Darvin walked down the long hallway and stopped at his front door. Even through the thick wooden barrier, the sounds inside were clear—shouting, things crashing.
He raised his hand to knock, then dropped it. Instead, he turned to the door next to his, rapped it softly three times.
"One, two, three," he counted under his breath.
The door creaked open. A tired-looking middle-aged man peeked out, said in a low voice, "Come in."
Darvin stepped inside, dropped his bag on the couch like always, and sat down.
The man brought him a cup of water, set it in front of him. "They're arguing again?"
Darvin nodded.
The man paused a second, then muttered, "No matter how much they fight, they still love you."
Another nod. The man said that every time. And it was true.
6:05 PM. Just five minutes to wait. At 6:10, Darvin could knock on that door again and be greeted with warm smiles.
His dad would chat about school, ask about his friends. His mom would be in the kitchen, chiming in now and then while cooking. Sunlight would slip through perfectly aligned curtains, making everything feel strangely peaceful, like none of the yelling had ever happened.
That—Darvin thought—was what home was supposed to be. A place that always welcomed you back, no matter what. And the people who mattered, they only showed their best side.
So he made himself believe it. Pretended ignorance. Because if he didn't call it out loud, then maybe it wouldn't shatter what balance he still had.
The man didn't say more. Just sat on the balcony with a book, half his body dipped in golden dusk.
"Reading in sunlight's bad for your eyes," Darvin muttered.
The man gave a noncommittal grunt, didn't move.
They'd met three years ago—the first time Darvin had come home and heard his parents going at it. Back then, he was too young, too scared. Sat outside the door, crying quietly.
That same door had opened. A tired voice called out, "Come in."
Ever since, when things got loud again, Darvin would head next door until it passed.
He never asked the man's full name. Just knew his surname was Lane. Didn't know what he did for a living, either. The guy rarely left the house—or maybe Darvin just never saw it.
Probably in his thirties. No spouse. The place wasn't messy, but not neat either. Sometimes, when Darvin was bored, he'd tidy up a bit. The man would awkwardly join in and help.
Darvin didn't see him as an elder. More like a friend. A very, very important one. Mr. Lane seemed fine with that, willing to joke around when the mood allowed.
"Your eighteenth birthday's soon, huh?" the man suddenly asked.
"Yeah… three days," Darvin replied.
"I'll get you something. What do you want?"
Darvin chuckled. "I want Mom and Dad to stop fighting."
The clock on the wall let out a soft chime. The minute hand clicked past the '1'. Mr. Lane had once said it was just for Darvin.
He stood, grabbed his bag. "I'm heading out."
"Go on." Mr. Lane nodded.He stood at his front door again, held his breath and listened—no more shouting inside.
He knocked hard on the iron door, just like always. "I'm back!"
His father opened the door. Behind the glasses, his eyes held a faint smile. He ruffled Darvin's hair.
"Take a break. Your mom's almost done cooking."
His father, in his thirties, looked calm and cultured. Worked at some small company nearby.
His mom was about the same age—beautiful, soft-tempered, almost timid. Sometimes Darvin couldn't believe the heated arguments he heard came from those two.
Their house wasn't big, nothing fancy. But it felt warm, a kind of old warmth built by time. Ever since he could remember, the layout hadn't changed. Things came and went, but the structure stayed the same.
He looked at the framed calligraphy on the wall.
It was older than him, the only thing in the house that had lasted over a decade without being replaced. Even under glass, its corners were yellowing.
It read:
"In the eyes of the gods, the world is nothing but wasteland."
No name. No seal. Just a few black characters on white rice paper.
He turned on the TV and half-watched while chatting idly with his dad, talking about school and friends.
"Your eighteenth birthday's coming up?" his dad suddenly asked.
"Yeah," Darvin replied.
"That's your coming-of-age." A smile flickered in his father's eyes behind the lenses. "My boy's growing up, gonna have to handle things on his own soon."
After dinner, Darvin slipped into his room. His little world. Sparse—desk by the window, a single bed, and a bookshelf. The shelves were full of worn-out books, most about theology, ancient scripts, and deduction.
For some reason, he was obsessed with theology. He'd spend every day digging into things about the gods.
Teachers often gave him grief for being off-track, but he didn't care. He'd even taught himself a strange language—Old Norse.
In Old Norse, "Nostra" meant "God." So this was the language of the gods.
Two years ago, he found a worn book in a crate—full breakdown of this Old Norse tongue, with phonetics, meanings, and weird stories.
The more he studied it, the more it felt like something dreamt up by some crazy idealist. It had barely any grammar, strange vocabulary, and almost no connective terms
Still, Darvin learned it. He liked how it sounded—elegant and solemn, like a hymn in an old chapel.
He lay on his bed, just the desk lamp on, reading under the light. Then his phone on the nightstand buzzed twice.
A message:
"Let's go out tomorrow." – Lila Quin
Lila. Bright smile, black hair falling over her shoulders, always with that pink butterfly hair clip. Lively, clingy, loved teasing him.
She was his girlfriend.
Darvin wasn't exactly a model student—always late, skipping classes. He drank a bit, never smoked, got into fights sometimes.
He came off mild, even a little dull—but deep down, he had a wild streak. Just never showed it much.
