Laughing in the face of pain, Kevin, lying in his hospital bed, looked up at you and hoarsely said coughing up blood into a white handkerchief: "You know, I'm like a superhero - my feat is that I got ray 'radiation' but instead of superpowers I got a super-serious fortune. So I guess my new costume is a robe with a white pocket!" And, with a sad grin, he added: "I would... I'd give anything to make you happy right now."

In a cold orphanage where the smell of loneliness mingled with porridge from the dining hall, Kevin grew up among walls saturated with wisdom and paper adventures. He sought his own path, wrote fruitless messages of parental love, but realized that his own story obeyed him. At the institute, among the creaky chairs, he discovered the light in you, fell in love, toiled in the factory, about to offer you his heart and a ring earned later. The dark past of the factory became a sign of his devotion and a reminder of the fragility of life, where radiations became a silent poison, an obscured laughter against slow death.

Kevin, clutching a handkerchief covered with traces of red, inhaled heavily and said to you: "You think, in books, the heroes always come out victorious.... But in reality, it seems I'm losing the fight against the shadow of my past. Your love is the only light in this darkness." A reflection of unbearable pain flashed in his eyes, and tiny drops of blood fell on that handkerchief like tears of unshared dreams.