Chapter Text
"You're a coward, you know that?"
Mori threw the comment out like a blade, arms crossed as he watched his brother set the suitcase down next to the car. There was contempt in his posture, something he didn’t bother to hide.
"Call it what you want." - The man replied dryly, without looking up.
"I call it what it is." - Mori retorted, taking a few steps closer. - "You're leaving your own son here, as if he were a package you no longer want to carry. And worst of all, you don't even have the courage to admit it to him."
"If you want to judge so much, you can take my position, can't you? It seems like you like playing the good Samaritan."
"I'm not doing this for you." - Mori said with a dry laugh. - "I'm doing it for him. Because no child deserves this...not even Dazai."
Dazai's father was silent for a moment, but his hand was gripping the handle of his suitcase so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His worn, unkempt loafers were floundering in the manicured grass until it became a mere messy puddle of mud. Still silent, he turned and began walking towards the car.
Mori shook his head, letting out a cynical sigh.
"You can run away now, but he'll grow up. And when he realizes what you've done...he'll hate you."
These words made the man stop for a moment, but he did not look back.
"It's a price I'm willing to pay."
Inside, Osamu watched everything as he struggled to keep his bare feet on tiptoe to reach the window. He didn't fully understand what was happening, but he knew something was wrong, very wrong. When he saw his father walk away to the car, instinct took over and he ran out of the house, his heart racing.
"Father!"
The man hesitated, just for a moment, before continuing to walk.
"Dad, wait!"
His voice was high-pitched, shaky, filled with something he could only call desperation. He tripped over his own feet as he ran, but he got up quickly, as if his very survival depended on it. When Dazai finally reached his father, he grabbed his coat tightly, as if that would be enough to make him stay.
"You're coming back, right? You said it was just for a while! You can't leave me here!"
The man stopped suddenly, and the movement made Osamu instinctively recoil. His father turned, his eyes hard, cold, as if the boy's plea was an unbearable nuisance.
"Why do you always have to complicate everything?" - He grabbed Osamu by the shoulders, his fingers tightening more than necessary. - "Listen carefully, because I'm not going to do it again. I'm not going back."
Osamu felt the words like a blow.
"But you said..."
"I lied, Osamu!" - His father cut him off, impatient.
"You never understood that sometimes the truth is worse, did you? I can't stand to look at you anymore!" - The man says with disdain, his eyes fixing on what should be his son with a cutting coldness. - "Every time I see your face, I can only remember what I lost, everything I let slip away, you are the constant reminder of my failure."
He couldn't respond, the blow coming so suddenly that the words stuck in his throat. He just stared at his father, his eyes fixed on his impassive face, desperately begging him to acknowledge and sympathize with his pain.
What a joke, he knows he deserved what's happening now.
The man took a step back, moving away with frightening calm, his fingers gripping the handles of his suitcase as rigidly as his gestures, as if it were all merely a formality.
"But..."
"I'm not what you expect me to be, and I'm not capable of being that anymore. You can cry, you can scream, but it won't change anything. You won't change anything."
Without another word, the man turned around, climbing into the car with the same indifference he had used to treat his own son. The sound of the doors closing was final, and before starting the engine, he gave one last cold look at his son, already standing in the entrance of the house.
"Don't follow. Don't look for me. I'm not coming back, understood?"
"..."
"Say it Dazai, I want to hear you say it!"
He swallows the ball of wire, which rips all the way down, and sniffs the phlegm that threatened to run from his little nose.
"I-I... I don't..."
"Say you-"
---
"Do you understand Osamu?"
"Hm?"
Dazai looks up to find the direction of Nurse Yosano's firm voice, only for his attention to be taken by a sudden and torturous sting of pain in his spine, the consequences of his poorly positioned nap punishing him. He blinks a few times and lifts his head that was hidden between his arms resting on his bent legs, the cold floor of the corridor numbing the cramp in his body.
Thinking about it now, maybe sitting on the floor in the hallway in front of the nurse wasn't the best idea...
But Osamu for some reason couldn't just go back to the room and pretend that everything was normal, whether he wanted to or not he stayed and was worried about Chuuya's condition, at no point had he imagined that the boy would simply explode like that.
It was a miscalculation on his part, the Nakahara boy always seemed to be so focused even in his most explosive and stubborn moments, with that stubbornness so irritating and determined that Dazai didn't even consider that someone like Chuuya would have a limit to be reached. And maybe that's why he didn't even consider that the boy was carrying this weight buried so deep in his chest.
And that Dazai had forcibly dug up that weight with his own hands...
"I said you've been standing there for too long, you can't stay." - The woman warns him once again.
Osamu stands up while cracking his suffering bones, and brushes the dust off his pants while pretending not to have heard Yosano's request.
"Chuuya already... is he feeling better? Calmer?" He scratches the imaginary wound on his neck, avoiding eye contact.
"The boy still seemed agitated and complained of headaches, so I prescribed Advil, Chuuya seems to be stable now."
Dazai lets out a sigh of relief that he didn't even know he was holding, taking a few more steps forward trying to get a glimpse of the boy over the shoulder of the nurse who was still blocking the door.
Yosano, noticing the movement, stepped to the side, standing at the entrance like a sentry.
"He asked to be left alone. You're not coming in."
Dazai paused, his usually slovenly expression now rigid with something that resembled regret. He tried to ease the tension with a smile, but it was no use.
"I just want to talk to him, that's all..."
"Talk?" - Yosano arched her dark eyebrows, her voice dripping with sarcasm. - "The boy looks devastated and exhausted, I think the last thing he wants to do is talk."
Dazai looked away, the weight of guilt unable to formulate a response. Yosano took another step forward, blocking any chance of him entering the infirmary.
"Look Dazai, I know you're worried about your classmate and want to talk so you can resolve whatever caused this, but the boy himself asked me not to allow you in, he doesn't want you there."
Osamu felt the weight of her words like a blow, but he didn’t respond. He knew deep down that Yosano was right. All he wanted was to make things right, but he didn’t know where to start. Chuuya’s face, still vivid in his mind, gave him a sense of growing anguish.
"I... I just need to check on him, I'll be quick... I promise." Dazai spoke, his voice barely audible.
Yosano, who now had her arms crossed, looked at him with a serious expression.
"Not now. If he wants to see you, he'll ask. Until then, stay away. Don't force it or you'll make it worse or push him away."
Dazai was silent for a moment, before sighing and taking a step back. Somehow, he already knew what he needed to do. But that didn't make the pain of seeing him away any less bitter.
Returning to the classroom had never been as difficult as it was now. His eyes fell on a crumpled sheet of paper that was lying on the table. When he got closer, he quickly recognized the handwriting. It was the poem he had read earlier, the one that had caused all that confusion.
He took it, a lump in his throat. Chuuya's familiar and characteristic writing was there, like a poorly healed and exposed scar.
All he wants at the moment is to be able to blame the piece of paper or his bad luck in choosing it as the main culprits for all the fuss caused.
...But he can't.
Dazai knew that the real culprit was himself. He knew that, more than any poem or written word, it was his own insensitivity and cruel habit of picking at others' wounds that had brought Chuuya to this point. He was already hurt, and Dazai had only made things worse.
"You're such a piece of shit..." - He admitted to himself, looking at the paper in his hand with a mixture of frustration and sadness. Not because he had hurt Chuuya—he had done that before, more times than he could count. But because this time, he saw the true weight his actions had. He saw Chuuya not as the stubborn, explosive boy who faced the world with his chest puffed out, but as someone deeply human.
And hurt...
Dazai closed his eyes, his fingers clenching against the crumpled paper as his mind returned to the words he had read earlier. Each line carried a burning pain, so raw and raw that he didn't know how to ease it, a pain that perhaps he himself had contributed to intensifying. He had always thought that he understood the world around him, that he was superior to others because he was able to manipulate and predict people's actions.
But at that moment, he realized how wrong he was.
As time passed, even though he tried to avoid it, his mind went to lists of all the times he had pushed Chuuya to his limit, tested his patience, ridiculed his emotions. The sharp words he had thrown out so casually now felt like blades he held himself. The difference was that this time, he felt them cutting into his own skin.
He knew that eventually he would have to face Chuuya, and more than that... he would have to... apologize.
But how?
The Dazai Chuuya knew had never truly apologized. He always turned everything into a joke, a game. But now, there was nothing funny. And Chuuya didn't deserve an empty apology.
He took a deep breath, carefully folding the poem before tucking it into his coat pocket.
Dazai leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and turning his attention to Chuuya's bag on the table. For a moment, the silence and buzz of the room seemed louder than the incessant hum of the distant hallways. The bag felt like a physical and symbolic weight, as if holding something so trivial was somehow a reminder of the responsibility he had failed to take on earlier.
His mind wandered, against his will, to Chuuya’s writings. At first, he thought they were just presumptuous scribbles, too complex to be interesting, yet too simple to be brilliant. But over time, he began to recognize something in them.… Something that spoke of dark places he himself had visited but never dared to name.
Loneliness.
Ruptures.
He hadn't even thought of these possibilities before, I mean, who would have guessed that a boy who had everything could have been boiled down and molded into nothingness by an unfortunate accident?
The desire to be understood, even if it was through tangled words and almost indecipherable verses.
Dazai would never admit it, but there was something about Chuuya's writing that he envied. Not just for his ability to transform festering pain into art, but for his courage to expose parts of himself that no one else seemed capable of touching. Parts that, in a way, he himself recognized. As if, by reading those poems, he was reading parts of himself that he had never put into words.
But this train of thought was interrupted by a female voice just a few steps away from his desk.
"Excuse me, Dazai."
He looked up to see one of the students, holding a bucket of water and a rag in one hand and a worn broom on its handles in the other.
"Classes are over, and I need to clean the room since it's my turn, can you leave?"
Dazai blinked a few times, as if he was still caught up in his own thoughts; the room was completely empty other than him and the uncomfortable girl in front of him. He looked at Chuuya's bag still intact in the same place, then back at the girl, and then at the door in search of any sight of copper curls or bicolored eyes.
"Oh, sure, but..." - He paused, crossing his legs in a relaxed motion, giving the friendliest smile his tired face could manage. - "Actually, how about I do that for you, yeah?"
The student frowned, surprised by the unusual offer.
"You? Cleaning for me?"
"Why not?" - Dazai stood up, taking the bucket from her hands before she could protest. - "I need something to occupy my mind while I wait."
"Wait what?"
"It's none of your business." - The delayed answer escapes from his mouth with an ambiguous smile, already pulling the broom with his free hand.
The girl hesitated and insisted a little more, but seeing that he seemed determined, she shrugged and left, leaving him alone in the room again.
As he slowly cleaned up the desks, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander back to Chuuya. He wondered how the boy would react to seeing him there, waiting. Would he feel uncomfortable? Or… scared?
He spent at least twenty minutes pretending to clean the room, his lazy, disinterested movements showing that his mind was elsewhere. Every time he heard a noise in the hallways, his gaze would dart towards the door, hoping it would be Chuuya coming to get his bag.
But no one showed up.
He sighed, tossing the rag over the bucket with an impatient gesture. Maybe Chuuya wouldn't come. Maybe he was so shaken that he would decide to just go home without worrying about his bag.
Finally, Dazai gave up. He approached the table where the bag was, running his fingers over the expensive, well-kept material as he debated whether he should bring it to him or simply leave it there.
Maybe he should take her home? If he already stole Chuuya's most precious possession, a designer bag wouldn't be that much of a loss...
He chuckles softly at the thought, nothing malicious, just his dark humor getting to him at the worst times.
He was about to pick it up when he heard the sound of slow, hesitant footsteps coming from the hallway.
And then, he appeared.
Chuuya stood in the doorway, but he didn't look the same. His usually firm and confident posture was gone, and he looked smaller, more fragile. His shoulders were hunched, his head was down, and his eyes were fixed on the ground. He avoided looking at Dazai, as if the mere thought of looking at him was unbearable.
In his eyes he could pretend to be anyone else and Dazai would believe him, Chuuya at the moment seemed like just a poorly written parody of the confident and impeccable boy that Osamu remembered annoying him in the last few days. The curls that were once so beautiful and aligned now spread in random and messy directions without any usual pattern or definition, in short, it was a mess.
The low little face, probably trying to disguise the signs of crying and a red, runny nose, or just trying to avoid eye contact -With the luck Osamu has been having, it's almost certain that it's both-. The once beautiful and healthy nails now being reduced to chew toys, the usually well-ironed and tidy uniform was now all wrinkled and untucked from his pants.
Chuuya was a mess, and even at his worst he was still nothing short of ethereal.
How the hell he does it is a mystery.
Without saying a word, Chuuya entered the room without a shred of confidence, walking straight to the bag. He quickly picked it up, as if he wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, and began to turn to leave.
"Chuuya, wait."
Dazai's voice cut through the silence, carrying a seriousness he rarely used. Chuuya stopped, but didn't look at him.
"I... wanted to talk about... you know..."
The silence stretched on for a few seconds that felt like an eternity. Finally, Chuuya spoke, his voice low and hoarse, almost a whisper.
"There is nothing to be said."
"Of course there is!" - Dazai insisted, taking a step towards him. - "I read what you wrote. And—"
"You shouldn't have read it!" - Chuuya interrupted, raising his voice for a moment, but still not looking at him. His fists were clenched, his knuckles white against the leather of his bag. - "It wasn't for you. It wasn't for anyone but me."
Dazai felt a weight on his chest. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease the pain evident in Chuuya's tone.
"I know it wasn't for me." - he admitted, his voice softer now. - "But... I read it. And... I understood th-"
Chuuya finally looked up, just for a moment, and Dazai saw a mixture of shame, pain, and something he couldn't quite identify in Chuuya's beautiful eyes.
"You think you understand!!!" - Chuuya replied, his voice bitter. "But you don't understand anything, Dazai."
"Maybe not everything..." - Dazai said, taking another step forward, testing the waters he tries to rest his hand on the boy's shoulder, Chuuya quickly escapes the touch. - "But enough to know that... you shouldn't carry this alone, it wasn't your fault Chuuya."
Chuuya pressed his lips together, shaking his head as if to dismiss those words. He began to move towards the door again, but Dazai reached out, lightly grabbing his arm to stop him.
"Wait, please." - Dazai holds the boy's wrist.
Chuuya stopped once more, but didn't turn around.
"I just..." - Dazai hesitated, choosing his words carefully. - "I just want you to know that you don't have to hide. Not from me, not from anyone. I know that... I was an idiot. A jerk, really. But if you'll let me, I want to help."
Chuuya remained still, but his breathing seemed heavier now. He didn't respond, and the silence that followed was almost suffocating.
Finally, Chuuya gently pulled his arm away, freeing himself from Dazai's touch.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Chuuya finally turned around, and what Dazai saw on his face wasn't just pain, raw hatred in its purest form burned on the boy's exhausted face.
"You think you can help me, Dazai? You think you can be the hero now, just because you read a poem you never should have touched?" - Chuuya stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Dazai's, shining with an intensity that bordered on desperation. - "Since when did that matter to you, huh? Since when did YOU, of all the idiots in this damn place, have the right to act like you were my friend?!"
"I never said that-" - Dazai tried, but Chuuya interrupted him, his voice rising with each word.
"NO! You didn't say anything, but now you're here, all worried, all understanding and kind!!!" - Chuuya digs his finger into his chest. - "And you know why? Because you think you know! Because you read something that wasn't meant for you and decided you understand. But you don't understand anything, you don't know a damn thing about MY life!!!"
Dazai remained silent, absorbing each word like a blow.
"All you've done these past few days is make my life a damn hell!" - Chuuya continued, his voice breaking. - "You tease me, humiliate me, ridicule me, reduce me to nothingness, and push me to the limit... And now, all of a sudden, you want to be nice? You want to help? You fucking hypocrite!"
He laughed, but the sound was full of bitterness.
"You don't have that right, Dazai. Not after everything you've done. Not after making me feel like I was nothing, like I was just... just another toy for you to break."
Dazai opened his mouth to respond, but Chuuya didn't give him any space.
"You think you know what my poem means? That you understand what it carries? You have no idea! So don't give me that 'you don't have to carry this alone' crap. You don't know what I carry! And frankly, I don't want you to know!"
Dazai finally finds an opening.
"So tell me, Chuuya..." - He begins, his voice lower, but with an urgency that cut through the air. - "If I'm so wrong, if I don't know anything... tell me that what was in that poem isn't true."
Chuuya stopped abruptly, as if the words had physically struck him. His shoulders shook slightly, but he didn't turn to face Dazai.
"Tell me I'm making things up, that I misinterpreted and that none of that happened!" - Dazai insisted, now closer, his voice sounding almost like a desperate plea. - "Tell me, and we'll forget about it. Forget the poem, forget everything. We can go back to playing pretend."
Chuuya laughed, but it wasn’t real laughter. It was shaky, almost hysterical, a sound that reverberated off the walls like cracking glass. He shook his head violently, clutching the bag tighter against his body as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality.
"Pretend, Dazai?!" - He exclaimed, his voice rising an octave. - "You think this is some kind of game? That I can just erase all of this and pretend it never happened?!"
He took a step forward, his eyes burning with an almost unbearable intensity. His hands were shaking, but he didn't seem to care about hiding it.
"You want me to say it's a lie? That you're imagining things?!" - Chuuya shouted, his chest rising and falling uncontrollably. - "Well, Dazai, congratulations! It's all true! Everything! You read it, didn't you?! So why the hell are you asking me to confirm it?!"
Dazai tried to open his mouth, but he couldn't. Chuuya's fury was a whirlpool that sucked him in, immobilizing him.
"You don't know what it's like to live with this, Dazai! You have no idea what it's like to wake up every day feeling disgusted with yourself, my body, my appearance, and hearing those damn voices in your head telling you that I'm filthy, repulsive, broken!" - Chuuya stepped forward, shoving Dazai hard in the chest, his eyes shining with a mixture of tears and anger. - "You don't know what it's like to be reduced to nothing! TO NOTHING!"
Dazai feels the burning sensation reaching his eyes, because he does know, not like Chuuya, but he knows very well what it feels like.
Chuuya took a deep breath, as if trying to regain control, but he failed miserably. Tears began to fall, but he ignored them, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white.
"And now you want to help?" - he spat the words, his voice wavering between desperation and fury. -"Now, after everything you've done, you want to be the hero? You think that erases everything? That it fixes anything?!"
Dazai tried to take a step towards him, but Chuuya stepped back, raising a hand as a warning for him not to come any closer.
"Don't touch me!" - He shouted, his voice almost breaking. - "You don't have that right! You don't have any right! Not after everything you've done! Not after treating me like a joke, throwing me on the ground like I was nothing, and now coming here to play the saint, as if that would save me!"
He ran his hands through his hair violently, as if he wanted to tear something out of himself. His breathing was labored, his eyes red and puffy.
Finally, Chuuya turned his back, moving towards the door. He opened it with a sharp movement, but before he left, he stopped, his hand gripping the frame. He turned his head just enough for his voice to reach Dazai.
"Do you really want to help me?" - He asked, his tone tired, exhausted, but still sharp as a blade. "- Then do the only favor you can do for me. Forget about me and get out of my sight, no wonder no one likes your company!"
And with that, he left, slamming the door so hard that the room seemed to shake. Dazai stood there, the sound of Chuuya's heavy breathing still echoing in his mind. He didn't know how long he stood there, but when he finally moved, he felt something inside him that he had never felt before.
A void, deep and absolute, that seemed to swallow him whole.
---
The orange light of the evening painted the walls of the house, Elise's laughter echoing through the house as the little girl decorated her older brother Akutagawa's nails with the new nail polish kit that was given to her by her father, who was currently browsing through one of the classics in his humble collection of shelves.
When he noticed the unusual absence. Dazai, who should have already returned from school. He looked at his watch for the third time in less than fifteen minutes, frowning.
"Dazai..." he muttered to himself, closing a book he was leafing through without concentration. An uneasiness began to grow in his chest. As unpredictable as his nephew was, there was something in the stillness of that afternoon that unsettled him.
Putting on his coat, Mori went to the door, determined to look for him. But when he opened it, he stopped suddenly. There was Dazai, standing on the sidewalk, his hands in the pockets of his uniform. The boy didn't move, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, as if he were waiting for something that would never come.
"Dazai?" Mori called, crossing his arms as he walked outside.
The boy didn’t react immediately. Only after a few seconds did he turn his head slightly, enough for Mori to see the empty glint in his eyes.
"Uncle Mori..." - Dazai began, his voice low and distant. - "Do you think no one likes me?"
Mori felt the impact of the question like an unexpected punch. He hadn't expected to hear something so raw, so devoid of the usual mask of sarcasm or charm that Dazai always wore.
"Why are you asking me this?" - Mori asked, taking a step forward.
Dazai didn’t answer right away. He looked back at the road, his shoulders slumped under the weight of something invisible. When he spoke, his voice sounded even more fragile.
"It's just... it seems like whenever I'm around people, they end up leaving. Or worse... they end up hating me." - He laughed humorlessly, a dry, empty sound. - "Do you think I'm hard to handle?"
Mori took a deep breath, walking over to his nephew. He leaned down slightly, so that he was on the same level as the boy, but he didn’t touch him. He knew Dazai was like broken glass—one wrong pressure, and he would shatter even more.
"Are you talking about... him...?" - Mori asked directly, watching Dazai's reaction carefully.
For a moment the boy remained motionless. Then he shrugged, but the tension in his body gave it away.
"He left, didn't he?" - Dazai replied, his voice cold. - "He didn't even look back. There must have been a reason."
"Osamu..." - Mori began, but Dazai interrupted, finally turning to face him. His face was serious, but his eyes... they were almost desperate.
"You don't have to spare me." - he said, his voice sharp. - "I know I was the reason. Maybe I was too loud, or too annoying, or... or just not enough."
Mori felt a lump in his throat. He wanted to correct Dazai, to tell him that none of it was true, but he knew the boy wouldn’t believe him. So he chose his words carefully.
"Your father leaving was never your fault, Osamu. He had his own problems. They were his, not yours. But he was a fool. A big fool for not realizing what he was leaving behind."
Dazai let out a short, bitter laugh. - "You say that as if I'm something worth having."
"You are." - Mori said firmly. - "And I'm not the only one who thinks that, even if you don't believe it."
Dazai looked away, biting his lip, clearly struggling with Mori's words. He wanted to argue, but he didn't have the strength. Instead, he just stood there, motionless, as the night wind began to blow.
"Let's go back inside, shall we?" - The man pats his nephew on the shoulder as he heads toward the front door. - "I'll make something with crab for dinner since you like it so much, so cheer up a little!"
"Yes..."
That night Dazai doesn't show up at the dinner table, he doesn't even leave his room.
---
The next day began with the same tension that Dazai had felt the night before. He avoided Chuuya in every way possible. He didn't sit in his usual seat, he didn't even look at the redhead when he passed by. Dazai knew that if he looked at him, he could give away everything—the guilt, the thoughts, the feelings that he didn't know where to hide.
The break was the perfect opportunity.
Chuuya had left the classroom, probably with the others to buy something from the cafeteria, and his backpack was left on top of the chair, the strap falling to the floor. The space was emptier than usual, most of the students preferring the courtyard that day.
Dazai walked slowly, his hands in his pockets to appear disinterested. He stopped next to Chuuya's desk and looked around, checking for witnesses. Everything seemed clean.
With a quick movement, he unzipped his backpack enough to slip the journal inside. He ran his fingers through the pages of the notebook, adjusting a different sheet from the others he had prepared the night before.
He closed the backpack with the same care he had used to open it and adjusted the fallen strap again, as if he had never touched it. As soon as he stepped away, he noticed his heart beating faster. It was a strange feeling, almost like relief mixed with an anxiety that was eating away at him.
Dazai sat back down in his seat, far from Chuuya's, and fixed his eyes on the window, pretending to be distracted by the scenery outside. The break would soon be over, and he mentally prepared himself for the possibility of Chuuya noticing what was in his backpack.
He didn't know what he expected. Maybe no reaction. Maybe anger. But somehow, it didn't matter. What mattered was that the diary was returned, along with something Dazai would never admit was a piece of himself.
•
(By ̶D̶a̶z̶a̶i̶ ̶O̶s̶a̶m̶u̶)
The Word Thief
In the shadows of night, he hides away,
a thief with no face, no name to betray.
He seeks no gold, no silver's gleam,
but stolen words from an indifferent dream.
He steals verses from poets, whispers from air,
hoards secrets in silence, a torment to bear.
Each letter he takes lays a stone in his hand,
building a refuge on desolate land.
Brick by brick, with fragile precision,
he crafts a shelter for a heart's derision.
Yet the weight of his theft consumes him inside,
like a shadowy echo where emptiness resides.
"These words are not mine," he laments in despair,
"Fragments stolen from a world stripped bare."
And still, he persists, with trembling grip,
for without these words, his life would slip.
But the refuge he builds never brings peace,
its walls murmur crimes that never cease.
He feels the burden, heavy and grim,
of living as a thief beneath a sky so dim.
And in the dead of night, he weeps alone,
knowing his shelter is no true home.
For stolen words cannot warm the soul,
and the void remains, unyielding and cold.
•