drifted into his mind, amplifying the stillness around him.

  After finishing, he swallowed the green nutrition pill, yet its bitterness did nothing to ease the weight the silence left behind.

  He cleaned his dirty dishes afterward.

  The sun was already up.

  Mario didn't want to linger inside his home, especially with the heavy silence and his eagerness to see the director after that long dream.

  Stepping outside, he retrieved his already-dried clothes from the clothesline and headed to the public bathroom.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He washed himself but didn't wash his clothes, just placing them in a plastic bag for tomorrow's washing.

  Returning inside, Mario crouched down beside the bed and dug out a pouch from the ground beneath it, then left.

  Walking out of the alley, he proceeded toward the stop.

  A weathered-looking car stopped in front of him, and he got inside.

  On the way to the orphanage, he asked the driver to play some music, hoping the sound could distract his thoughts away from themselves.

  Half an hour later, the car stopped.

  After paying, he stepped out.

  Mario stood outside the orphanage and paused for a few minutes, looking at the renovated building in front of him.

  Another memory resurfaced, unrelenting—this time about this building, though compared to the memory, this building could only be considered modest.

  Children's voices could be heard inside, breaking him away from his thoughts.

  He entered and immediately heard a call of excitement from the children.

  "Big brother Mario!"

  They wanted to run to him, but he stopped them with an extended hand. The children's heads dropped in disappointment, feeling that he appeared colder to them on this particular day.

  Looking at their expressions, Mario put on his usual mask, making himself appear warm and gentle before saying in the same tone, "I'll ask the director to buy you toys later."

  Hearing that, the children's expressions immediately brightened as they expressed their gratitude the way the orphanage had taught them before running away to play with each other.

  Looking at their backs, he couldn't help but remember a certain child from his dream—a child who was more well-behaved and somewhat mature for his age.

  Mario let out a soft breath, and for a moment his eyes seemed adrift.

  He shook his head lightly before proceeding to the director's office.

  His eyes briefly lingered on the nameplate on the door—"Director Mario's Office"—before he knocked.

  "Enter." A short while later, an old voice answered from inside.

  He opened the door, stepped inside, then slowly closed it.

  When his eyes fell on the old man sitting in the chair looking at the book on the table, a certain memory passed through his mind.

  It was the same old man, but much older and weaker. His body lay on a hospital bed, eyes blurry while looking at him with recognition.

  They talked. Before stepping out, he glanced back and saw the old man's quiet disappointment, the complexity of his emotions clear even with closed eyes.

  Then—

  The same old man lying on the hospital bed, eyes permanently closed and lifeless. The heart monitor beeped in a straight line.

  Mario froze, dazed by the vivid memory; his heart hammered relentlessly as the heaviness in his chest deepened, pressing down on him with every beat.

  The director lifted his gaze from the book. "Why are you standing there? Come, sit down."

  His index finger pointed at the old sofa to the side.

  Receiving no response, the director carefully looked at Mario.

  Seeing Mario frozen and disoriented, the director's brow knitted as he asked, "Little Mario… are you all right?"

  His voice was soft, edged with quiet concern.

  Hearing the familiar voice and way of address, Mario's eyes regained clarity, but unaware of it, a single tear escaped from his left eye.

  The director froze, seeing him cry for the first time. Panic sharpened his voice. "Child… what happened?"

  His face tightened with deeper concern as he shot to his feet and hurried toward Mario.

  Mario was confused about the director's action before he felt wetness on his left cheek.

  He wiped it with his hand, then turned to look at his hand—it was slightly wet.

  'Huh? Did I really cry again?' His brows drew together, but before he could dwell on the thought, a hand pressed gently on his shoulder.

  He turned forward and saw the director standing in front of him, right hand gently placed on his shoulder, his expression concerned.

  "Tell me… is something wrong?"

  Mario donned his mask and gave a brief shake of his head, smiling lightly. "Just a bad dream… nothing to worry about."

  However, the director said nothing, holding Mario with a steady gaze, his hand firm on the boy's shoulder as if rooting him in place until he spoke.

  For some unknown reason, Mario couldn't meet his gaze, his eyes drifting across the director's face instead.

  Unable to take it anymore, Mario let out a resigned sigh inwardly before gently removing the hand from his shoulder.

  He passed by the director and sat down on the old sofa.

  The director followed him quietly before sitting on another sofa in front of him.

  His eyes kept looking at him—silent and waiting.

  Both stayed silent for a few minutes before the old director finally spoke. "You're not usually this emotional."

  He paused and corrected himself. "No… you've never been emotional."

  After a moment, he added, pressing gently, "Tell me… is there a problem?"

  Mario shook his head and answered with his usual mask on. "Nothing, really. It's just some dream messing with my head."

  However, the director didn't buy it and pressed again, this time his voice firm. "Child… I've known you for a long time, and I know you better than anyone. Don't try to hide it from me. Tell me what really happened."

  Hearing what the director said and understanding his implications, Mario paused.

  'So… he knew, huh.' Despite the thought, Mario wasn't really surprised knowing his mask was seen through, as he already had that feeling before.

  "...I'm not exactly sure." A brief pause before he answered in a low voice. "It… only happened after I tried the unique skill on the panel."

  The director remained silent, listening to Mario, though his eyes showed slight surprise hearing about the unique skill. But he didn't pay it mind for now. "What happened then?"

  "I… saw you die." Contrary to what he was saying, Mario's tone appeared calm, almost indifferent, but his eyes momentarily turned empty.

  "You saw me die?" The director raised an eyebrow in surprise and asked again in confirmation.

  Mario nodded silently.

  "How did I die, then?"

  "You died of old age." Mario said with the same tone as his head turned to look at the floor.

  Silence—

  The director paused, hearing that, before eventually leaning closer to Mario. "...Look at me, child."

  Mario's head turned, and he locked eyes with the director.

  "Listen, child. There's no need to feel sad about it. Everyone will wither and die," his eyes turned gentle before a faint smile tugged at his lips. "…Including me."

  "...Sad?" Mario muttered to himself.

  Seeing that, the director lightened the atmosphere and said with a wide smile, "...And look at me. Do I look dead to you?"

  Then he flexed the muscles on his shoulder.

  Hearing that, Mario looked at him carefully—black hair with strands of white, and though looking old, he was muscular and full of vigor compared to the version of him in the simulation.

  Mario also smiled, though it came off stiff, as he hadn't put on his mask.

  Afterwards, they remained silent for nearly ten minutes before the director finally spoke. "Can you tell me what happened, child?”