The waves crashed against the rocky shore with a deafening roar, and the wind swept sea foam along the deserted beach, carrying its remnants into the unknown. Dann stood motionless, staring into the distance. He hadn't come here for fun, like the others, but to once again feel that strange mixture of peace and anxiety the sea always gave him. It attracted him not with its majesty but with its untamed nature. Here, on the shore, he felt like a small part of something vast and eternal.
His friends were calling him back to the campfire, where drinks were already being poured, loud jokes told, and laughter shared. But Dann merely raised his hand in silence, signaling he wouldn't return. He had come at their invitation, but the sense of alienation only grew with each passing hour. "Why did I agree?" he wondered. He wasn't truly part of their group, and deep down, they all knew it.
The sea was cold and indifferent, much like the people around him. It didn't care who you were or what your problems might be. It simply existed. This realization was both terrifying and comforting to him. Dann sat on a large boulder, one that remained dry even as the waves relentlessly struck around it. The stone was cold, but he didn't care. He ran his hand over the cover of an old book he always carried on trips like this.
This book had been with him since his teenage years—an anthology of myths and legends from around the world: Scandinavia, Greece, Egypt. Whenever he opened it, it was as if he stepped into another world, far removed from the gray reality he lived in. Yet faith in those gods felt alien to him.
"If they existed, the world wouldn't be like this," he thought, flipping through its pages. Gods had been created to explain the unexplainable, to fill the void. But now humanity had science and reason; they could find answers without the aid of myths. That was why Dann chose biology. He wanted to understand how the world worked, how life functioned. It gave him a sense of control in a chaotic world where most people just went with the flow.
Another wave struck the rock beside him, spraying him with icy droplets. He flinched but didn't move. Fear was something he had long since learned to suppress. Yet the gnawing feeling of unease remained—a constant companion since childhood.
Just yesterday, he had overheard his "friends" talking about him. They called him "weird" and "withdrawn." Those words had stuck in his mind. He knew they never really understood him, nor had they tried.
"People judge others through the lens of their own fears," he thought, gazing at the horizon. "But that doesn't make them right."
He thought of his sister, Sofia. She was the only person who had ever truly tried to understand him. Yet even her care often felt overbearing. She had worked tirelessly, sacrificing herself to support their family. Dann appreciated it, but he couldn't help feeling a lingering resentment. Her life seemed to revolve around everything but him. He knew it was unfair to blame her, yet the thoughts persisted.
Now Sofia was consumed with caring for her daughters. Jack, her husband, played the role of a caring family man, but Dann didn't trust him. He had always considered Jack manipulative and cunning. Their conflicts had initially stemmed from Dann's desire for the best for his sister, but a year and a half ago, he discovered that Jack had a suspicious "additional source of income."
Though Dann didn't know where the money went, its mere existence sowed seeds of doubt. Jack had been trying to push him out of the house since his eighteenth birthday. And while Dann was certain Jack wouldn't harm the family for the sake of their children, he didn't want to risk losing what mattered most.
Yet even from Jack, Dann had learned something: the art of manipulation and psychology. These skills often helped him, though he remained introverted and reserved.
Dann didn't even have a girlfriend—a problem he intended to fix. His moral compass was flexible, sometimes even questionable. For instance, he didn't judge infidelity unless it directly affected him or Sofia.
His views on good and evil were relatively simple: he didn't consider people bad as long as they didn't harm or inconvenience him. "Everyone interprets those categories through their own beliefs," he thought, seeing this as perfectly normal.
The ability to acknowledge his flaws and strengths was something he had learned in mandatory school sessions with a psychologist.
The wind picked up, bringing with it the scent of salt and seaweed. Dann shivered, snapping out of his thoughts. In the distance, the campfire still burned, but it no longer interested him.
His steps were slow and measured. He was searching for answers that books couldn't provide. Why did he always feel so alien among others?
The sea roared nearby, as if replying with its ancient song. Dann smiled faintly: "Maybe the point is just to keep going."
He paused, gazing at the horizon. The waves rolled onto the shore, indifferent to his thoughts. In their endless motion lay a quiet wisdom.
Returning to his tent, Dann sat down, pulled out a black book—it was his diary—and began writing down his thoughts about the day. This habit had come to him from his sister…