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He didn't cry.
He didn't scream.
He didn't break anything.
He just sat there… smiling—that kind of smile that hides a thousand wounds.
He stood up quietly, walked with steady steps toward the closet, opened an old drawer, and pulled something out, wrapped in black cloth.
It was a gun.
In that moment, there was no place left for hope, or love, or even anger.
Everything inside him had already ended—as if death had begun years ago, and only now was it made official.
On a grey afternoon, Icarus left his house in disguise, wearing an old coat and a hat that covered half his face.
He didn't head for the bridge… he took the train instead.
His destination was clear.
He arrived in a wealthy neighborhood—a place he never belonged to.
He stood behind a tree on the corner, watching a beautiful house from afar.
There he was… his father.
With his new wife, laughing, playing with a little boy—his brother, a stranger to him.
He watched as his father held the child with warmth—Icarus never knew that kind of warmth.
He watched him kiss his wife's forehead—the kind of kiss his mother deserved.
He pulled the gun from his coat—not to hurt them, but to see the end clearly.
And in his heart, a voice no one could hear whispered:
"Were you finally a good father?
Will that child live the life I never did?
Will he have a home that doesn't collapse every night?
If you're honest now… then he's innocent.
Let him live."
He turned away and walked down the cold street, alone.
At an abandoned station bench, he sat down.
No one around… just the wind.
He took out one final note and wrote:
"I can't take it anymore.
The pain has become clearer than my own face.
I'm not a coward…
But I've been dead for a long time.
Today, I just make it official.
—Icarus"
He looked up at the sky, smiled with that final, frozen calm…
Placed the gun to the side of his head.
Silence.
One pull.
Boom.
His body collapsed.
And the earth drank his blood—just as his life had always been soaked in pain.
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