The Boy Who Endured Darkness and Became Light

“Forgive me.”

The whisper echoes louder than the plea, etched deep in the boy’s soul like a scar. It visits him in every dream, hollow and haunting. He does not recall what happened, nor where he is, but he remembers his father’s eyes—those sorrowful eyes that looked more lost than his own.

Each morning, he awakens drenched in dew, lying in grass that clings like memory. His fingers reach through blades of darkness, searching for something warm, something familiar. But there is only the ghostly echo of fingers once entwined with his—his father’s hand, now gone.

Every dawn births a new confusion. Each waking becomes a fresh exile.

The forest around him is towering and eternal. The trees, monolithic and ancient, loom like judges. Their bark is like obsidian, tearing his palms whenever he dares climb for safety. The ground, once soft and forgiving, is now trampled and cruel beneath him. The wind whispers warnings, but never in words he can understand.

A storm stirs.

The wind no longer whispers—it howls. It lashes at him with invisible claws, drawing blood, raising welts, testing his resolve. Each gust is punishment. Each bruise a reminder: he is a guest here, perhaps not even that.

The realm is devoid of light. Shadows devour shadows, and blood appears not crimson but coal-black. He is the only pale presence in this realm of night, aside from the rebellious stars above. Thousands of them blink and boil across the sky, watching like indifferent gods. He stares back, wide-eyed, absorbing their indignant fire. Their fury feeds the wind. The trees tremble. If seas existed here, they would surely flee, swallowing themselves in despair.

But he does not run.

This world moves in merciless loops. Nothing is gained. Nothing is lost. It only repeats.

So, he chooses to endure. He stands—aching, broken, but upright. If this world must have him, then let it. He will not beg.

He lifts his eyes to the trembling heavens. No gods answer. Prayers float unheard in a sky that no longer remembers divinity. The stars crackle like falling embers. One shoots across the sky—a fallen star, ancient and alone. It is the only flicker of hope, the only promise that light can still break this world’s veil.

He stretches out his arms to the wind and roars with newfound fire:

“What is this but a body?
What are these but limbs?
Curse me, bind me, break me—but this is not where I reside!
I am more. I am more!
So take what you see, but know:
My soul will not tire in its flight!”

His voice carves through the storm like lightning. A moment of defiance in a world that offers none.

He pauses, chest rising with labored breath, and then, softer, steadier, he speaks again:

“And Father… I forgive you.
This is not your burden to bear.”

There is no more fear. Only becoming.

The world answers.

He is struck down.

His blood seeps into the ground, dark as ink. His body collapses, joining the bruises, becoming them. But he is not there. Not really. His spirit—his essence—is far, far away.

He is free.

He is infinite.

He is ancient.

Moral of the Story:

Even in the darkest places, the human spirit can endure. Identity is not bound by flesh, and forgiveness is the final freedom.