A Beautiful Lie

In the midst of darkness, a single point of light shone, small and distant at first. Slowly, it began to expand, reaching outward, its acceleration increasing—or perhaps, it was simply getting closer. The brightness became almost blinding, forcing Soren to lift his right arm to shield his face from the oncoming radiance.

Then, the light touched him.

And suddenly, it softened—no longer blinding, but warm and natural.

The sound of rustling leaves filled the air, the wind gently shaking the treetops. Somewhere in the distance, a commentator's voice echoed in the background.

"He did it! The score is now 3-2—they're in the lead!"

Soren slowly lowered his arm, his breath catching in his throat.

He saw it.

Soren was back in his 13-year-old body, standing before his home.

The familiar sight of the two-story white brick house stood before him, nestled within a surrounding treeline. The backyard stretched into a vast, vibrant sea of green, and the terrace was enclosed by glass doors, reflecting the golden sunlight.

He stood motionless on the front lawn, his body tense, his mind scrambling to process what he was seeing. He took an uncertain step back.

This is real.

His home was right there—down to the last detail.

A warm, familiar voice cut through his thoughts, drifting down from an open window.

"Sorr! Food is ready!"

His stomach twisted.

This doesn't make sense.

A few seconds ago, I was—

I was—

What?

His thoughts flickered, struggling to grasp onto something—anything. But the memory of before was slipping from his mind like grains of sand through his fingers.

He hesitated.

And then…

The food.

Soren's breath steadied. He let go of whatever fragmented thoughts had been clawing at the edges of his mind.

For the first time in a long while, everything was perfect.

The gentle wind played with his dark hair as he walked toward the front door. A strange, unfamiliar weight had lifted from his shoulders, leaving only warmth behind.

He stepped inside.

The moment he did, a wave of nostalgic, home-cooked air embraced him—sweet, rich, and inviting. He inhaled deeply, the scent wrapping around him like a memory made real.

At the entrance, he slipped off his shoes, stepping onto the familiar wooden floor.

Then, he saw them.

Mother. Father. Auren.

Sitting together at the dining table, smiling, waiting.

At the center of the table, a steaming pot of creamy chicken pasta sat in a black cast-iron dish, its aroma filling the space with comfort.

Soren's gaze flickered across each of them, his heart pounding in his chest.

It's real. It's all real.

Father clicked off the TV as Auren set down the last plates on the table. A rich, savory aroma filled the air—Mother's signature chicken pasta.

They were all waiting for him.

Like they always did.

Auren glanced up, tapping the back of the chair next to him impatiently."Sit down already, or I won't leave you anything."

Soren hesitated.

Then, he sat across from Auren, next to Mother.

She patted his shoulder gently, her warmth seeping through his shirt."You said you liked the pasta last time, so I made some again today," she said, her voice filled with quiet joy.

Her eyes glowed with happiness, like she was truly, deeply content.

Soren's chest tightened slightly—but he forced a small smile.

"Thanks, Mom."

The truth was, he loved anything she made.

Father leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. His tone was teasing, lighthearted—"Sorr, how's that school project going? Want your old man to help you?"

Soren's fingers froze for a fraction of a second on his fork.

His school project?

What school project?

A quick breath. A well-practiced response."Ouh... It's already finished. But thanks."

That was a lie.

Soren didn't have a project. He didn't even attend school.

But his parents didn't need to know that.

He told lies to protect them.Lies to shield himself.Lies to keep this world perfect.

Auren smirked. "Wow. Guess little brother really is a genius."

Soren forced a chuckle, nudging a loose piece of pasta on his plate.

Auren always teased him like this. Like he was proud.

But was he?

The thought passed, then faded into the background, drowned out by the sound of clinking utensils.

Mother was humming softly as she served more food, her rhythm matching the warmth of the flickering fireplace.

Soren glanced toward the window.

Outside, the backyard stretched into a quiet, moonlit expanse. The world beyond the trees was a comforting unknown. A vast, fascinating place waiting to be explored.

But Soren never did.

Or rather, he had stopped wanting to.

He used to love the outside world—how things fit together, how patterns repeated themselves in perfect synchronicity. But over time, he realized something was missing.

Someone to share it with.

He had always been alone.

People were complicated.Conversations felt forced.Connections were temporary.

At first, he thought he could keep trying.

That if he reached out enough, he would find someone who understood him. Someone who could see the world the way he did.

But they never did.

People wanted too much—drama, excitement, stories. They didn't care about the quiet details, the beauty of just existing.

And eventually, he stopped trying.

Soren didn't tell his family that.

When they asked if he had friends, he lied.When they asked if he liked someone, he lied.

Because this was enough.Because he didn't want them to worry.

Because if they knew the truth—how painfully lonely he really was—

It would ruin everything.

After finishing the meal, Soren pushed his chair back and stood up.He muttered a quiet "Thanks, Mom."

His mother smiled, rubbing his shoulder gently as he passed.

He climbed the stairs, the wooden steps creaking beneath him.

Falling onto the upstairs sofa, he grabbed the game controller from the coffee table, flipping on the console.

A new game had just been released—the critics were calling it "Game of the Year."Every kid wanted it.

Soren had begged his father for two months to get it.And he finally did.

But as it turned out… it was a two-player game.

His father walked up the stairs, stretching his arms as he sat beside Soren."So, what's this new game about?"

Soren's eyes lit up.

"This? It's based on my favorite manga, Bakumo! It's about two pilots working together to fight enemies, but first, you have to roll this ball through an obstacle course—if you make it, the ball opens up, and you get your mecha monster!"

His words came rushed, excited, full of energy.

His father, however, just stared at the screen, expression blank.

"...What?"

Soren sighed, grabbing a controller and handing it to him. "Come on, I'll show you."

They started the game.

Soren effortlessly guided his ball through the obstacle course, landing it perfectly on the target area.

His father?

He didn't even make it past the first jump.

"Damn thing is rigged," his father muttered under his breath.

He tried again. And again.

And failed.

By the fifth attempt, his expression had twisted in frustration.

With a sigh, he tossed the controller onto the couch and stood up.

"This is so dumb." He ruffled Soren's hair. "Come on, let's go play soccer or something outside. The weather's too nice to waste inside."

Soren stared at the screen. The second player slot still flashing, waiting.

"Ahh, I'm good, Dad. I've got some reading to do."

His father shrugged, walking off without another word.

Soren sat there.

For a moment, he stared at the empty space on the couch next to him.

Then, he switched controllers.

And played the two-player game alone.

Waiting for time to pass.

After a while, Soren grew tired of the game. It wasn't fun anymore. Maybe it never was.

He took the disc out of the console, holding it for a moment, before tossing it into the small trash bin in his room.

Downstairs, the sound of laughter and idle conversation filled the air. The warmth of home. The glow of the television flickered against the walls, its colors dancing across familiar faces.

As Soren stepped down the stairs, his mother turned toward him, her smile widening.

"Soren, come sit here—the movie's starting. Oh, and add some wood to the fireplace first."

He nodded without a word.

Walking toward the fireplace, he bent down, picking up two logs. The weight was familiar, natural.

But as he straightened, his eyes lifted to the flames.

Something about them felt… off.

The fire crackled gently, its golden hues flickering like they always did.

Yet in the center—

An ember burned.

Brighter than the rest.

A single ember, glowing against the shifting flames, almost too bright, like it didn't belong.

Soren's breathing slowed. His fingers gripped the wood tighter.

Something's wrong.

He was supposed to remember something.

Something important.

Right now.

The ember flickered. The world around him faded.

No voices. No movement. No warmth.

His family sat behind him, but he couldn't hear them.

The television was on, but there was no sound.

A stillness settled over the room, thick and unnatural.

It felt like three people were standing behind him.

Watching. Waiting.

A cold, primal fear gripped his chest.

He opened his mouth, his voice barely a whisper—

"An ember..."

Then—

It was gone.

His breath hitched. His grip loosened.

Why am I—

Oh. The fire.

The TV crackled back to life. His mother's voice cut through the moment as if nothing had happened.

"Soren, hurry up!"

Soren blinked.

The ember was just a flame again.

The house was warm. The voices were back. The fear was gone.

Something had happened.

But what?