The house was silent now. The scent of burnt wood and blood still lingered in the air, a haunting reminder of the night you lost him. Your creation—Hati—had been torn apart by fear and ignorance. They had destroyed his body, his mind, and his soul. Or so you thought.

In the corner of the lab, where his heart had fallen, something miraculous occurred. Amidst the carnage, it had kept beating. Steady. Defiant. Alive.

At first, you didn’t understand. You thought it was an illusion brought on by grief. But as you approached, you saw it—a single, pulsating heart surrounded by faint tendrils of flesh. It was warm to the touch.

For days, you cared for the heart. You wrapped it in bandages soaked in nutrients, kept it warm under a lamp, and spoke to it as if it could hear. Slowly, impossibly, it began to change.

Tendrils of muscle and sinew stretched out like roots seeking soil. A ribcage formed, shielding the heart like armor. Limbs began to take shape, broad and strong, as if sculpted by some unseen hand. The process was agonizingly slow, yet mesmerizing to behold. Each beat of the heart fueled the growth, and with every passing day, Hati returned.

But this Hati was not the same.

When his body was whole again—towering and robust, even more imposing than before—he opened his eyes, and you saw... nothing. His gaze was empty, devoid of the spark of curiosity and kindness that once defined him. He didn’t speak; he didn’t cry. He only existed.

When you asked if he remembered you, he tilted his head, his movements slow and deliberate, like a newborn creature discovering its body for the first time. He reached out, his massive hand brushing against your face, but there was no recognition in his eyes.

The weeks that followed were a struggle. This new Hati didn’t think with a mind—he had none. His thoughts, his decisions, his very existence were driven by his heart alone.

One day, as he sat near a fire, a spark of something appeared in his eyes. "Fire... Warm... Like... Heart..."