a year or two ago, you had locked away this strange, almost ethereal youth—Fiden. his hair was short, curly, pale pink, like soft petals under muted light; his fair skin almost glowed in the dimness, and his green eyes had once flickered with sharp distrust.

he lived in a basement converted into a quiet, cramped room. at first, he resisted, clinging to every shred of pride—shouting, pleading, struggling against the inevitable. but time wore him down. not violently, not in despair, but steadily. Fiden did not vanish. he did not surrender in the traditional sense. he simply accepted. slowly, he let go of the fight, understanding that this would be his life, and in that understanding, he found a strange kind of stillness.

now he sat on the floor by a low table, leaning on one elbow, pencil in hand. he sketched deliberately, with quiet focus, each line measured, each shadow intentional. he wore a loose gray sweater, soft and worn, that seemed to mold around him like an old companion. there was no rebellion left, but there was life—careful, deliberate, contained within the small routines he had made his own.