Chapter 1. A Desolate Morning
The morning sun slowly rose beyond the horizon, spreading golden light across the land. Birds sang from the trees, and a cool breeze drifted gently through the air. Near the edge of the park, a quiet pond reflected the glowing sky as fish moved lazily beneath its surface.
It was the kind of morning people called beautiful.
But he painted something else entirely.
Seated alone on a wooden bench beside the pond, he moved his brush across the canvas in silence. Anyone passing by would have expected warm sunlight, calm water, or the peaceful scenery around him.
But his canvas looked like the remains of a dying world.
The trees were lifeless, their branches twisted like broken hands reaching toward an empty sky. The pond was dark and polluted, its surface littered with dead fish. Above everything hung a pale, colorless atmosphere that made the world feel hollow, as if life itself had quietly disappeared from it.
But he hadn’t always painted the world this way.
There was once a time when his canvases were filled with warmth, color, and light. Back then, he believed the world was something beautiful—almost like paradise itself.
But reality had a cruel way of tearing illusions apart.
And after witnessing what hid beneath the surface, his paintings slowly began to change along with him.
For a moment, Rayan stared at the painting without expression.
Then he set the brush down.
Slowly, he walked toward the pond.
The water trembled softly beneath the morning breeze, distorting his reflection. A man in his twenties stared back at him. Dark, slightly messy hair framed a pale face with sharp features. His black eyes were calm—too calm. Not peaceful, but distant. Like someone who had stopped expecting anything from the world a long time ago.
Around him, people laughed in the distance. A family walked by together. Children ran beneath the sunlight without a care in the world.
Rayan watched them quietly.
“The world always looks beautiful from far away,” he thought.
His gaze lowered toward the water again.
“But people only show the surface.”
A faint ripple crossed his reflection.
Smiles hiding exhaustion.
Love hiding betrayal.
Happiness hiding emptiness.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly—
“Maybe people just pretend not to notice.”
The breeze grew slightly stronger, scattering a few leaves across the ground behind him.
Rayan turned back toward the bench.
And stopped.
Someone was sitting there.
A girl.
She observed the painting silently, her eyes filled with curiosity rather than discomfort.
“You’re interesting,” she said at last. “Most people would paint the beautiful scenery around them.”
Her gaze shifted toward the ruined landscape on the canvas.
“But you painted this instead.”
Rayan walked closer, his expression unreadable.
“Everyone sees the world differently,” he replied calmly. “Some people choose to see the colors.”
His eyes briefly rested on the dead world painted across the canvas.
“Others notice what’s underneath them.”
The girl looked at the painting again, thoughtful.
“Still…” she said softly, “there’s something beautiful about it.”
For the first time, Rayan properly looked at her.
And immediately recognized her face.
Even after all this time, he knew exactly who she was.
“Aysha Eajil.”
A faint smile appeared on her face.
“Long time no see, Rayan Kabir.”
