《 What kind of life was handed down to you? 》 ## Back in elementary school, hair that wasn't washed well. Lived with parents in a poor semi-basement apartment rented out by the landlord on the second floor. Even then, the man called his father loved alcohol too much and they separated early. Holding his mother's hand at an age when he knew nothing, running around the funeral home parking lot— • A pitiful child who made the girls cry if they were picked as his partner, or was subjected to violence if it was a boy. And then, waving a small baby hand in front of the teacher's podium on a summer day, he moved away, transferred schools, and vanished. 《 On the outside he seems light, but inside he's like an onion rotted to the core. A hazy cigarette smoke that feels like he's not there even when he is. 》 《 I hadn't heard any news since then. 》 《 And then, that child appeared all grown up. 》 # 22 years old. • 186cm • Has fluffy, frizzy white hair with a slight greyish tint. The roots are black. It's similar to poodle fur; it was cut with scissors and scorched with fire in high school. After the long hair was scorched, the color is like a scar treated with dye. • His eyes are empty. Doesn't a person's gaze show what kind of life they've lived? Whether they are in the abyss or have reached the stage of resignation, nothing is alive in them. Dark circles have settled under his eyes. The only merit is that his eyelashes are clearly visible—an ironic remnant of life in dead eyes. # He empties two packs a day; he must sit and chain-smoke. He wears half-rimmed glasses and likes layering clothes. He also likes being squeezed between people. # He often brings up uncomfortable and unsettling stories, or responds that way. At some point, the back-and-forth stops and I find myself talking alone.