First chapter edited

Inside a spacious library, there were thirteen shelves arranged in a circular shape. In the middle of the shelves sat a wooden desk, and on it sat a handsome-looking boy who lacked his right hand. His right eye also appeared to be a different color than the left.

Sartor sat, drinking his morning cup of herbal tea, reading a book with a strangely colored and shaped cover.

Sartor looked around at the chandelier before letting out a relaxed sigh.

(My oasis... surrounded by books and the scent of herbs... it's the best thing in the world.)

While Sartor was reading, the only thing lighting his spot was a ray sneaking through the fog surrounding the castle.

He rose from the wooden chair that carried memories of days and stories, moving toward the bookshelf behind him.

When he arrived, he picked up a familiar book. After reading the title and recalling his suspicion, he found that it was his diary.

(It's my book. I forgot when I wrote it, but I am the one who wrote it.)

He opened the notebook. The first sentence was a shock.

{A paralyzed hand.

A dim eye.

A decayed body.

Curse my mother for giving birth to me with such a wretched body. By the time I turned ten, I knew I was a disgraceful child, born from an illegitimate relationship between my mother and a lover she met on one of her trips.

That wasn't enough—during the pregnancy, she convinced my father that I was his child. But she intended to kill me—ah, I think the correct word used in this case is abortion.

But the attempt failed. Unfortunately for me, my father was suspicious. As soon as she entered an illegal clinic to kill me, my father was watching.

He made her give birth to me, but her attempts were the reason I was born with multiple disabilities. I was raised by my grandparents on my father's side in a rural house.

At least that's what they said, for I have never crossed the vast forest surrounding the castle.

I might consider myself raised by them, but I won't say they raised me. The one who raised me was Aunt Afraa.

She was my wet nurse, and I even consider her my real mother. May she rest in peace.}

(I stopped reading. I couldn't go on with the next lines.)

Sartor placed his hand on his dim, blind eye in an attempt to see images that still lived in his heart.

To get any reaction from his dead heart.

But to no avail.

The room became dark—not because night had fallen, but merely a simple attempt by the sky to cover an old wound.

(I laid my eyes on the notebook once again, trying to find out if there was any reaction from what Yasmin called emotions.)

He returned to the seventh page of the notebook.

Before his eyes were words, but his mind was elsewhere, remembering last night.

There is no difference between night and day inside the castle—just a bit of blue light at night, and redder light during the day.

Inside his dark room, in a closet the size of a room, he found Arfa's shirt in an old box.

Its scent was still there—faint, as if ashamed to remain.

I remember speaking to myself.

(I don't know why I kept it, or why I smelled it.)

I was alone in the room.

And finally… from his right eye, a single tear fell—as if it were more of a dream than reality.

And after that, nothing. I stopped feeling anything.

[Words I can't forget. Scenes that are unforgettable.

– "Are you going to eat this?"

– "No, take it."

Arfa laughed—a light laugh, like the first laughs of summer—and stole a piece of bread from my plate.

"You'll die of hunger, you fool."

I said, take it.

"No, you said take it, not eat it. Learn the difference."

I didn't argue. I didn't smile.

I just looked at her... as if I were trying to carve her into my memory.

I didn't know it would be the last time.

Nowadays, I sometimes wonder why I don't feel like others do.

Even when Arfa died, I cried like a child… then nothing happened.

It's as if she took my heart with her.

I don't think it beats anymore, no matter what Yasmin might say.

Something died inside me that day, and it never came back.

I'm not trying to be dramatic.

But that's just how I feel.

Yasmin says I suffer from "severe attachment disorder" or "trauma-induced dissociation."

I don't understand the terms...

But I hear her whispers.

I remember her.

I see her—her shadow still lives in my life.

There was no one else.]

In front of Sartor in the notebook, on Arfa's name, there was a wet spot.

{She broke what was left intact, but her daughter Yasmin continued. She became my teacher, my guide—someone important in my life.

I read in several books about the school—I know what it is, or something like it. I was a protected child because of my disability, but my father refused that. He loved me as he loved his daughter from his first marriage.

Yes, my mother was the second wife—no one would be surprised by such news. Even the blind—like me—wouldn't be surprised.

All these facts are hard to swallow, even for most adults. But here I am, listening to my grandfather tell me another devastating truth about my birth from his drunken mouth. Even with such news falling on me continuously, I still stand here with a clear mind. I think being a freak has its benefits.

During his talk, there were many strange terms my grandfather used that I didn't understand the first time I heard them. I think I was six years old.

I gained a lot of information, so I didn't want to tell anyone that my grandfather used to sneak into the library to drink his alcohol. I think that was the smartest decision I ever made.

My presence in the library made accessing all the knowledge I needed easy.

It's true that I read books different from what I was looking for, but acquiring knowledge was a benefit I never regretted.

Despite the hunger I reached in reading books, the number of books in this library never ceases to amaze me. Books on astronomy, chemistry, plants. Biology books about the structure of the human body—even animals of all kinds. Books on physics, mechanics, and machines. But what I needed to understand the drunkard's words were philosophy books and fictional or realistic novels of all kinds. But books on geography, in any form, were hidden—as if someone was hiding any type of that information.

Books were, and will always be, my first companion—they will never betray you.

I am sure that my saying this, or even thinking this way, is due to the psychological trauma I suffered from my mother.

Humans are contradictory beings. But a freak like me is even more so.

I realize I pretend to hate her, but I don't even care.

I show jealousy, but deep within my bones, my instinct screams.

I know. I understand.

I wouldn't bat an eye even if I saw her lying dead, her organs outside her body.

It's funny that I, the freak who was born disabled—my body wasn't the only deformed thing. Even my soul was deformed.

Thinking about it, I think my father loved that side of me.

Seeing a freak in both heart and form isn't a sight you see every day.

Minutes passed until my grandfather stopped speaking coherent phrases. His words became meaningless rambling, according to my understanding.

I went to the kitchen to prepare herbal tea from the herbs we had to help him wake up.

When I returned and placed it in front of him,

I carried the cup and the teapot toward the desk after I left, pretending that I had closed the door.}

He closed the notebook.

Sartor walked out, just like he did that day, leaving behind events he never witnessed.