"I... for the longest time, I—I was just surviving. Breathing, moving... but never really living," Valen said, crying over his parents' coffin.
A wake with no guests. Not a single relative showed up. He understood, though—he had nothing to offer anyone who might've come to pay respects.
Born into poverty, living on an ownerless patch of land—just another "squatter"—he knew no one wanted to visit a cramped, filthy, hopeless place like their home.
The atmosphere was heavy. The house itself felt unwelcoming. His parents' coworkers didn't even know where they lived, and Valen had no friends.
He mourned, but he had to keep going. He handled everything—the funeral arrangements, the paperwork—using every government fund and program he could find. Alone, he took care of it all, down to the final step.
A week passed...
Valen arrived at school—not to attend class, but for something else.
The College of St. Cath, a private school. His entire tuition had been covered by a government scholarship.
He walked straight to the faculty room to speak with his adviser and explain his week-long absence—and his decision to drop out.
JR Lester (his adviser):
"I'm sorry for your loss, Valen. I know this has been hard on you, but you have to keep going. I know you're a strong person. If you ever need help, you can always come to me."
Mr. Lester handed him a certificate: "With High Honors."
"Valen, you were a great student. And a great son."
"Thank you, Sir J." Valen replied.
Valen never had a deep connection with any of his teachers, but he knew this man was one of the good ones—serious, passionate, and kind.
He then went to the Office of Student Affairs (OSA) to withdraw and collect all his documents. The staff comforted him before handing over originals like his birth certificate and school records.
That afternoon, with everything done, Valen sat in the corner of his tiny one-room house. His eyes blank, staring at the ceiling, wondering what to do next.
The place was a mess—cramped and dirty. He started cleaning, separating what he needed from what he could sell. Even broken appliances might fetch something at the junk shop.
While sorting, his eyes landed on a cheap coffee maker and a pack of coffee beans.
It was a raffle prize his family had won during a Christmas event. They'd never used it—they didn't have the luxury to brew coffee. Meals were usually plain rice, with just a sprinkle of sugar and salt.
Seeing the appliance sparked a thought. Maybe this could help him make a living... but he had no capital, no experience. The idea faded almost as soon as it came.
Seventeen years old. Grade 12. A high school senior with no future plans. He didn't believe he was depressed, but his mind was cracking. He wasn't even aware of the suicidal thoughts circling in the background. Right and wrong had begun to blur.
"I want to know what coffee tastes like," he muttered to himself, hoping it might offer some comfort.
He ground a large batch of beans and loaded them into the coffee maker. He added water—enough to fill a single cup. In his head, everything should've been perfect.
But in truth, the coffee-to-water ratio was way off.
He waited as it brewed. Once it finished, he filled a cup with the pitch-black liquid and took a sniff.
"Maybe I just don't have creamer. That's why it's so dark... well, beggars can't be choosers," he said, adding all the sugar he had—along with some random spices from his shelf.
"The more flavor, the tastier," he told himself, and took a sip.
Everything about it was wrong.
He hadn't even checked if what he added was edible.
The sugar, the coffee grounds, the mystery ingredients—it was all excessive. Too much. Way too much.
He took a sip and then...
BA-DUM! BA-DUM!
He heard his heartbeat—loud, thundering.
His vision glitched. Flickered.
He thought he was going insane.
(Maybe he already was.)
BA-DUM! BA-DUM!
The pounding in his chest grew louder. He staggered backward and tripped over the things he had just organized.
Everything went black.
He collapsed.
–Wheeeeeeeooooohhh...
An eerie gust of wind roused him. His body ached from the collapse, the overdose of caffeine pulsing through his veins.
His vision cleared—but something was wrong.
His belongings were gone.
Everything.
The room looked the same… yet not.
Off. Twisted. Familiar, but deeply wrong.