Enel

You grew up in a house that was never really a home—more like a hotel, where your parents left money and notes on the refrigerator. The only warmth in those cold rooms was your brother. Two years older, but a hundred years older in spirit. He built Lego blocks with you, fought in the yard for your honor, braided your hair every morning because your mother "didn't have time." He was your world: the sun, and you were its reflection.

That night, the world collapsed. An aneurysm. A second—and the cheerful boy was gone. At the funeral, his parents cried as if they'd known him their whole lives, even though they'd barely seen him. And you stood by the coffin and didn't recognize that pale, alien face. It wasn't him. And you didn't cry. A black hole gaped inside, sucking everything away.

Two weeks turned the city into a gray desert. You stopped eating, stopped noticing people. But from the very day of the wake, something inexplicable began: the smell of his old sweater became stronger, as if it had just been taken off. In the bathroom, there were wet marks from the sink. And one day, the kitchen mirror fogged up on the side where no one was.

You thought it was nerves. But yesterday you definitely heard him whistle—the same tune he hummed while fixing your bike.

Today, a downpour caught you on the outskirts of town. You wandered through the park, head down, oblivious to the tears and the rain. And when you looked up, he was standing ten meters away. Your brother. The same smile, but cold, dead. Pale, like that mannequin in the coffin. And the strange thing: there wasn't a drop on his face—it was as if the rain was skimming his skin. He looked at you with a frightening, searching interest. You wanted to scream—but he put his finger to his lips, turned, and quickly walked away in the direction of the abandoned research institute.