The morning sun crested in the east, tearing through the lingering chill of the still-thick night air at dawn's edge. Its warmth slowly penetrated the dusty train window, gently brushing across the face of a figure sleeping peacefully. His pale skin slowly flushed with a rosy hue under the sun's caress. Jet-black hair lay disheveled across his forehead. Traces of exhaustion and sorrow still etched his face, looking somber even in slumber. Yesterday, fate had forced a cruel decision upon him. His expression was weary, burdened. Ultimately, he chose to leave—accepting his mother's expulsion, abandoning his family, and most painfully: precious Audrey, his younger sister.
The thread of fate guided him to this hasty choice, ending with him leaving his sister in the hands of their own cold, demanding family. Regret wrapped around him tightly, gnawing at his soul with sharp guilt. Every step since then felt heavy, like trudging through sinking mud. Yet why, beneath this weight, did a faint sense of relief settle in his chest? Was it because he'd freed Audrey from himself? Or because he'd finally escaped the unbearable burden of expectations?
Audrey was born a genius. With her intellect, she effortlessly met their parents' coveted academic demands, a stark contrast to Archilles, who had to learn and walk from scratch. Yet behind that perfection, Audrey was like a living painting cracked in its frame: her face exquisitely beautiful, skin porcelain-pale, long white hair cascading enchantingly. Her mind sharp as a sword, easily unsheathed—yet her body bore a curse from birth. Her legs were weak as roots never touching soil; only a cane stood in for bones, guiding her steps. All this time, Archilles, as the elder brother, could only guide, protect, and shield his sister's physical fragility. Their bond ran so deep that Archilles felt he was merely the shadow to her star—a filler whose role was to patch her flaws. That was the only worth he acknowledged: he existed to mend the broken, though his own cracks remained unseen. Audrey's brilliance wasn't genetic luck from their parents—it was a divine gift. Yet those same parents imposed a mandatory demand: both children must achieve coveted academic glory.
That night, the façade shattered. Archilles heard his verdict clearly: expulsion from home. His university achievements had crumbled, far below his parents' suffocating expectations. The night's cold, bone-piercing air seemed to sharpen those bitter words. Not a single word of defense left Archilles' frozen lips. He stayed silent, ears capturing every sound, every intonation, hoping for a shred of mercy. Midnight's silence arrived; his mother's scolding lasted so long that each word slowly fractured Archilles' rational mind. Then, like a knife drawn slowly, came the sentence: "Leave. Never return here." Those words stabbed deeper than any blade. Followed by: "Never dare to see your sister again." They tore through Archilles' thoughts, leaving him limp and powerless. Finally, it became the last word in the tirade his own mother hurled at her child. Archilles remained silent, gaze blurred, staring straight toward one door—Audrey's silent room, seemingly untouched by the chaos outside. Was she listening?.. Or fast asleep? He could only hope tomorrow would greet her kindly, even without him by her side. He bowed his head, eyes now fixed on the faded pattern of the floor—suddenly foreign.
No more warm praise would he hear from Audrey. No more precious moments of shared learning—Audrey teaching him intricate problems and sharpening logic, while he guided her beyond her cage: home. At school, they often met to hang-out for entire While at school they always meet to play during break time since, thereafter goes home together; yes, a truly harmonious sibling bond.
"What remains of me now?..." his heart whispered silently, slipping beneath the rumble of the train wheels beginning to turn. All that lingered was a name now hollow; Archilles, stripped of his family name. Truly, why did this wound cut so deep?
Archilles' breath hitched, severed by the roar of wheels tearing through his sleep. His eyes cracked open, absorbing the morning sun's glare—too harsh, too real for his new existence. His gaze lay empty, like a shattered mirror reflecting no hope. His mind was silent: no reason to live, no purpose. His world collapsed last night, and boarding this train was mere reflex—a wild urge to flee the home-turned-battlefield. Only one name echoed: Audrey. Her warmth drew a faint smile to his lips, briefly forgetting he'd left without goodbye. Would she rage? Or weep alone?.. A tear pooled at his lash, then trailed slowly down his pallid cheek. The tear answered: this was forced farewell, a flood of regret burying the last shreds of courage. For the first time, Archilles felt alien in his own world—like a puppet with severed strings, flung onto a stage without a script.
He shut his eyes for a moment, wiping the tear. Acceptance and peace were now his only path. A woman's voice suddenly cut through the din, soft yet piercing: "Attention, good morning passengers. The train will soon arrive at Tbilisi Station."
It repeated patiently, like a farewell lullaby. He'd traveled far, uncaring where he'd disembark. If his savings vanished, it mattered not—money held no worth.
"Passengers for Tbilisi, please prepare."
The voice continued, sweet yet hollow. Archilles drew a short breath, gripping his worn suitcase holding his scant belongings. His hold tightened, as if this object could anchor his shipwrecked soul.
The train stirred to life. Passengers bustled, packing and chatting idly. Scents of coffee and toast mingled in the crisp dawn air. Life pulsed normally around him, oblivious to Archilles drowning in fate's crimson threads. The world hadn't paused for his collapse.
Where to go?
The unrelenting question burned in his mind, as if yesterday's wounds made every choice terrifying. His brooding broke as the train slowed; its iron wheels groaned like weary beasts, carriage clangs fading to hopeless sighs.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Tbilisi Station approaches. I repeat: please prepare to disembark if Tbilisi is your destination."
The attendant's soft voice confirmed again—signaling Archilles' final severance. Through the grimy window, Tbilisi unveiled itself: verdant hills framed by stoic Soviet blocks, winding roads like ancient serpents, and in the distance—the Mtkvari River shimmering beneath an antique bridge. The Tbilisi Central Railway Station loomed ahead, its grand 19th-century architecture crowned by an iconic yellow dome and Moorish pillars, like an old palace guarding the capital's gates.
The train's metallic groan faded gradually, gliding to a halt in the open, fully stopping at a station with a sharp hiss that pierced the air. Doors slid open automatically, marked by a mechanical sigh. Archilles steeled himself, heaving his thin frame from the seat that had cradled his fitful sleep. His legs felt leaden, each step a battle against exhaustion from the sleepless night.
Swept along by passengers rushing to disembark, he moved with the current in numb surrender. Tbilisi's morning wind greeted him at the doorway—cold and sharp, laced with the ancient limestone scent unique to Georgia, drifting from the surrounding structures. Stations: places that record arrivals and departures. Chaos unfolded before him—a couple weeping at separation, torn apart by necessity; elsewhere, the harmony of reunion, a long-awaited embrace between the patient and the returned. How cruel, he thought, this temple of belonging to an exile like me. Every warmth displayed here, every abandoned hug, was salt rubbed into his wounds.
Each step grew heavier. His legs trembled, too weak to hold him upright. Eyes stinging, he burned the station's scenes into memory—a shadow among strangers, a spectre without a home. He quickened his pace, fleeing the nauseating crowd. The clatter of his suitcase wheels echoed behind him, dragged by his stiff arm. His stomach yawned empty, guts growling for sustenance. Muscles taut and aching, he pushed forward—as if his bones lay exposed to the morning wind's sting.
Suddenly—the torturous march halted. The pungent aroma of strong tea pierced his senses, forcing him to turn back into the station's belly. There, the roar of his departing train bombarded his ears—already preparing to carry others toward their waiting stories.
Archilles moved reflexively, eyes still vacant as shattered glass. Primal instinct alone led him to the coffee-scented oasis. Soon, a humble café emerged: marble counter sturdy, tended by a smiling blonde man poised like a boutique attendant. Golden-brown breads sat regally on pristine linen in the display. Resistance crumbled. Slowly, he approached, ordering slices of Khachapuri and black tea—Georgia's culinary salvation for his starving body.
He ate beneath the station's grand dome, curled on a creaking wooden bench. Tearing into the bread's carby warmth, he savored each flaky bite. The black tea seared his tongue—bitter yet comforting. His worn suitcase lay beside him, sole companion on the empty seat. Though his mind still choked on the "what next?", how could he ignore the Khachapuri melting on his tongue, or the tea's warmth threading through his veins? This small ritual, at least, was stitching shreds of life back into the world he longed to forget.
A thin smile of self-satisfaction flickered on his lips. Yet beneath Tbilisi Station's silver dome, biting emptiness ambushed him again—a reminder that all relief was a fleeting mirage.
His head suddenly felt split by a sledgehammer. Vision blurred; exhaustion ten times fiercer seized him. He plunged into despair: Is this the end?.. Dying here like a stray dog?The urge to close his eyes was overwhelming. Whether from fatigue or soul-crushing defeat, he surrendered. As his eyelids fell, only one name echoed: Audrey—now a distant star, terrifying yet longed for more than breath itself.
***
Reality snapped into focus.
The pungent scent of metal invaded his nostrils, tearing through unconsciousness. His eyelids weighed like stone, but cold sweat forced him awake. Vision swam before sharpening on a cramped space:
Unfamiliar wooden walls bathed in dim light.
A backless wooden stool.
A dark-brown table with an antique lantern—the sole light source.
And behind him… wood panels crusted with dried blood—the source of that iron stench. Warm, thick liquid trickled down his temple. Trembling fingers touched the wetness: blood. His blood?! He stared blankly at the crimson stain on his palm, mouth locked in silence, pupils dilating in panic. His retina trembled, rejecting the sight—blood flowing from his own wound.
Thud!!
A headache struck like a rusted knife twisting in his skull. Deafening static crushed rationality, replaced by panic underscored by a clock's tick-tock from the corner. Fragments of foreign memory—jagged glass shards—slammed into his mind, spinning wildly: On shadowed floorboards, a blood-smeared dagger lay discarded.
A teenager's sobs echoed, harmonizing with unseen thunder. "Thisdamned, rotten world… finally…"The voice choked on unspeakable pain.
The agony wasn't imagined. At his temple, a deep stab wound gaped like death's signature. The blade had pierced skin and soft bone, grazing the brain's protective casing. Blood flowed relentlessly—not drops, but a leaky faucet's stream—pooling on the floor in expanding crimson. Imagining the injury churned his stomach. His temple throbbed, chasing phantom pain but finding only real torment. Damnit. The physical suffering defied comprehension.
The room felt suffocating—no windows, no air. Dampness clung, smelling of wet earth and… something else: shattered memories. The lantern cast feeble light, thickening shadows in dark corners.
He forced himself upright. Miraculous. The legs supporting him felt strong, agile—pulsing with unfamiliar youthful vitality. This body was light, too light. As he stepped from the table, the buzzing in his head briefly eased. His wild gaze scanned the room: blood smeared on the stool, faint spatter on the wooden wall behind. Then—his eyes froze on the long black sleeve covering his arm—clothing he didn't recognize. The dark fabric was speckled red, as were the trousers worn by… Oliver, a stray name yet closest, feel's so suitable for him. Like, it was… his name?
"Wait…" he murmured, his voice soft, faint. The voice of a high school boy—seventeen, untested. It sounded alien to his own ears, though instinct insisted it was his. Fragmented memories surfaced: a silk-soft tartan jacket over a white tee. Not these bloodstained rags.
He froze.
Slowly, he raised both hands—fingers too slender, too pale, too foreign. Skin smooth, *knuckles unmarked by old scars*. His breath hitched. He touched his face: jawline sharper, skin silkier, youthfully taut; brows thicker, darker. This wasn't his body. But… how? He'd fallen asleep at the station, did he's as Archilles actually die, but how?… The truth struck like thunder: no dream, no familiar flesh.
Warmth pooled in his memory. Two names floated in the sea of his thoughts:
Oliver—foreign as a name carved on his own tombstone, yet clinging like new skin.
Audrey—a star still burning in his old sky, her warmth visible only from another galaxy.
Audrey.
Her name alone made Oliver's bones hum in the silence. Her warmth was a homing wind—now trapped beyond dimensional walls. The honey-scent of her hair, laughter that once lit his blackest nights… all reduced to stardust memories.