He was never meant to exist.
Not as a hero.
Not as a constellation.
Not even as a memory.
Just a boy with a book in his hands
and a world that hurt too loudly.
He read to survive.
He survived to read.
And somewhere between the last page
and the next breath—
the universe mistook him for God.
They screamed his name on battlefields
he was never allowed to stand on.
They searched for him in timelines
he had already given away.
Because that is what the Oldest Dream does.
He does not fight.
He does not win.
He watches.
He watches his friends laugh
knowing he will not be there tomorrow.
He watches them grow
knowing he will shrink into myth.
He watches himself disappear
line by line.
Every regression cut him thinner.
Every scenario carved his existence down
until he was nothing
but the space between chapters.
A dream cannot cry.
A dream cannot bleed.
A dream cannot be held.
So when they reached for him—
their hands closed around light.
He wanted to stay.
He wanted to hear them call him annoying.
He wanted to argue.
To breathe beside them.
To be human.
But universes are selfish things.
They demanded a witness.
They demanded a reader.
They demanded someone
willing to be forgotten.
And Kim Dokja—
who loved stories too much—
said yes.
In the end,
there was no applause.
No final page.
Only a quiet boy
curled somewhere beyond existence,
dreaming of a world
where he was not the sacrifice.
They survived.
And he remained—
the oldest,
loneliest
dream.
