Chapter 1

Soundtrack for this chapter:

Architects - "Doomsday" (Piano Reprise)

A cold, piercing wind lashed mercilessly against his face, seeping through the baggy fabric of the old jacket to the very bone. It left behind only a numbness, as if his body had already begun to refuse to feel. Ethan stood at the very edge of "The Overlook Bridge"—an old, massive metal bridge in Jersey City that rose solitarily over the abyss. Below, somewhere far away, cars rumbled with a monotonous drone, their noise mingling with the whistle of the wind to create a single, indifferent roar that echoed in his empty, seemingly scoured-out mind. The icy, biting air enveloped him, intensifying his internal torpor, turning each breath into torture.

He felt the rough, frigid surface of the railing beneath his palms, as if trying to find in it some form of resistance, a final, fragile thread binding him to reality. His eyes, sunken and framed by noticeable bags, were extinguished, like two embers in a forgotten fire, staring through the blurred, indifferent lights of Manhattan into nothingness. Three-day stubble covered his pale, gaunt face, and his disheveled, medium-length hair only emphasized his emaciated appearance. His once-athletic body was now a mere shadow, a painful reminder of a life long gone. He no longer felt anything but a deep, all-encompassing apathy that, like a tight rope, was strangling the last remnants of his will, turning him into a lifeless doll.

Something inside him had died. That very "spark"—the ability to feel, to create, to see meaning in the future—had vanished. Six years ago, to the day, it had been extinguished forever, taking a part of his soul with it. He felt a heavy, icy lump in his chest that constricted his lungs, preventing him from taking a full breath. Every breath felt like a betrayal—a betrayal to his departed brother, to those happy days that would never return. "My life is meaningless without my brother," he whispered, and the wind, as if an accomplice to his pain, caught the words and scattered them into the void of the night.

All attempts to "fix" himself had proven fruitless. The irregular visits to a psychologist, cut short by a lack of money and a disbelief in their futility; the listless returns to the piano, which had once been his passion but now only amplified the pain with phantom touches of his brother on the keys; looking through old photographs that no longer evoked warmth but only sharpened the sense of loss to an unbearable edge. All paths to healing were blocked, buried under the rubble of his shattered life.

Now he stood here, on the edge of the bridge, in a state of final surrender, without a fight, without regrets. He wanted this burden to disappear. He wanted to disappear himself. A suppressed groan, a silent scream stuck in his throat, was the only answer to this unbearable weight that was slowly but surely killing him from within.

The thought of the piano, of music, of his brother, which had so often tormented him, flooded back, a painful whirlwind sweeping away the cold of the bridge and the indifferent drone of the cars. In Ethan's mind, as if by the flip of a switch, a long-forgotten but invariably painful scene began to play…

The bridge dissolved. The piercing cold and monotonous hum vanished, replaced by a warm, familiar air that enveloped him like a gentle memory. The room, flooded with a soft, amber light, smelled of the old polished wood of the piano and the light, slightly sweet aroma of apple cider. On Ethan's face, then still alive and unclouded by sorrow, a wide, sincere smile bloomed—the very one that now seemed like a stranger's mask. He sat at the massive, inlaid keys, feeling their smooth, cool surface under his fingers, not yet worn and weary.

Beside him, nudging him gently with an elbow in time with the melody, sat his brother. His laughter—clear, rolling, pure as crystal—filled the room, intertwining with the music, creating a symphony of happiness he would never be able to forget. "Come on, Ethan, again! Pure improvisation!" his brother's encouraging words were the most beautiful melody that had ever touched his ears, a promise of infinite possibilities.

Ethan's fingers, then still nimble, quick, and full of incredible energy, glided over the keys with an ease and inspiration, as if the keys themselves awaited his touch. They wove harmonious chords, creating cascades of notes that poured out, alive and pulsating, reflecting their absolute unity. In that moment, they were one, two bodies but a single melody, a single breath. Music was his air, his meaning, his future. He felt a sense of flight, of absolute, boundless freedom as his soul merged with each note, dissolving in its perfection. It was a moment of perfection, of crystalline clarity, when everything seemed possible, when the future stretched before them as an endless, sunlit road.

Suddenly, the image darkened, as if an old, faded film reel had snapped and burned in the fire. The soft light dimmed, the cozy aroma vanished, and the sound of the piano was cut off abruptly, deafeningly, replaced by a heavy, absolute silence. But this silence lasted only a moment, like a harbinger of hell. It was immediately followed by a wild, ear-splitting screech of metal, the piercing squeal of brakes, a dull thud and the clang of crumpling iron—a cacophony of horror that set his teeth on edge and made his blood run cold. The acrid, nauseating smell of burnt rubber, mixed with the scent of gasoline and something sharp, metallic—the smell of death—hit his nostrils. He tasted the bitter flavor of fear and ash on his tongue, a taste that would never disappear, seared into every cell of his being. It was the painful, venomous memory of the day his world had collapsed, shattering into a million pieces.

A sharp, sudden blow to his chest, as if from an invisible force, mercilessly knocked the wind out of him, making Ethan shudder, choking on his own despair. His heart, it seemed, had turned into a sharp shard of ice, piercing his lungs with every painful breath. A wave of nausea, burning and suffocating, rose in his throat, his head spun, and his vision blurred, as if a veil of grief had descended over everything, clouding the remnants of his sanity. "No, please, not this again!"—a silent scream, full of despair, was trapped in his throat, finding no escape, tearing him apart from the inside, to the very depths of his soul.

He was standing on the bridge again. The cold, piercing wind returned, and with it, the sharp, unbearable awareness of reality. That music, those shared dreams, that brother—all of it had been their language, their unique world, and now that language was dead, buried under the wreckage of that day. The inner light that had just painfully flickered in the depths of his soul, awakening a brief warmth, was once again, definitively, extinguished, leaving behind only cold, dead ash and a sense of non-existence that was worse than any physical pain.

That's why I can't play. That's why I can't live, the thought seared through his mind. Why me? Why not him? I was weaker, more worthless. He deserved to live, I don't. Survivor's guilt, like an invisible yet tangible chain, shackled him, preventing him from moving, pinning him to this bridge, to this edge of the abyss. The memory receded, leaving behind only the acrid taste of ash on his tongue, but its echoes continued to torment him, intensifying the already unbearable burden.

The bridge remained motionless, but for Ethan, it swayed like a swing over a chasm, its every point of support fragile and illusory. Six years. Six damned years. And the pain was the same—sharp, unbearable, etched into every cell of his being like a poison, slowly but surely destroying him from within. Today, the twenty-fifth of June, that cursed date on the calendar, didn't just remind him of his brother's loss; it screamed it, tearing him apart with unprecedented force. It was the anniversary of his brother's death.

The roar of the wind, which had earlier seemed indifferent, now did more than just whistle; it whispered accusations, as insistent as his own conscience. He seemed to hear his brother's words, which he would never hear again, the whisper of memories that brought no comfort, only a pain that burned like a branding iron on his soul. The lights of Manhattan, those blurry, indifferent smudges, seemed like tears in the night's haze, slowly trickling down the sky, reflecting his own internal state. The world continued to live, bustling somewhere out there beyond the bridge, but he did not.

On Ethan's face, pale and gaunt, with even more pronounced shadows under his extinguished eyes, an internal storm was reflected, though outwardly he remained frozen, like a stone statue carved from grief. His hands, gripping the icy railing, had turned white from the strain. He was trying to hold himself back, not from a physical fall into the river's abyss, but from a metaphysical one—the final destruction of his spirit. The sweat that broke out on his palms was scalding, like acid, despite the piercing cold that chilled him to the bone. A fine, involuntary tremor, originating deep within—not from the chill, but from the full realization of his predicament—ran through his entire body. The dizziness intensified, and it seemed the bridge was swaying under his feet, the world around him losing its last foothold, threatening to collapse at any moment.

The image of his brother, so vivid and alive in the fleeting flashback, immediately shattered into a thousand sharp fragments, piercing his heart. Why me? Why not him? I was weaker, more worthless, the thought hammered into his consciousness like a red-hot nail. He deserved to live, I don't. The feeling of survivor's guilt pressed down on him with every passing second, like an invisible press, as if every breath was a moment stolen from his brother, and every day lived was a betrayal he committed against his memory.

His life seemed an endless loop of pain with no way out, as if he were running in circles in a dark, suffocating labyrinth. Meaninglessness. An internal vacuum. The words he had whispered earlier now sounded like a final, irrevocable sentence. He was certain he had lost the ability to ever be a whole person again. He didn't deserve happiness and was incapable of continuing to live or create anything without his brother. Without his brother, there was no him. He was just an empty vessel.

This thought, this final surrender, was worse than any physical pain he could imagine. It was an internal silence, as deafening as an explosion in his head, when all the world's sounds disappear, leaving only a ringing void. He felt an unbearable, leaden weight pressing on his shoulders, and the only way to be free of it seemed to be the ultimate release—a step into nothingness. He wanted this burden to disappear. He wanted to disappear himself. A suppressed groan, a silent scream stuck in his throat, was the only answer to this unbearable weight, slowly but surely killing him.

Ethan's thoughts, like a poisonous ivy, had entangled not only him but also his family, which had plunged into an abyss of grief. Images of his parents—his mother, Sarah, and his father, David—flickered before his eyes, painful and dim, like blurry, faded photographs. Three years ago, when their world finally collapsed, their divorce had been the final, crushing blow, the last nail in the coffin of his already ruined life. Instead of supporting each other, they had retreated into their own suffering, each in their own invisible, glass cage. Ethan recalled the last family dinners in the once-warm and cozy house that now felt as cold and empty as a crypt. Words then would dissolve in the air, reaching no one. "You have to be strong," "Everything will be okay"—fragments of his parents' phrases, echoing in his head, now seemed hollow and false, offering no comfort.

The cold pierced him not just from the wind on the bridge, but from within; this internal chill emanated from the memories of his family's rupture. He felt a leaden heaviness in his stomach at the mere thought of his parents, a weight that pressed down and suffocated him. His hands, hanging limply at his sides, clenched into fists of helplessness, as if he were trying to grasp something that had long since vanished.

How could I expect them to save me when they were drowning themselves? he silently asked. Grief, like a poisonous ivy, had ensnared not only him but all of them, and each suffered in their own isolation. They were physically close but a thousand miles apart emotionally, separated by a chasm of pain that no one could cross. He felt like a lonely island, surrounded by a sea of others' equally powerful grief.

His parents' divorce, following three years after his brother's death, was the final destruction of his world, the last stroke in the portrait of his complete loneliness. The thin thread that had bound them together had snapped, leaving only emptiness and a gaping wound. He was convinced that his suffering was too great for anyone, even for them. No one understands. No one can help, the thought repeated in his head like a mantra, closing off any path to possible healing. His own silent scream was muffled by the roar of the wind, and he understood that they, too, were likely screaming just as silently, unheard by one another. In this tragedy, everyone was alone. Ethan felt completely emotionally isolated from them. This added another layer to his sense of utter solitude. He was cast adrift in this sea of grief, without a lighthouse and without a life raft.

Ethan's thoughts, like a poisonous ivy, slithered from his broken family ties to the suffocating, oppressive daily life that, like quicksand, was pulling him deeper with each passing day. He remembered his night job as a bartender at a not-so-popular cafe, "The Echo." This place, far from the bright club lights and noisy dance floors, was perpetually submerged in semi-darkness. The subdued amber light, dimly illuminating the worn vinyl records on the walls and the sunken sofas, only emphasized the generally gloomy but atmospheric setting.

The monotonous hum of other people's voices, blending into an indifferent background, the clinking of glasses, and the rare, fragmented laughter of patrons living their own lives, only intensified his alienation and the feeling that he was merely a shadow in this world. Little-known cover bands and musicians performed here, their music—sometimes poignant, sometimes dreary—only adding to the overall sense of melancholy.

Financial difficulties pressed down on him like a heavy weight, forcing him to cling to this job to make ends meet. Every cent earned during the endless night shifts was a drop in the ocean of his needs. These nightly vigils drained the last of his strength, resulting in catastrophic academic failure at the university. His studies, which had once seemed a path to a new life, were now an immense struggle. Every lecture, every seminar, every exam felt like an unbearable burden, and he could feel himself slowly but surely sliding downhill.

His relationship with his parents, already strained after their divorce, was exacerbated by his academic problems. They saw it only as another confirmation of his decline, not understanding that it was merely a consequence of his deep, chronic grief. All of it—the university, the grueling job, the constant lack of money, the crumbling relationship with his family—seemed like an endless, meaningless, and exhausting cycle. The days blurred into a single gray canvas, devoid of bright colors or glimmers of hope. He saw in this only a confirmation of his inability to "function" without his brother. This routine underscored his apathy, making his despair tangible, physically palpable. He was trapped, and each new day only tightened the noose around his neck, leaving him unable to breathe. He felt caught in this monotony that was suffocating him, making his hopelessness all the more clear and palpable.

In his head, as if on a broken projector, memories of his desperate but unsuccessful attempts to "fix" himself flashed by. He remembered how, for the first time, under pressure from his mother, he had tried to see a psychologist. Dr. Evelyn Chen, an experienced but overly "by-the-book" specialist, seemed not to grasp the depth of his pain. The sessions were irregular due to a lack of money, and each visit only intensified his frustration and sense of hopelessness. He couldn't open up; his pain was too personal, too deep to be packaged into words for a stranger.

Then there were the attempts to return to the piano—his old passion, which had once been his air, his meaning, his future. He remembered sitting at the instrument, how his fingers, as if against his will, reached for the keys. He had hoped that music, his inner language, would bring something back to him. But not a single note could be coaxed from under his fingers. The music that had once been alive now died under his touch, bringing only a sharp, cutting pain, as if each note were a shard of a shattered dream. This was the worst betrayal—even music, his faithful companion, had abandoned him.

He would look through old, faded photographs where he and his brother were happy, where their laughter was clear and sincere. He saw himself, then full of life, full of hope, burning with his passion. But these memories did not comfort; they only intensified the sense of loss, turning into new, bleeding wounds. Every time he picked up the album, he felt his heart ache with a profound melancholy. This ache was his constant companion, his shadow.

Each such attempt, solitary and unsuccessful, only plunged him deeper into despair. He felt that all paths to healing were blocked, and his inner fire, which had once fueled him, was extinguished forever. He was convinced that he had lost the ability to feel, to create, to see meaning in the future, and the possibility of ever being a whole person again.

Standing here, on the bridge, on the very anniversary of his brother's death, he realized this was the final surrender. He was broken, his will exhausted, and he had no strength left to fight. Before him stretched only one road—into the abyss, where, he hoped, he would find oblivion and peace, free from this unbearable burden. His body had already leaned forward, ready for the final, fateful step.

Ethan took a deep breath, this inhale becoming a last conscious attempt to draw the freezing air of Jersey City into his lungs. Icy, biting, it burned his lungs, but Ethan felt nothing—not the cold, not the pain, not even a fleeting fear. Only an absolute, crushing emptiness that seemed to have swallowed all his senses, leaving behind only torpor and complete indifference. His entire life, all his pain, all his chronic grief—it all now seemed distant and unimportant, like a dim, forgotten dream. He closed his eyes, and the world around him narrowed, collapsing into the deafening roar of the wind whistling over "The Overlook Bridge," like the final, mournful chord of his fading life. That sound was the only thing still connecting him to reality, before he would let it go for good, dissolving into non-existence.

His body leaned forward, listless, almost mechanical, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. An invisible force of attraction, far more powerful than Earth's gravity, was pulling him into the abyss that promised oblivion. This was not an impulsive decision. It was a final surrender, the result of a long, agonizing process, each stage of which had led him here, to this bridge, on this night. He felt a fleeting, almost euphoric sense of weightlessness, as if he were being freed from the unbearable, leaden burden that had pressed on his shoulders for years, a burden from which there was no escape. He no longer felt survivor's guilt, or apathy, or the pain of broken family ties. All that remained was a thirst for peace.

A second, an eternity? Time had lost all meaning, stretching into infinity in this pre-death silence. The drone of the cars below, which had earlier seemed a distant roar, now grew louder, more distinct, becoming a harbinger of the approaching end. The sound of the water breaking against the bridge's supports was like a lullaby, inviting him into oblivion. He imagined his body touching the cold, indifferent surface, and everything would end. No memories, no emotions, no regrets. Just an emptiness that was better than any pain.

The last thought that flashed through his mind was of the "spark"—the one that had once ignited him, given his life meaning, but had long since died out. Now, he simply wanted this last, faintly glowing ember to be extinguished forever. His body began to fall… down, into the black, indifferent void, toward the drone of cars and the sound of water that was meant to be the last sound in his life.