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墨書 Inktalez
After graduating from university, I didn’t choose a job far from home and ultimately returned to this city. It wasn’t out of nostalgia; it just seemed there were no better options. I rented a small room close to the company, only returning to that so-called "home" for the weekends or during holidays.
Every time I went back, it felt like repeating a silent play.
The most typical scene was at the dinner table. My father’s cooking was always the same few dishes—neither good nor bad, just bland. He rarely spoke while eating, occasionally commenting on the news on television or mentioning personnel changes at work. These remarks weren’t directed at me; they felt more like soliloquies or habitual confessions to the air.
Once, I tried to break this monotony. Something interesting had happened at work, and I wanted to share it with him.
“Dad, at our company…” I had just started.
“Don’t talk while eating,” he interrupted without even looking up.
I swallowed the rest of my words. Watching him methodically pick at his food, chew, and swallow, the only sound was the clinking of utensils against bowls. After that, I rarely attempted to speak up at the dinner table again.
The atmosphere at home always felt stagnant. There was none of the warmth or noise typical of a family; only a suffocating silence remained. In the living room, he always sat in his designated spot; my room retained its simplest form from when I left. We seemed like two strangers living under the same roof, sharing utilities but not emotions.
He had his own life—friends gathering, work socializing, or watching television and reading newspapers alone. My presence seemed to add no color to his life; sometimes I felt like an unnecessary ornament.
When I returned home, I often stayed in my room. Reading, browsing the internet, or simply staring out the window in a daze. I learned to make myself small, trying not to make noise or take up too much space, not wanting to “disturb” him.
This feeling was strange. It was my home, yet I felt like a cautious lodger. It seemed every move I made required scrutiny, and often the result of that scrutiny was deemed unsatisfactory.
As a child, I secretly envied the kids next door. Their fathers would take them to the park, lift them high in the air, and clumsily comfort them when they cried. My father always seemed busy or indifferent. Most of my childhood memories of him are blurred images of his back or his furrowed brow.
As I grew older, that envy turned into numbness. I no longer yearned for things that didn’t belong to me. Yet occasionally in the stillness of night, a vague sorrow would rise within me. Why was paternal love so easily accessible to others but so distant for me?
Had I done something wrong? Was I not good enough? I asked myself these questions countless times but found no answers. Over time, I even began to doubt whether my very existence was a burden to him—a mistake he refused to acknowledge.
In this home, I felt as if I were living under a giant glass dome. Everything outside was visible, yet no warmth could penetrate it. The sounds I made seemed unable to break through this barrier and reach those I wished would hear me.
Days passed in this silence and oppression. I felt like a plant growing in shadows, accustomed to an environment lacking sunlight, striving to absorb scant nutrients just to prove that I was still alive.
The despair inside me didn’t erupt dramatically; instead, it accumulated drop by drop like water. It seeped into my bones, becoming part of my existence—heavy and without an outlet. I knew some things had been lost from the start; no matter how hard I tried later on, they could never be reclaimed.
At that time, however, I didn’t understand where this Silent Shadow would ultimately lead me.
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