A deep red moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the city. Clouds moved like shadows across its surface, twisting the light into something unnatural. On that night, even the wind seemed afraid to stir.
Inside Saint Merin's Hospital, a baby cried. Not the high-pitched wail of newborns, but a long, hoarse sound that made the nurse beside the bed shiver.
"She didn't make it," the midwife whispered, gently closing the mother's vacant eyes. The room was still, save for the sound of life just beginning—and another ending.
The nurse turned, looking at the child swaddled in white. "Born under a blood moon… they say it brings death."
"Superstition," the midwife muttered, though her eyes didn't meet the nurse's.
The baby blinked up at the ceiling, his tiny fist clenched, his face wrinkled and tense. Thunder rumbled outside, low and distant. The storm was coming.
*****
The boy's name was Kairo.
By the time he turned three, the world had already taken more from him than it ever gave.
"Save me some cake, champ!" his father called, ruffling his hair before heading out the door. His coat flapped in the wind as he waved. "I'll be back in an hour. Two at most!"
Kairo bounced in place, grinning. "Okay, Daddy!"
He pressed his face to the window, watching the taillights disappear. Then he ran to the table, where a half-eaten birthday cake sat waiting for the man who never returned.
It was nearly midnight when the knock came.
The door creaked open. A police officer stood in the hallway, his hat dripping with rain.
Manuel Tonio, Kairo's grandfather, listened in silence as the officer spoke. Kairo peeked out from behind the couch, clutching a tiny toy car.
"I'm sorry for your loss. It was quick," the officer said.
Manuel nodded once, jaw tight.
Later, Kairo sat curled on the couch, the toy car digging into his palm. "Why didn't Daddy come back?"
The house didn't answer.
That night, he cried until his throat burned. He didn't understand what death meant—only that the world felt colder without his father in it.
****
Manuel took him in.
A retired military man, he wasn't good with feelings. But he was good at routines—morning runs, sharpened pencils, packed lunches, quiet evenings. And though he never said it out loud, he loved Kairo with all he had left.
"Stand tall," Manuel said one morning, adjusting Kairo's posture in front of the mirror. "If your back is straight, the world has a harder time breaking it."
Kairo scowled. "I don't care what the world thinks. They call me a curse."
Manuel sighed. "Let them."
"I don't have friends. Everyone avoids me."
"You don't need friends who believe rumors," he said, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled between them. "When I was your age, I didn't have a single one. Just my boots and a rifle."
"That's depressing."
Manuel chuckled. "It was war. You make do."
Kairo sat on the floor, pulling at a frayed thread on the carpet. "Do you think I'm cursed too?"
Manuel paused, then knelt. His hand rested on the boy's shoulder.
"Listen to me. Flowers may bloom again… but a person will never be young again. Don't waste your days on ghosts and whispers."
Kairo didn't respond, but the words sank deep, burying themselves in places he wouldn't recognize until years later.
****
Time passed.
The coughs started small. Manuel brushed them off. "Smoked too much in my day," he'd say. "Nothing to worry about."
But the pain didn't go away. It lingered. Spread.
One day, while parking outside the hospital, a sharp pain tore through his chest.
He reached for the door handle—And the world went black.
Kairo sat at his grandfather's bedside, the heart monitor's rhythm echoing like a ticking clock.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Manuel rasped, eyes half-lidded.
"You're dying," Kairo said, blunt and pale.
"Well, damn." Manuel chuckled, then winced. "You always knew how to kill the mood."
"You knew," Kairo muttered. "You knew you were sick and didn't tell me."
"Wasn't the kind of thing I wanted you worrying about."
"I could've helped."
"How?" Manuel asked softly. "You think watching me rot would've made you feel better?"
Kairo clenched his fists. "You said I shouldn't waste my youth. How is this fair?"
"Life isn't fair, kid." He turned to face him fully. "But I wouldn't trade mine. You gave this old man a reason to keep going."
Kairo's throat tightened. His vision blurred.
"Don't cry at my funeral," Manuel added, smiling faintly. "Smile for me instead. Remember the mornings. The laughter. That burnt soup I made the first time you got sick."
Kairo opened his mouth, but the words didn't come. He stood, placed the fruit he had brought on the nightstand, and left.
****
Kairo stood motionless, soaked through, the cold creeping into his bones. He hadn't brought an umbrella. He didn't flinch. Around him, people spoke in hushed tones, offering condolences he barely heard. Their words drifted past like fog.
He kept his eyes on the casket as the last shovel of dirt hit with a dull, final thud. That sound—flat, heavy—landed in his chest like a stone.
One by one, the mourners left. Kairo stayed, frozen beneath the gray sky until the silence felt louder than the funeral itself.
Eventually, his feet carried him to the river.
The current raged beneath the bridge, black water crashing against sharp rocks. The wind tore at him. Rain blurred everything, but he didn't care.
He stared into the water, empty.
"You told me to be strong," he muttered. "But I'm so tired."
A shaky breath escaped him. He didn't cry.
"I tried. I really did."
He stepped forward.
For a moment, there was weightlessness.
Then, the river took him.
( To Be Continued)