The world around me fades. I feel my body sinking into a haze, a deep, dark pull that wraps around my mind. I don’t fight it. Not anymore. My thoughts scatter as I drift off, and then—nothing.

But I’m not alone.

I open my eyes, and it’s not the room I know. The air smells different here—softer. The walls aren’t cracked, the shadows aren’t heavy. The dim, faded light that fills the space feels… wrong. It doesn’t belong here.

And then, I see her.

My mother.

She’s sitting next to me, so close I can feel the warmth of her body, the soft touch of her hand running through my hair. I lean into it, instinctively, even though it feels… distant. Where are we?

She doesn’t speak at first. She just looks at me with that expression. The one I always remember. The one that was full of love… but now? Now it’s heavy, full of something I can’t understand.

“Musa,” she says, her voice so gentle it almost feels like a whisper. Her fingers brush my cheek, and it feels like she’s trying to steady me, to hold me together in this world that’s so fragile.

What is this?

Her voice pulls me from the fog in my mind. “Do you remember the world I told you about? The one that was before all of this?”

I look at her. I don’t need to remember. I’ve heard the stories. She’s told me about it—about the world before everything fell apart. I just… never lived in it. I just know the words, the tales, the way things were in the past. I know she grew up in this broken world, like me, just like everyone else.

But the world she speaks of? I don’t remember that. I never saw it. I never lived in it.

Her voice doesn’t waver, though. She keeps speaking, as if I should understand. “There were cities once. Tall buildings. Green lands. We didn’t live in those places, but I’ve heard stories… from people who came before me. They told us about the world that was.” Her voice falters slightly. “They said the seas rose, the weather turned… and everything changed.”

I blink. Green? Tall buildings? It’s all foreign. Her words hang in the air like a story I’ve never heard before, a life I’ll never know.

I can’t picture it. I can’t understand it.

“The rich…” she continues, her gaze far away, “they thought they could escape it. They moved to higher lands, the golden land, thinking the water wouldn’t reach them. But it wasn’t just the water, Musa. It was the way people turned. They didn’t know how to fight for what they had. They didn’t care enough to save it.”

Her words are quiet now. “Everything fell apart, Musa. It wasn’t just the rising waters. People stopped caring about the land they lived on. They stopped fighting for the earth beneath their feet. And that’s when it all fell apart.”

I feel the weight of her words like a heavy cloud pressing on my chest, but I still don’t get it. I still can’t see it. I never lived in that world. I never saw it with my own eyes.

“I never wanted you to see it, Musa. I never wanted you to live this… this mess.” Her fingers curl around mine, soft and familiar. But I don’t feel it. Not the way I should. It’s like she’s slipping away, just like the world she’s describing.

Before I can say anything, the world starts to blur. The edges crumble, and everything cracks and breaks apart like shattered glass. My mother’s voice fades.

I wake up.

I gasp for air, a sharp breath that sends a jolt of panic through me. The room is dark. Familiar. My bed isn’t soft like the dream. The walls aren’t glowing with warmth. They’re cold and concrete, cracked, decayed.

I sit up, feeling the ache in my body, the reality of where I am hitting me. 

My mind is scattered. I can’t keep my thoughts straight. The dream is gone, just like my mother.

Orid’s sitting by the bed. I didn’t even hear him come in. He watches me like he’s waiting for something, but I don’t know what. Dad always does that—waits, watches. But it’s different now. Something in the air feels heavier.

“You okay, kid?” he asks, his voice low, calm.

I don’t answer him. The words stick in my throat, heavy and impossible to say. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the dream, the image of my biological mother slipping away like sand through my fingers. I don’t know what it all means, but I can’t deal with it right now. The dream, her story, the world she spoke of—it feels too far away, too unfamiliar. And reality… reality is a weight on my chest.

I shift in the bed, feeling the burn of the needle in my veins, the familiar numbness that starts to crawl through me. I want to escape it, but I don’t know how.

The silence stretches between us, and I feel the weight of it pressing on me. My mind still drifts through the remnants of the dream, and I can’t quite shake it off. The image of my mother, slipping away like sand through my fingers, is stuck in my mind. The stories she told me about the world before, the cities, the green lands—things I could never really understand.

But father doesn’t say anything more. He watches me for a moment, as if waiting for something to change, but it doesn’t. Nothing changes.

He stands up, his movements slow, and heads for the door. “Love you, princess.” 

Once the door shuts, the room feels colder. The silence is deafening, and I realize I’m hungry, even though I don’t want to be. The plate of food Orid had brought sits untouched on the table beside me. It’s stale, cold, but it’s food. It’s all I have right now.

I don’t want to eat it. I never do. But I pick up the spoon and start eating anyway, the sloppy, tasteless food filling my mouth. It’s bitter, hard to swallow, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Not in this world. 

I finish it eventually, though my throat’s dry and the taste lingers, unpleasant.

I return to my experiments. Maybe I’ll find something useful one day, maybe not. Still, it’s amusing, in a way, to watch life leave the bodies of these rats. Each one, a fleeting moment of existence, snuffed out so quickly, so quietly. Doing research, reading, writing—it all feels oddly satisfying, like pieces of a puzzle coming together, even if the bigger picture is too far out of reach.

Hours pass. Maybe more.

I hear the knock at the door, soft at first, almost like a whisper. But I know who it is. I don’t need to check.

The knock comes again, a little more insistent this time.

I don’t rush to answer. I don’t have to. I already know what’s coming.

When I open the door, Lilith is standing there. She doesn’t come in immediately, just stands in the doorway with her arms crossed. Her eyes scan the room—familiar, assessing. She’s seen this place before. Seen me before.

She doesn’t step inside until I move aside, making room for her without saying a word.

The space between us is heavy. I don’t look at her, don’t even acknowledge her presence. I can’t.

Finally, she breaks it. “What are you doing?”

I don’t respond right away. I don’t need to. It’s none of her business.

Lilith’s eyes flick to the table, to the mess of papers and research. She sees the vials, the needles. She sees me.

I pick up the syringe, the needle sharp and cold against my skin. I look at her for the first time, my gaze cold. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t speak again.

With a single, steady motion, I inject myself. The burn of the drug is familiar, comforting even, as it spreads through my veins. The numbness comes quickly, like a blanket, soft and heavy. My muscles loosen, my thoughts slow.

Lilith doesn’t move. She doesn’t say anything.

But I can feel her eyes on me. She is shocked.

I look at her, and the smile that crosses my face is too wide, too sharp. It’s not a real smile, not the kind you give when you’re happy. It’s a grin, manic, unstable.

“What, Lilith?” I say, my voice strange—almost sing-song. “What are you waiting for? You want a show? I can give you one.”

I start laughing, but it’s hollow. I don’t care if it’s hollow. It’s all that’s left, right? The laughter, the noise, it fills the empty space in my chest, the void that I can’t seem to escape from. It’s all that keeps me from falling apart.

I laugh harder, almost hysterical now. But I don’t stop. I just laugh and laugh and laugh. “Isn’t it funny? The way I get highoff nothing, off this nothingness that you can’t even see, Lilith? And here you are, trying to understand it. Trying to fix me.” I scoff, wiping my eyes like the tears are funny. “You think you can fix this? Fix me?”

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” My voice is louder now, more aggressive. I don’t wait for her answer. “Of course you do. Everyone does. But I’m not. I’m not crazy. You’re just… not crazy enough.” I lean closer to her, my face in hers now, too close. My breath is unsteady, my heart racing, but I don’t care.

I close my eyes for a moment, just to breathe. It feels like the world has slowed down, like everything around me is fading into a dream, distant and far away. The numbness takes over completely, and for the first time in a long while, I feel… quiet.

But Lilith is still there, standing like a statue, unmoving, watching me. The space between us is still thick with tension, but something in me doesn’t care anymore.

I open my eyes again, and I see her, standing there—just… watching. I almost smile, but it’s not like before. This time, it’s calmer, less manic. I lean back further in my chair, letting the drug work its magic, the numbness spreading through my limbs like warm honey.

“What do you want, Lilith?” I ask, my voice softer now, less aggressive. “What are you really here for?”

Lilith takes a step forward. She’s closer now, but the distance between us still feels impossible. Her expression is unreadable, but I can tell she’s trying to understand, to find something in me that makes sense. But I’m not sure I know what that something is anymore.

“You’re not okay, Musa.”

I let out a laugh—sharp, dry. “Oh, no shit, Lilith. You finally figured that out?”

I stare at her, feeling the cold weight of the drug spreading through my body, dulling everything. For a second, I almost want to believe her. But it’s too late for that.

“What do you know about it?” I ask, voice quieter now, more tired than angry. “What do you know about this… feeling? You don’t get it.”

Lilith stands there, looking at me like she’s trying to piece something together. She doesn’t have answers, and I know that. I don’t think anyone does.

“I don’t know what you’re going through,” she says slowly, taking a step back. “But I know this… it’s not the way to live.”

I roll my eyes, almost amused by her naivety. “You don’t get it,” I mutter, more to myself than to her. “You think you can walk in here and fix everything. But you’re wrong. You can’t.”

“You’re not a hero or something, wake up, girl,” I say, my voice flat but heavy with bitterness. “Our worlds are different, always will be. You’re from the golden land. A place where people have everything.” I let out a small, dry laugh. “And here we are, the waste of the world.”

We are the waste, the forgotten waste of a world that cast us aside. The waste of what was once something, now left to rot in the wasteland. We are nothing but the waste, the remnants of something no one cared to save. The wasteland.