Ch. 0 - Prologue: The Boy Called “Me”

He was a boy with dull brown hair, around ten years old. His body was thin, and his eyes were a clear blue. He looked terribly serious and painfully naïve.

From his hair and features, he wasn’t Japanese. His clothes were strange—a long, robe-like garment that reached his feet, like a school uniform, but closer to the robes of a priest in a movie.

My first thought: a sheltered boy. Serious, spoiled-looking. If someone told me he had come straight from a church, I would have believed it.

The boy spoke, his voice heavy with sorrow.

—Mother has died.

“…I see. I’m sorry to hear that.”

I had never been allowed the luxury of childhood, so I didn’t know what else to say.

“You have a father, don’t you? Where was he?”

—He stayed by Mother’s side the whole time.

“I see… Your father did his best. And your mother? How was she at the end?”

—She passed as if falling asleep.

“…”

There are no words for tragedy.

Parting in this life is always cruel, and all the more so when it’s family. Pitiful. Truly pitiful.

When you’re older, you realize children need time to be loved.

—I’m searching for my brother.

“You have an older brother? What was he doing when your family suffered?”

—He was… very far away.

The boy explained that, against his father’s wishes, he had set out alone to find his brother. A reckless journey, he admitted.

—I went through terrible things.

“Figures.”

The world isn’t kind enough for a child wandering alone.

—I’m so tired. I want it all to end.

“Then let it end. No one will blame you.”

—I really am so tired…

His face looked exhausted, as if he might collapse at any moment.

“What’s your name?”

—Dietrich Becker.

A foreigner, as I suspected.

“Your father’s name? What does he do?”

—Bernhard. He’s a pastor in the Saxon countryside.

“And your mother?”

—Christina.

“I see. I’d take you home if I knew the place. Is there anything I can do for you?”

The boy raised his downcast face.

—I want you to find my brother.

“Where is he?”

—I don’t know.

“Any marks? Features?”

—I don’t know.

“He’s your brother. How can you not know?”

—He left our home before I was born.

So the brother was far older. Perhaps my age.

Still… what a reckless kid.

Searching for someone he had never seen. No wonder he failed.

“You really are an idiot, aren’t you?”

—That’s from my father’s side.

“I see. Poor kid.”

But I meant it differently now. If both shared such recklessness, he’d never find him.

The boy spoke again, utterly worn out.

—I’m tired… so tired…

“Of course you are.”

How could you not? You’re searching for someone whose face you don’t even know.

—You speak in such a blunt way.

“I’ve got my own history, just as you have yours, Dietrich Becker.”

Silence fell. Yet, in that silence, I felt something strange.

It was hard to put into words.

We were different, and yet… somehow similar. There was a foundation we shared—a resonance—something important I could not explain. For some reason, I wanted to be kind to him. And he, in his own way, seemed to rely on me.

—Do you believe in God?

I nodded.

“Yeah. I believe. God exists. Near, yet far. Far, yet near.”

—I don’t know anymore…

“I see. That’s sad.”

I wasn’t religious, but I believed in the existence of God.

Life has its moments. In my thirty years, there were times I felt a presence beyond human understanding.

Once, when my drunkard father died, beaten to death by punks in what you might call a “father hunt.” The same man who had beaten my mother and me until we bled, now repaid a hundredfold. I clapped my hands and laughed.

Another time, it was my mother’s smile.

She was timid, always deferring to others. Even I, her son, never heard her true feelings.

I wanted her to smile.

So I played the clown—copying comedians, dancing, singing—anything to coax a flicker of light from her.

But she had cancer.

It advanced fast in her thirties, wasting her to skin and bone.

Still, I wanted her to smile.

I don’t remember the details, but she did—like a flower breaking through frost.

She died with a smile.

I cried, and in that moment, I believed God existed.

I don’t pray. I don’t worship. I don’t even feel gratitude.

But I believe in will beyond nature.

Thoughts beyond our grasp, yet always present.

Watching.

The boy stared at me with pure blue eyes.

—Your faith is wonderful…

“It’s nothing special.”

—Please find my brother.

“I don’t know. But if God guides you, maybe you’ll meet one day.”

At some point, the boy smiled.

—That’s enough. As you are. Stay as you are…

“I will.”

He, wistful, said:

—It’s almost time. I should go…

“We’ll meet again. At the end of the endless road.”

The boy looked surprised, then laughed.

The last I saw of him was the smile of a boy his age.

Somehow, I had made him laugh.

At some point, I found myself in a darkness so complete I couldn’t see a single step ahead, yet I faced it without fear.

Then voices echoed, reverberating in my ears.

◇◆

People are bound by their nature. Dietrich Becker’s innocence had led to his ruin.

And yet, when people seek to reach somewhere, they must abandon themselves.

—I shall give you knowledge.

—I shall give you wisdom.

Do not let yourself drift astray. Restrain yourself. Naked human instinct is unworthy of my child.

Remember this.

The sacrifices born of love are what I cherish most.

Those who endure their greatest trials shall be granted the most beautiful fate.

◇◆

Words overflowed in my head, vanishing as soon as they came.

Finally, it said:

“There were too many things that child could not understand.

“You live on. In time, you will understand.”

“I will.”

I always have. Even now. It isn’t difficult.

“I will always be myself.”

And then, the world was swallowed by darkness.

◇◆

…

……

………

…………

At first, there was only pain.

When I awoke in a dim cave, I was buried under children clinging to me as they slept.

Arms, legs, and even around my waist. Thanks to them, it wasn’t cold, but unbearably hot.

“What the hell?”

My voice came out thin and shrill, like a child’s.

Is it a cold?

I peeled the kids off me, rubbing my throat, when a figure rose from the shadows.

“So, the newcomer’s awake? You’re the only human here. Stay as their bed-warmer a little longer.”

“…”

What the hell. That was my first impression of her.

Lanky, but no more than fourteen or fifteen. A child’s face. Just another kid.

I didn’t answer. I tried instead to grasp the situation.

So dark I could barely see. The stench hurt my nose. And it was like a sewer cave. Probably was.

The surrounding children were all filthy, ragged street kids, all about ten years old.

“Where is this…?”

Again, that shrill voice, as if I were a child. I rubbed my throat.

“Can’t sleep?” the tall girl said, clicking her tongue. “I’m Abigail. Call me Abby. And you, newcomer?”

“I’m…”

I hesitated. I couldn’t say my name.

I was a modern Japanese man. Over thirty, unmarried, living alone with a normal job. That was me. But I couldn’t say my name. My throat locked.

Instead, another name flashed in my mind.

“Di… Dietrich. Call me Di.”

What the hell. That’s—

That voice again.

Looking at my palm, I noticed it. It was small, dirty, and fragile.

A child’s hand.

“…”

Damn it all.

Dietrich Becker.

No mirror needed. I was Dietrich Becker now.

As confusion struck me, I felt Abigail approach and pat my head.

“I see… Then I’ll call you Di, too. Go back to sleep now, Di.”

“…”

I didn’t understand. Anything. So I stayed silent, trying to avoid deeper confusion. Abby looked at me with sadness in her eyes.

“Don’t you get it? No wonder…”

“What are you talking about?”

I forced out the childish voice. My senses adjusted fast. I realized this really was my voice now. My body, just like the other kids clinging to me, was around ten.

“Di. You were abandoned,” Abby said, sorrow filling her words.

“I see…”

The voice was shrill, but the words were mine.

Suddenly, memories welled up.

The girl before me—Abigail.

One of the ringleaders of the street kids around here. They called her “Abby” or “Bee.”

Queen Bee.

Damn it.

Why? How did this happen?

Everything before me was beyond comprehension.

◇◆

In the end, life is nothing but a string of cruel jokes.

—Words of Asclepia

◇◆

I scratched my head and sighed.

Dietrich Becker.

The boy called “me.”

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