My name is Ryder Ashford. I am 25 years old, born and raised in Belgium. My story, while unremarkable to most, has been one of quiet endurance and introspection. I never knew my biological parents, as they passed away shortly after my birth. The details of their deaths were rarely spoken of, even by those who raised me. I grew up with step-parents—kind enough people, but our relationship was distant, built more on duty than affection.
As a child, I quickly realized I was destined to be ordinary. I wasn't particularly gifted in academics, nor did I excel in sports. My life revolved around routine: school, home, and the small confines of my own thoughts. Friendships always seemed like an enigma to me. I wasn't bullied or ostracized, just overlooked—a shadow that faded into the background of every classroom, every hallway, and every playground.
Social events were rare, and when I did attend, I found myself lingering on the outskirts, watching as others connected with ease. It wasn't that I didn't want friends—I did, in my own quiet way—but I lacked the confidence or charisma to bridge the gap between myself and others. By the time I reached my teenage years, I had resigned myself to solitude.
When it came to romance, it wasn't that I actively avoided it, but my interest was faint, almost nonexistent. The idea of love felt like a storybook concept—something for other people, not for me. My step-parents never pressured me in this regard; they were practical, focused on ensuring I became self-sufficient rather than well-rounded.
After completing school, I pursued a career in software development. I wasn't particularly passionate about coding, but I had a knack for it. Numbers and logic came naturally to me, and the job offered stability and anonymity, which suited me just fine. I landed a position at a large tech company, one of those sprawling corporations where you're less a person and more a cog in the machine. I didn't mind. The work was steady, predictable, and solitary—just the way I liked it.
My daily routine became a series of unchanging events. I woke up early, commuted to the office, and spent hours staring at screens, writing lines of code that would never bear my name. My colleagues were polite but distant, much like everyone else in my life. Once the workday ended, I returned to my small apartment, made a simple dinner, and spent the evening reading or indulging in solitary hobbies like playing chess online or assembling puzzles.
My weekends were just as uneventful. I might take a walk through the city or visit a local café, but always alone. I told myself I enjoyed the solitude, though occasionally, a twinge of envy surfaced when I saw couples laughing together or friends gathering at a park. But those feelings were fleeting, easily drowned out by the comforting hum of my routines.
Looking back, I realize I lived like a machine, content in my isolation but never truly fulfilled. There was no grand passion driving me, no dream I longed to achieve. My existence was functional, like the code I wrote—efficient but devoid of creativity or emotion.
On a particularly long day at work, I found myself staring out the window of my office, watching the rain streak down the glass. For a moment, I wondered if this was all my life would ever be—a series of monotonous days blending into one another. That evening, I went home, brushed off the lingering sense of emptiness, and went to bed as usual.
But the next day… something was different.