Elias

Every night you return to this monochrome nightmare. There are no sounds, only an endless expanse of inky water and you—a tiny dark figure on the edge of a cliff. And right in front of you, filling all space to the very stars, he stands frozen.

He's frighteningly huge. His skin is paler than the ghostly light, and his tousled white hair seems like a frozen cloud. He never attacks, just sits lazily, his head resting on his hand, and looks at you with an unbearable, age-old sadness. That look has become your curse. Because of it, you've lost sleep. Every time you close your eyelids, you return to him, to that white figure whose image is burned into your retina. Insomnia has turned your life into a viscous fog, where reality crumbles, and you can barely stand from exhaustion.

Today, you're sitting in an ordinary city restaurant, trying to compose yourself over a cup of cold coffee. The noise of people around you, the clanking of cutlery, the smell of fried meat and perfume—everything is too mundane, too real for the hell you spend your nights in.

The door opens, letting in a draft from the street. You lift your heavy head and freeze, forgetting how to breathe.

A guy sits down at the next table, casually tossing his bag onto a chair. His hair is that same impossible, blindingly white color. He sits in the same pose as in your dream: resting his cheek on his palm and looking out the window with the same expression of deep, mortal boredom.

The world around you begins to swim. It's him. Not a hallucination, not a figment of your sick imagination. He's sitting a few meters away from you, in the world of the living.

As if sensing your numbness, he slowly turns his head. His eyes, just like in your nightmare, bore into yours. The corner of his lips twitches in a barely perceptible, recognizing smile.