I Don't Need To Log Out

"Who are you?" the man in front of him demanded.

Asef only stared at him.

His expression didn't shift. His body didn't flinch. He simply stood, eyes dulled, lips unmoving.

He didn't know why he had come here.

He couldn't explain what drew him toward the lone house in the plains.

Something in the air? A scent on the wind? Or was it like the time he wandered toward the well as a boy?

That memory surfaced faintly, like an ember flaring in a pile of ash.

A brief pang shot through his chest.

But his face remained blank.

"Who are you?!" the man repeated, voice sharper now. Not cruel, but forceful, as if trying to snap Asef back into the moment.

Asef considered answering. He really did.

But when he tried to open his mouth, nothing happened.

Not even a rasp.

Even if he did manage to speak, he wasn't sure if his voice would still sound human.

So instead, he turned.

Slowly. Without a word.

He didn't owe this stranger anything.

He had no reason to be here.

He could just walk away, like he always did.

But the man moved with unexpected speed, stepping in front of him before he could take more than a few steps.

"Come with me."

It wasn't a threat.

Just an instruction. A quiet command from someone who believed they knew better.

Asef followed.

He didn't know why.

Maybe it was because the man didn't yell again. Maybe it was because this house—this quiet, lonely house—felt like a place where the world might stop spinning.

Or maybe it was simply because he didn't care which direction his feet moved.

The man walked through the wooden doorway, and Asef lingered there for a moment.

His eyes followed the edge of the doorframe. The way the wood had chipped with age. The faint creak of the hinges.

He hadn't stepped into a house since his own had blown apart.

He hadn't crossed a threshold in years.

The man must've noticed his hesitation.

"Don't worry. I won't do anything to you."

But Asef wasn't afraid of him.

He wasn't afraid of anything.

That was the problem.

After another few seconds, he stepped inside.

The house was simple. Modest. Two floors, though the second remained untouched for now. The first floor had only two rooms—a kitchen and a living space. Everything smelled faintly of dust and dried herbs.

The man led him to the kitchen and pulled out a chair.

Then, he placed a bowl in front of Asef.

"I think you should accept this," he said. Then, he lifted his cane with a smooth motion.

A faint light shimmered from the tip, and the bowl filled itself.

The aroma of warm, meaty soup curled into the air.

If this had been the old Asef—the child who had searched for a magic well to grant his mother's wish—he would have gasped.

He would have grinned. Clapped. Laughed.

But this Asef?

He just stared.

After the incident in the well, he didn't remember what happened to him.

When others asked him, he only told them that he was searching for the well. But he didn't know if he had found it or not.

But after the night his mother died, the memories had returned.

And with them, the knowledge.

He knew something was inside him.

Something watching.

And since then, magic had lost its beauty.

It no longer sparked wonder. It sparked dread.

Still, he didn't make a scene. He didn't pull away. He just picked up the spoon.

And began to eat.

Slow, measured bites.

As if he had all the time in the world.

The old man watched in silence. His brow furrowed slightly.

He had been watching Asef from afar. Ever since the day he began walking toward the plains. He knew how starved this man must be.

But there was no desperation in the way he ate. He didn't tear into the food.

No greed. No urgency.

Just... acceptance.

Or numbness.

"Would you like more?" he asked gently when Asef set the spoon down.

There was no reply.

So, the man filled the bowl again with another flick of light from his cane.

Of course, he wasn't creating food out of nowhere. That wasn't possible. This was just a party trick.

Asef kept eating.

Bowl after bowl.

Again and again.

Until there was no more food left.

Only then did Asef stand, slowly pushing the chair back.

He turned toward the door.

"Do you want to sleep here tonight?" the old man offered.

Still no answer.

No glance.

Just slow, steady steps toward the exit.

The man sighed. "I'm sorry."

Then, another flash of light sparked from his cane.

And Asef collapsed.

He didn't cry out. Didn't resist.

He just crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

The man caught him with another spell and gently lifted him.

He carried Asef to the couch in the living room, laying him down with practiced care.

He didn't seem to have bad intentions.

He paused for a moment, studying the lines on Asef's face.

Lines too deep for someone his age.

Then, with a quiet nod, he turned and walked upstairs.

The house fell into silence once more.

***

That night, Asef dreamt for the first time in what felt like decades.

Or maybe it was more accurate to call it a nightmare.

There was no clarity to it, no logic or sequence. Only moments, images, fragments of something buried deep.

He saw his mother's face, pale and quiet beneath flickering candlelight.

Then the flash of steel.

His brother's hand.

The sword piercing her chest.

It wasn't real. At least, not the way he remembered it. He had never actually seen that moment. But his mind had conjured it, cruel and vivid, filling in what his eyes hadn't witnessed.

He woke with a jolt.

No screams. No sweat. Just a cold stillness that sank deeper than the air around him.

For the first time in a very long time, Asef felt like he had actually slept.

His body ached less. His limbs moved when he told them to. There was a clarity behind his eyes that hadn't been there before.

He turned his head slowly and saw a small table beside the couch.

On it, a jug of water and a glass.

His body moved before his thoughts could catch up. He reached for the glass and drank.

This time, unlike the slow, distant pace he had eaten with the night before, he drank greedily.

The water rushed down his throat, and it wasn't enough.

Not even close.

He poured another glass.

Then another.

The jug trembled slightly in his hands as he refilled it again and again until, at last, it was empty.

Only then did he lower the glass and realize he wasn't alone.

Across from him, the old man sat in a chair, watching quietly.

Not judging. Not smiling. Just observing.

"Don't worry," the man said after a moment. "It was for you."

The words should have meant nothing.

But they did.

Asef felt something stir inside him, small and strange. A reflex long forgotten.

He wanted to speak. Just two words. A simple thank you.

Probably thanks to the food he ate, he was in better condition.

He parted his lips.

Air moved in his throat. His mouth shaped the words.

But no sound came out.

He paused.

Then tried again.

Still silence.

But for the first time, it felt like he could speak again.

Maybe not now.

But soon.