I'm not sure when I started thinking this way—when the world began to revolve around me and the things I wanted. Maybe it was during my early years, surrounded by the best of everything: clothes, food, friends who'd laugh at my every joke. Life was easy, and I never questioned why it was so. I lived in a big house in the city, shielded by walls, status, and my family name.
But even with all of that, nothing in my world ever seemed enough. I was bored, endlessly so. School was a routine I endured, and I found the people there easy to push around. There was a strange thrill in being above them, knowing I could walk over them if I wanted. They didn't dare question me. Even if they did, they'd learn quickly to stay out of my way.
At home, things weren't much different. I could ask for anything and get it without a second thought. My father would nod, pay, and look at me with that expression—part disappointment, part silence. It wasn't a real problem, not to me.
One night, after a particularly bad grade in history, my father asked me to talk. I had no intention of listening to another lecture, but he insisted, the way he sometimes did, and that irritation started to bubble up in me. I was sick of being told what I should care about. Who decided history was important anyway?
"So," he said, leaning forward, his voice steady and cool, "do you have any plans? Or do you intend to throw away every opportunity I've given you?"
I smirked, rolling my eyes. "Plans? Why would I need plans? I have everything I want."
The look he gave me shifted, hardening. There was a pause, heavy and simmering, the kind I didn't usually see. I knew I'd gone too far.
"You don't get it," he said, his voice cold. "You have no idea what it took to give you this life."
"Maybe I don't want to know. I'm not like you," I retorted, the words spilling out before I could stop them.
He didn't respond, not right away. He just stared at me, his silence louder than anything he could have said. And then, with a quiet sigh, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the room.
---
The next morning, my life changed.
When I went down to breakfast, he was already waiting, arms folded, a different expression on his face. It wasn't anger—it was something more severe, more resolute.
"I'm done," he announced. "If you want to live like this, fine. But not here. You're leaving."
The shock hit me, quick and sharp. "Leaving? What are you talking about?"
"There's a house," he said simply, "an old house that belonged to your grandfather. That's where you're going. You'll live there on your own, take care of yourself. It's time you understood the value of things, of hard work."
I scoffed. "You can't be serious. That house is practically abandoned."
"Exactly." His gaze cut through me. "I expect you to learn something from this. Maybe, when you're ready to take things seriously, you'll understand why."
There was no arguing with him. My father had made up his mind. He arranged everything, not saying another word, and by the end of the day, I found myself on a train heading to a place I'd barely heard of, the address of the house clutched in my hand.
---
When I arrived, the house looked nothing like I'd expected. It was old, standing quietly in a small village, surrounded by trees and the soft sounds of rustling leaves. There was a worn but sturdy front door, its paint faded, and the windows were dusty but intact. Not run down, just... old. It was like the house had been left alone, waiting for someone to return.
I stepped inside, setting my things down, and felt the emptiness around me, the silence pressing in. I wandered through each room, and it struck me—there was no one to cook, no one to clean, no one to call out my name. Just me and the stillness.
In one of the rooms, I found a stack of boxes covered in a thin layer of dust. I opened one, curious, and found an old novel inside, its pages yellowed and fragile. The cover was simple, with a title that meant nothing to me, but something about it felt... strange, like it didn't belong here. I tossed it aside and kept going, not thinking much of it.
But as I went to bed that night, my mind drifted back to that book, the silent house around me, and for the first time, I wondered what kind of person my grandfather had been—what kind of life he'd lived in this house, and what he'd left behind.
---
That was my first night here, alone in the old house, beginning the life my father had thrown me into. I didn't know what would come next, but for the first time in a long time, I felt something stirring, a strange restlessness I couldn't quite explain. It wasn't comfort—it was the start of something unknown.
---