The awakening came with the quiet creak of floorboards. He opened his eyes, staring at the low, slanted ceiling. Cracks in the plaster sprawled like thin veins, and through the gaps in the boards, a cold, faint gray morning light seeped in. Dust motes swirled in the air, illuminated by thin rays. The mattress beneath him was old, sagging, thrown directly onto the wooden floor. Shadows loomed around him: boxes with worn edges, a broken lamp without a shade, a coil of rough rope tucked in the corner. It all felt foreign. Or was it his? He didn’t know.

Who am I? The thought flickered and dissolved. His memory was silent. He sat up, feeling his legs stiffen. A heaviness pressed in his chest, solid as a stone. His body moved on its own: he stood, walked to a trapdoor in the floor, and opened it. A narrow staircase led downward—wooden, with peeling paint, slightly unsteady. The steps creaked under his weight as he descended, gripping the trembling railing.

From below came the smell of food—simple, familiar: fried eggs, maybe toast. The sizzle of a pan mingled with the hum of an old refrigerator. He paused at a slightly open door. Through the crack, he glimpsed a piece of the kitchen: a worn table, yellowed wallpaper with faded patterns, a lone pot with a withered plant on the windowsill. A woman’s voice, warm but weary, called from inside:

“Son, are you hungry?”

He froze. I must be her son, he thought. She knows me. But I don’t know her. His gaze slid over the cracked door, but he didn’t step forward. His voice came out on its own, quiet, almost a whisper:

“No, thank you, I’m not hungry.”

Silence. He turned and walked back, feeling her gaze follow him through the sliver of the door. The staircase creaked again under his feet as he climbed back to the attic. Closing the trapdoor, he sat by a small, round window. The glass was cloudy, coated in dust, but through it, he could see a fragment of the world: gray sky, rooftops, a thin strip of road. A car passed in the distance—a black shadow, flashing by and vanishing. The sound of its engine was muffled, alien.

He thought:

What if I’m gone? Hm, am I even here? The world didn’t notice. It keeps going. It’s still going.

His gaze fell on the coil of rope in the corner. It lay there—rough, worn, with knots tied by someone’s hands. Whose? He didn’t know. Standing, he walked to it, reaching out. Dust settled on his fingers as he touched it. The rope was cold, coarse. He began to unravel it, slowly, mechanically, as if his body knew what to do while his mind merely watched.

He dragged an old crate to the center of the attic. The beam overhead was dark, sturdy. The rope slipped around his neck easily, almost naturally. The knot tied itself, his fingers checking it. Light from the window fell on him, casting a long shadow on the wall. His face was calm, but his eyes were empty. He stepped forward. The crate toppled with a dull thud.

Darkness.

A melody plays. “No, thank you, I’m not hungry…” The words repeat, breaking into a rasp, dissolving into silence.

Let me know if you'd like to translate this into another language or continue with the next part!