Nothing existed at first.
Not even darkness. Because darkness needs light to cast it. And here—there was neither the one nor the other. No sensations, no thoughts, no time.
Space—was absent. I—was absent.
But at some point in this void, an impulse was born. Something weak, barely perceptible. Not a thought. Not even a feeling. Just a hint. As if, in the depths of absolute nothingness, someone had drawn a thin line, almost invisible. An internal breeze. A faint rustle in an empty room.
Then—pause. And another. The impulse.
Rhythm. Pulse. Life?
I didn't know who I was. I didn't know if I had been someone before this moment. But something inside me began to awaken. Not immediately. Reluctantly. Like a shadow, long buried beneath the earth, crawling back to the surface, glancing at the light.
The first to come was awareness. Formless, viscous, like a dream on the verge of waking. I began to discern... existence. Myself. A body. It hadn't been there—but I felt it forming. Flesh shaped in sensations—not physically, but rather—conceptually. An image. A frame. An empty shell, where I was meant to be.
I didn't know my name. Not a single detail. No past. No faces. No voice. Just silence inside—deep, like a bottomless well. And that wasn't... frightening. On the contrary—it was natural. I existed in the void, and the void didn't require explanations.
But the world did.
When my eyes opened—the world crashed upon me suddenly.
The light was dim, blurred, gray. Above my head, bare branches stretched, with raindrops hanging from them like the frozen tears of eyes. The air—damp, smelling of rot, earth, and moss. A fine drizzle fell with indifferent regularity, dripping onto my face, my hands, and the clothes I couldn't remember wearing.
I lay on the ground. Under the forest canopy. Alone. And I realized this immediately—absolute solitude, without sounds, without voices, without steps. Even the animals were gone—only the rustle of leaves, and it seemed distant.
I moved. Slowly. Inside, something clicked. Not pain—more like a mechanical feeling, as if something fell into place. My shoulder. My elbow. My knee. I wasn't broken, but the sensation was as if someone had assembled me from parts and rebooted me.
The body—young. Flexible. Strong. But foreign. I didn't feel attached to it. It was a comfortable shell, nothing more. A means of survival. A tool.
I knelt. Listened to myself.
No emotions.
No fear, no surprise, no confusion. Just cold, detached observation. Everything that happened—seemed logical. I was supposed to wake up. I was supposed to exist. Everything else—was a matter of time.
And then I felt it.
Warmth. Somewhere deep inside, beneath my diaphragm. Like a quiet fire. But not burning—not alarming. It was... energy. I didn't know what to call it. But it lived in me. It flowed like a river, as if invisible currents were rustling beneath my skin, and every breath intensified their movement.
It was wrong. And at the same time—it was right. As if I was always meant to have it. This power.
I stood up.
The forest was silent. I felt the world watching me. Not with eyes. Just—by sensation. I was foreign here. The world knew it. And I didn't need confirmation. This land, this sky, this air—everything felt... different. Not from my past. Although I didn't know if I even had one.
But there was no panic in it. Only acceptance.
I touched the trunk of a tree. It was wet, rough. Real. I existed. I was weaving myself into reality. Slowly. Like poison entering the bloodstream.
I had no name. And that was fine.
I had no purpose. And that—was right.
I was no one.
And no one—means free.