The windshield wipers dragged sluggish arcs across the glass, smearing rain and grime into a blurred haze that clung stubbornly to the city. Outside, the sky was a bruised gray, the kind that pressed down on your chest and left no space to breathe. The streets crawled with damp shadows and flickering neon, ghosts of life beneath a suffocating layer of smog and apathy.
Inside the car, silence had settled like a thick fog — but it was brittle, ready to crack at any moment.
His mother's fingers trembled against the door handle, nails biting into pale skin. She didn't look at the baby in the rearview mirror, didn't want to meet those small, unseeing eyes. Instead, she stared at her reflection, a ghostly version of herself framed by the car window.
"We never wanted him," she said, voice barely more than a breath, but sharp enough to cut. "Do you even know what it means to carry something you hate inside you?"
His father's grip on the steering wheel tightened so fiercely that his knuckles blanched. He didn't answer right away. Instead, his eyes flicked briefly to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of the baby's fragile form. His expression flickered — a storm of regret and something unspoken — before hardening again.
"He's not the problem," he said finally, voice low and rough. "The problem is us. This life we're trapped in."
A bitter laugh slipped past her lips, humorless and raw. "Trapped. Yeah. That's a nice way to put it."
She turned sharply to face him, eyes blazing despite the exhaustion etched in every line of her face. "You think I wanted this? This... prison? Don't pretend you're any different. You never wanted to be a father. You never wanted me. Just another cog in your miserable little machine."
His jaw clenched. "Enough."
"No," she whispered fiercely. "I'm done pretending."
The baby whimpered softly, a tiny, helpless sound swallowed by the oppressive tension.
Neither of them looked back.
He shifted in his seat, the weight of years — lost chances, broken dreams, silent nights — settling like dust over their shared history.
Outside, the city groaned beneath a veil of smoke and decay, indifferent to the fragile life sealed inside the car.
The apartment was cold and still, the faint hum of a broken heater the only sound between them.
His mother looked down at the fragile bundle, her hands trembling, eyes shadowed by exhaustion and bitterness.
"We have to give him a name," she said, voice low, almost hesitant.
His father's gaze was sharp, a bitter edge in his voice. "Fugomi."
She blinked, confused.
"'Fu' means no, not, or negative. 'Gomi' means trash. It's—" He sneered, "Not trash. Or maybe just trash. Depends on how you look at it."
Her lips pressed tight, a silent nod. The name hung heavy, a cruel joke or a twisted hope — no one was sure which.
The baby stirred, tiny fingers curling against the thin blanket.
"Fugomi," she repeated softly, as if the word might shield him from the cold world outside.
Neither parent smiled. Neither touched him again.
But one day, far from here, he would shed that name like dead skin.
And he would choose a new one a name he would carve out with his own hands.
The weight of the name "Fugomi" settled over the tiny room like a dark cloud, unseen but suffocating. No lullabies accompanied it. No gentle whispers of hope. Just the cold, hollow echo of a word meant to define a life he hadn't yet lived.
His mother retreated into silence, staring blankly at the peeling wallpaper, while his father sat slumped in a cracked chair, hands clasped tightly as if willing the bitterness away. Neither offered comfort, nor warmth, nor even acknowledgement beyond the barest necessities.
Days bled into nights with little change. The apartment was a mausoleum of faded dreams and quiet resentments. The only warmth came from the baby's fragile breath against the thin blanket—a soft, flickering pulse amid the endless cold.
Fugomi learned early that he was invisible. Cries went unanswered longer than necessary; touches were mechanical, devoid of tenderness. His world was a collection of cold surfaces—the chipped paint on the crib, the rough fabric of his blanket, the muffled sounds of arguments he couldn't understand.
No one spoke his name except when required, and even then it was a word edged with bitterness, a label he carried like a scar.
But deep inside, beneath the growing numbness, a spark flickered—a restless whisper that would not be silenced.
One day, that spark would grow, breaking free from the shadows cast by a name that wasn't his own.