The faint hum of traffic and the distant chatter of children playing on the streets filtered through the cracks in the rundown apartment. The evening sun bathed the room in a sickly orange glow, but the man sitting on the edge of a creaking bed didn't notice. His name was Hugo Alves, and for thirty-six years, he had been a ghost walking among the living.
Hugo's hands trembled as he stared at the small, tattered notebook in his lap. It contained the fragments of his thoughts—scribbles of dreams long abandoned, hopes extinguished by a world that never cared.
Born into poverty in one of Brazil's harshest favelas, Hugo's life had been a relentless cycle of pain. As a child, he was the easy target—the autistic boy with Attention Deficit Disorder, always one step behind the rest. Bullies circled him like vultures, mocking his stutter, tearing apart his drawings, and stealing his precious possessions.
And then there were the fake friends. They would laugh with him when he managed to save a few reais for snacks, only to disappear the moment his pockets were empty.
Hugo let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow in the small, empty room. He glanced around at his "kingdom"—peeling walls, a single broken chair, and a mattress that sagged in the middle. It was fitting, he thought. His surroundings mirrored the wreckage of his life.
He had tried, once, to climb out of the abyss. Despite his learning difficulties, he pushed himself through school, dreaming of becoming an artist. His sketches were his only escape, the one place he felt free. But dreams don't feed the hungry. Employers scoffed at his timid demeanor, and his own family, burdened with their struggles, offered little more than pity.
By thirty-six, Hugo was a shadow of the boy who once dreamed of colorful landscapes and vibrant characters. Loneliness clung to him like a second skin, and the weight of his failures pressed down on him until he could barely breathe.
Now, he sat on the edge of his bed, holding a letter he had written the night before. It was addressed to no one.
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To whoever finds me,
I don't know who I am anymore. I've tried, I really have, but the world doesn't have a place for people like me. I've been beaten, mocked, and forgotten. Maybe now, I can finally rest.
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Tears blurred the words as Hugo folded the paper and placed it on the bedside table. He didn't blame the world, not really. It was simply what it was. Some people soared, others stumbled, and people like him... faded.
The small bottle of pills felt heavy in his hand as he opened it. He didn't hesitate—not because he wasn't afraid, but because he was tired. So unbearably tired.
As he closed his eyes and let the darkness take him, a strange warmth flooded his chest. It wasn't painful, but it was unlike anything he had ever felt before—a gentle pulse, as if something greater was reaching out to him.
Then came the voice.
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"Hugo Alves... your suffering ends here."
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It was neither male nor female, neither loud nor soft. It resonated within him, a soothing balm against the years of pain.
Hugo's eyes shot open, but the dim room was gone. He was floating in an endless expanse of light, his body weightless. Fear and confusion clawed at him, but the voice spoke again, silencing his panic.
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"You have endured much, far more than any soul should bear. This is not the end, Hugo Alves. It is merely the beginning."
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Before he could respond, the light enveloped him, and the warmth turned into a searing heat. It burned away the weight of his memories, the ache in his heart, and the bitterness in his soul. He felt himself slipping away, not into oblivion, but into something new.
As the light faded, Hugo was no more.
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When he opened his eyes again, the world was different. The air was fresh and fragrant, the sky a brilliant shade of blue he had never seen before. He was no longer in his broken-down apartment. Instead, he lay in a grand room adorned with intricate tapestries and polished wood.
He looked down at his hands—small, chubby, and unmistakably those of a child. Panic surged through him, but it was quickly overshadowed by a strange sense of peace.
A soft voice called out to him, and he turned to see a woman with warm eyes and a gentle smile. She radiated kindness, a stark contrast to everything he had ever known.
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"Aron, my sweet boy," she said, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "You've finally woken up."
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He blinked, the name unfamiliar but oddly comforting. In that moment, he realized two things: he was no longer Hugo Alves, and perhaps, just perhaps, this new life might hold the peace he had always sought.
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End of Chapter 1