The News

Chapter 1: The News

In the early dawn of the seventh of September, the area residents of the Roakside building, New York, discovered the body of a young man. The police suspect that he had committed suicide by jumping from the rooftop. The news anchor's voice crackled through the small, outdated television in a corner of a bustling restaurant, delivering the cold, detached facts of the tragedy.

"...the man has been identified as Peter Watson, 25 years old..."

In a small restaurant nestled in an alley, the vibrant chatter, the clinking of cutlery, and the sounds from the old television filled the air. The restaurant's symbol and logo on the entrance stood out, drawing in passersby. Inside, life was in full swing. Diners hurried through their meals, children begged for toys, couples flirted with playful abandon. The atmosphere was warm, lively, and noisy.

But amidst the lively scene, a woman sat alone, frozen in her seat like a statue. Her gaze was fixed on the television screen, her expression unreadable. Before her, a steaming plate of beefsteak sat untouched, its mouthwatering aroma lost on her. The warmth of the food contrasted sharply with the icy coldness that seemed to envelop her. The only thing that held her attention was the news broadcast.

Her breath began to quicken, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Then, without warning, she stood up abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She left the restaurant without a word, leaving her meal abandoned on the table, the steak still radiating heat as if waiting for its master to return.

Outside, the woman walked mechanically, her steps heavy and slow. The lively city around her blurred into the background as she made her way home. Once inside her small, dimly lit apartment, she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her body trembling. A strange smile flickered across her lips, but it was unclear if it was born of happiness, disbelief, or something else entirely. And then, the smile crumbled as a sob tore from her throat.

The house echoed with the sound of her crying, the grief pouring out in waves. The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on everything in the room.

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"Peter! Peter, where are you?" Laura's voice rang out, strong and panicked, echoing through the empty halls of a large, old house.

"...I'm here." A weak voice responded from a closet stuffed with sports equipment and tools.

Hearing the sound, Laura rushed towards the closet, her heart pounding. She tugged at the door, but it wouldn't budge. It was locked.

"Hang on, Peter! I'll be back with the key!" she shouted; her voice thick with urgency.

Inside the closet, Peter heard her footsteps fading away. His body ached, but he managed to whisper, "Thank you, Laura."

Laura returned quickly, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the key. She unlocked the door and swung it open, her breath ragged from running. But the sight of Peter inside the closet made her heart sink with anger and sorrow.

Peter's face was a mess of bruises, his eyes swollen, and his nose red as if he had been crying. His mouth was cracked and bleeding, his clothes soaked. His fragile appearance only deepened Laura's fury.

"Are you okay? Did those bastards come after you again?" Laura's voice was sharp, tinged with worry.

"I'm okay, Laura," Peter whispered, forcing a small smile to calm her down.

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"Where's my assignment, Laura?" A middle-aged woman's voice rang out, impatient and stern.

"Oh, the assignment! It's right there," Laura replied, pointing to a stack of papers on the desk.

"I notice you've been more distracted than usual, Laura. If you're having trouble, you can talk to me. Don't keep it bottled up inside. It's not good for you," the woman said, her tone softening slightly.

"Thank you, but I've just been thinking about some nonsense. Nothing to worry about," Laura replied with a forced laugh, quickly returning to her seat.

But as she sat down, Laura's thoughts drifted. "Why am I suddenly thinking about this?" she wondered, her mind unable to let go of the news she had seen earlier.

Yes, her friend is dead. Three days ago. And now, here she is, struggling with these terrible assignments.

It had been a long time since she last saw Peter. They hadn't been in touch for a year—no, since graduation. They had met a few times after that, but then Peter told her he was moving to California, to the South. After that, all contact was lost. Every piece of information about Peter had been erased, leaving her unable to reach him. How absurd it was that the next time she heard his name, it was in a news report about his death on television.

Laura exhaled a cloud of smoke, slowly walking along the pavement. The wind whipped against her face, carrying the smoke away.

Peter and Laura met when she first moved to New York in high school at seventeen. People always saw Laura as a delinquent—fighting, smoking, partying—Laura never missed a chance to prove them right. I remember Peter as a skinny boy, his blonde hair and pale skin making him look so fragile, as if he could break at any moment. A boy of few words, sensitive to the world around him, and burdened by a softness that made him vulnerable in a world that prized strength. He had always felt things too deeply, whether it was the sadness in a stray animal's eyes or the loneliness that gnawed at him when he was surrounded by people. He didn't fit in, and he knew it. At school, he kept his head down, blending into the background, unnoticed, unremarkable.

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Rain poured down, soaking the sidewalk.

"Why do you smoke?" Peter asked, his voice barely audible over the downpour.

"Huh? Do you want to try? Forget it; smoking's not for you," Laura replied, glancing at Peter, the sensitive boy who seemed too pure for the harshness of their world.

"You didn't answer my question," Peter persisted, his eyes searching hers.

"Smoking helps me deal with stress. I have stress, so I smoke. Simple as that, okay?"

"Even though you know it's bad?"

"What did you say?" The rain grew louder, drowning out their conversation.

Peter smiled faintly. "Nothing."

"You know, when it rains, the smoke doesn't fade away into the air. It stays around you, your body covered by it," Peter said, his voice tinged with sadness.

"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Literature," Laura teased, trying to lighten the mood.

But the rain continued to fall, as did the heavy silence between them.