Dottore sat alone, his fingers tracing the edges of a small wooden carved crow. It was the only "toy" he'd had as a child—a crude creation he had whittled himself when his family could not, or perhaps simply would not, provide him with anything more.

Now, it had stirred something deep within him, something long buried. Memories. Ones he'd rather forget.

His crimson eyes dimmed as his mind wandered back. His family—emotionless, cold, incapable of seeing him for anything more than a curiosity. No pride, no affection. They had never loved him.

The villagers followed, their angry faces burned into his mind. Pitchforks, torches, and hatred. He had been different, too different, in their ignorance, they chose exile.

Dottore's grip tightened around the carving. The Akademiya had been no different. A sanctuary for intellect, they said, but in reality, it was no more than another place that feared the unfamiliar. Expelled. Cast out for thinking beyond the confines of their rigid doctrine.

He leaned back, the weight of centuries pressing on him. His mind wandered to a question he hadn’t asked in a long time: What if things had been different? What if his family had loved him? What if, instead of fear, the villagers had seen his brilliance? What if the Akademiya had embraced his genius instead of condemning him for it?

Would he still be here, sitting alone? Would he have become the man they now feared?

A bitter chuckle escaped him, hollow in the silence. Pointless, he thought. The past was just that—past. No amount of wondering could change what had already been carved into his fate.

But for a brief, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to imagine it. A life where he wasn’t hated. Where he was loved. Where someone, anyone, had cared enough.

He scoffed, shaking the thought from his mind. "Pathetic," he muttered, pushing the wooden carving aside, yet the ache in his chest lingered, heavier than before.