Once upon a time, there was a boy. Let's call him Zeus. He was born into a decent family, not wealthy enough to be rich, but not poor enough to be destitute. They were middle class—okay, maybe a little above average.

Zeus was the youngest in an extremely competitive family where excellence was essential. His older siblings always belittled or underestimated him, while his parents were incredibly strict. All the boy wanted was to prove his worth; he was loving and needed to be loved. But unfortunately, he was born into a family where, to be loved, you couldn't be flawed.

His parents raised them in a system of competitions. The one with the highest grade at the end of the semester could choose a gift; the one with the lowest grade would be punished. If everyone got the highest grade, they would all get gifts; if everyone got a low grade, they would all be punished.

The one who helped the most with shopping or chores earned a compliment, a caress, a hug, and became the pride of the house, while the others were left forgotten in the corner. The parents' eyes judged everything—posture, speech, behavior, feelings, thoughts, needs, desires. Everything was strictly evaluated and re-evaluated by the parents to determine if it was something their children should feel or not.

"Don't share too much with everyone. Straighten your back. Don't be sad if an animal dies. Don't have strange desires. Don't eat too many sweets. Don't be rude. Don't be too nice. Don't do this. Don't do that. Just don't. Stop. Enough. No."

Zeus grew up eager to become the pride of his parents, so he was one of the most dedicated. He studied, worked at home, and did everything he could to be useful and help out. But the more he dedicated himself, the more his siblings did too, and that house turned into a battlefield. It wasn't just a matter of being approved or loved; it was a matter of being seen.

If their parents didn't see them, did they exist? The only time they existed was when they helped their parents, when they were useful. They were born to exist only under the gaze of another being, a constant surveillance from every cell of that region. They grew up wanting so much to please their parents that they became experts in reading facial expressions.

Brows, lips, eyes, cheeks, eyebrows, even the nose could give away an emotion. They were starving dogs for love and appreciation, desperately searching every inch of the faces in front of them for the smallest grain of love that could escape from that stern table.

At the foot of the table, the children raised their bowls, hoping, begging, pleading for just one drop of pride to fall on them. Even a single drop was worth it if it could guarantee their existence. They existed by being loved, by being good, by doing everything correctly. To exist, to deserve their parents' pride, they had to do everything right.

It was a world where dog eats dog to survive. As long as there were siblings as useful as you, someone would steal your crumb when it fell. They would take your place on the stage of existence in the world. The siblings constantly sabotaged each other, and since Zeus was the youngest, he was the most mistreated.

"Zeus, didn't I tell you to fold the clothes?" his mother scorned, showing him the mess of fabrics on the bed.

"But I did fold them, Mom."

"Then what is this? Don't lie to your mother."

"But..."

"That's enough. Go organize them." He saw that expression—disappointment, anger, frustration.

Actually... can I share a secret with you? These children misunderstood everything. They didn't become geniuses at reading expressions; they became geniuses at searching for expressions.

Even though the parents were strict and needed to improve how they treated their children, the feelings the children perceived were nowhere near what the parents actually felt.

Your mother doesn't hate you; she's angry. You're not a disappointment; you just didn't please her at that moment. You're not a failure; you just didn't meet the expectation they set for themselves.

Of course, every time you make a mistake, you'll find a negative emotion because you made a mistake. But that doesn't make you any less human or less deserving of love. If you expect a world where people, especially your parents, will smile at you 24 hours a day, you're living an illusion.

But these children didn't see that; to them, the presence of that negative emotion was a denial of their existence.

"It wasn't me," said the boy when the tasks he was responsible for weren't completed.

"It's not my fault," said the child when one of his siblings "got hurt" playing with him, leading to reprimands from their parents.

"But I didn't do anything," the boy cried, begging for pride, but receiving only guilt, which accumulated on his back like a balloon inflating. He then realized that there was another way to exist—through judgment, through hatred. You exist when you help, and you exist when you hinder. You exist when you heal, and you exist when you hurt.

You exist when you do good as much as when you do bad.

But if existing by being right, by being innocent, is wonderful...

Then existing by being wrong, by being guilty, is terrible.

"It's your fault."

"But it's not."

"Take responsibility for what you've done."

"But it wasn't me."

"Stop being stubborn."

"I'm telling the truth."

Guilt is like an infection; it spreads, and even what is pure becomes corrupted. For example, what happens when the child actually makes a mistake? When, yes, they forgot to complete a task or accidentally hurt someone? Will the child admit their guilt?

No way.

Because to them, admitting guilt for what they did would be admitting guilt for what they didn't do. If they forgot to wash the dishes, then it makes sense that they forgot to fold the clothes.

If they made a mistake this time, then it's only logical that they made a mistake that other time.

In their innocence, the boy couldn't admit to being guilty. Being condemned for something they didn't do is much more painful than hiding the mistake they made. But the problem, child, is that when you lie, your parents can see it. Depending on the parents, they might not see when you're telling the truth, but they can see when you're lying.

And that only increases your guilt. This balloon on your back keeps inflating—guilt upon guilt upon guilt, true and false, a game of seven mistakes with far more than just seven. Only guilt and guilt piling up on the boy's back until his spine begins to crack.

"It's not my fault."

"Then why are you carrying it?"

"Then why are you defending yourself?"

"It's not my fault."

"But it was in your hands."

"It's not my fault."

"Yes, now it is your fault. So you carry it."

Zeus, the youngest and the messiest in the house. Always causing trouble. Lazy. Liar. Rebel.

How is it possible? Someone trying so hard to be right and being seen as so wrong?

Time passed, and the boy grew. As time went on, the other dogs were freed from the kennel into the forest, leaving the pup behind with the two humans who, as they aged, let fewer crumbs fall. They became more stubborn, more rigid, more difficult.

The boy became a young man, and with every movement, the security cameras inhabiting his parents' eyes watched him. Every exaggeration, every blunder, every certainty that turned out to be false, every mistake. It felt so good when he did something right, but so terrible when he did something wrong. There was no middle ground—you exist for pride or for disappointment.

You exist by being loved, or you exist by being hated. There's no such thing as existing all the time. You only exist when your parents look at you, only when they see you and judge you: Good or bad? Pride or disappointment? You're stuck in between those options.

But calm down. In time, you'll break free. You'll get a job and move out, far from the cameras, but not far from the scars. The wounds come with you. The training is still in you. You were still taught to work hard to be loved and not to be hated. To do everything right and nothing wrong. Because you're not to blame for anything; you're just carrying many, not knowing exactly where to throw them because they're deeply embedded in your back. But you're not to blame for anything.

Finally free, the man could turn his attention to the world around him, start trying things he enjoys.

Movies, chess, sports, his own relaxation and rest—see if he can forget the guilt on his back.

How about practicing fencing?

However, whether at work, in college, or in sports, the guilt follows you, lurking over your shoulders, clinging to your body, waiting for the moment you admit that it is you it's after. So don't let your guard down—if the college project went wrong, it can't be your fault because you work hard to do everything right. You can't be the one sabotaging the group.

It wasn't your fault that you lost the game. It wasn't your fault for this or that.

Did any of these guilts belong to him, you ask? Haven't you understood yet that it doesn't matter? If he admits to just one of them, true or false, all the others will fall on him. So never, even as the beast of guilt grows ever larger on his back, will he admit his guilt.

One day, while practicing fencing, he met a woman he had never seen before, the best fencer in the place. So skilled, imposing, graceful, and when she wasn't wearing all that muscular gear, you could see she was as delicate as glass. So fragile, so sweet. She might be skilled and tough in the sport, but in her daily life, she was a damsel.

What was her name, you ask? Something tells me you might already have a suspicion.

Well, if he is Zeus, of course, her name would be Hera. What other name could it be? After all, he fell in love with her, and unlike the mythology, this Zeus was faithful and loved his wife.

That woman made of glass could reflect him—she saw him. Day and night. He noticed that even when he wasn't doing anything, not succeeding or failing, just being there, she could see him. With so much love, with so much admiration, with so much affection, with so much pride. She loved him so much, and he saw it in the way she looked at him.

The two got married, and the whole pack of dogs was there to celebrate the joy of the pup. Even his strict parents smiled with pride. Everyone at that party was proud. At that party, Zeus was the pride of everyone—Zeus and his Hera.

He was existing for the whole world, and most importantly, for his wife. No matter what he did, she looked at him with pride. Even when he made mistakes, she would gently reprimand him because she understood how much guilt he carried, after all, she had met his parents.

Then she got pregnant and no, dear reader, it wasn't a girl.

The couple was so excited about the arrival of their firstborn that they began preparing everything. Toys, clothes, safety, food, tutorials, books, classes, advice—everything you could use to welcome and care for the one on the way, better use it.

Now Zeus was going to be a father. Now he really couldn't make any mistakes. What if his son became a murderer? Or a criminal? Or depressed? Sad? Abandoned? Pressured? And if his son wasn't perfect and showed the slightest sign of a bad feeling, whose fault would it be if his son felt anything other than happiness? Zeus'? No, not even in a million years. Never.

Zeus would do everything he could to make that child happy. He carefully chose every toy. He was the one who built the playground for the kids in the yard, even though he wasn't experienced at it, because he wanted to be the one responsible for his children's happiness. He wanted to be able to proudly say, "I made that and bought this."

Then the boy arrived. Let's call him Hercules. His mother's glass skin trembled with the arrival of the boy, but nothing she couldn't endure.

Zeus loved Hercules with all his being. Nothing would happen to that boy as long as it depended on his father. The child cried, as all children do, but Zeus always wondered: "Is it my fault he's doing this? Am I doing something wrong? As a father, shouldn't it be natural for me to know what to do?"

But Hera calmed him. Hera comforted him. Hera consoled him.

Hera was always there to see him and remind him that he existed in love, even when he made mistakes.

Hercules grew up to be brave and fearless, just like his father. He grew up with an undeniable will, a sharp tongue, and a stubborn head. The pride of his father.

Zeus asked for another child, so they got pregnant again.

This time came two: Apollo and Artemis. These two cracked their mother's glass body.

The twins grew up to be an inseparable pair—where one was, the other followed. They laughed together, played together, gossiped together. They grew up to be two sides of the same coin. United.

Zeus asked for one more child, and Hera hesitated, saying it was too soon for another. But he loved being a father so much that she eventually agreed.

This time Gaya came, and she broke her mother.

Zeus was devastated by what happened to his wife. Now he was alone with four children. Four sad children. Children who cry. Who complain. Unhappy children. Disappointed children. And there were no longer any eyes to see him with tenderness. There was no longer his wife to keep him existing in love.

That monster of guilt was haunting his back, it was going to destroy his spine, he couldn't bear that beast on top of him any longer. He wouldn't be able to take it if his children kept looking at him so depressed, as if it were his fault. If even a little more guilt accumulated on his back, he wouldn't be able to bear it.

He needed to get rid of that guilt. Throw all that guilt somewhere else.

But besides the one who asked for one more daughter, who else could be blamed?

Ah, but of course: The daughter!

So Gaya received it all. The mother's death, the father's pressure, the unfolded clothes, the college assignments, the games, the work, the longing—all the accumulated guilts and those that would accumulate, true or false, Zeus cast them all on the girl.

To avoid existing in disappointment, the girl had to be the definition of disappointment. Nothing she did was ever enough because all the guilt was hers. Everything. Always her fault.

Completely forgetting that, just like him when he was little, the girl only wanted to be loved.

Like when she was playing on a poorly made playground with Apollo, the equipment broke and the boy broke along with it. Whose fault was it? The girl who was playing with him.

The same girl who lost a brother.

Artemis lost her other half; over time, she broke too, carried away by her brother. Whose fault was it? The one responsible for what happened to the brother.

The same girl who lost a sister.

Or when Hercules, already an adult, got tired of hearing his father blame the girl and confronted him. The two had a fight; he left and crashed the car. Whose fault was it? The girl he was trying to protect.

The same girl who lost another brother.

All her fault. Only hers.

Now it's just her and the father. The one responsible for all his misery, and the innocent of all the family's sadness. The amount of disappointment and hatred the man directed at the girl was extremely lethal. But Gaya was smart: She learned three tricks.

1. Her father hated her eyes because he saw her fear in them. He saw the bitterness she harbored for being his unhappiness. He hated her eyes because he felt seen as a monster. He felt that he existed only as a villain, as a horrible being. So the girl simply closed her eyes every time her father was near.

It made him uneasy—it was still uncomfortable—but, in a way, it was better.

2. Anything she did would be enough for him to blame her. The slightest mistake. The slightest bump. If she stepped wrong. If she spoke wrong. If she carried herself wrong. Thought wrong. Acted wrong. She had already understood that she would only be able to exist as a disappointment, so when she didn't exist, she wasn't a disappointment. Every move she made became light, especially her steps.

Thus, with cautious movements, it was as if she wasn't there.

3. She couldn't hide what her eyes conveyed, which is why she closed them, but when she was there, existing in front of her father, she masked her expression. No angry or sad expressions, or he would get uncomfortable. But nothing exaggerated, so he wouldn't be disgusted by her falseness. Just a... small smile.

A simple smile that could disguise what she really felt inside.

Do you remember the day these tactics emerged? Imagine the man's face, in one of his outbursts of blame that was certainly not his own, when the girl who was crying in front of him, still with tears in her eyes, simply closed them and smiled.

Since that day, the man could never yell at her again. He couldn't argue with her, not when she made that face. And that face became her defense. She was holding on by following those three rules.

Time passed, and finally, she survived her father's house. She searched for the things that pleased her.

Movies, chess, sports, her own relaxation and rest, trying to see if she could forget the guilt on her back.

How about practicing fencing?

And like her mother, she is the best that can exist in such a sport. She begins to build her own life, always moving with grace. Always wearing the same expression when she was scared or anxious.

She gets married and becomes pregnant.

But then a pandemic comes, taking her husband along with thousands of people, leaving her alone with a baby on the way.

It was as if she couldn't love, as if behind her was the shadow of death, wishing for everyone she cared about. Could it really be true? Had it always been her fault?

Because if it wasn't her fault, why did the baby die strangled by the umbilical cord?

What reason does Lady Death have to always pursue the poor woman and never take her?

Amidst the hospital, where people fight for their lives, a virus spreads everywhere, men and women screaming, crying, and suffering. Please don't be alarmed if you see a woman smiling with her eyes closed.

She is crying.

Even though she keeps that expression when she is discharged, she is crying.

Even when she returns home smiling, with such light movements, she is crying.

Every time she wears that smile, it's because inside, there's such a great turmoil that she can barely contain it.

The doorbell rings, and when Gaya answers, there is a girl, eyes closed with a small smile. The moment you see her, you are startled, and she quickly shifts her expression to a mischievous laugh.

"Hey, hey, hey. My mom sent me to bring this to you," the girl said, extending a basket full of cookies. "I hope you're okay, you know, now that your husband and son have died. I was so excited to be able to play with him. What a shame he was killed."

"Killed" — what a choice of words. It was a simple accident, no one was at fault... because if someone was to blame, it would only be one person.

"Thank you," Gaya said, taking the basket and slamming the door in the girl's face.

But when she turned around, the basket had vanished, and the girl was still there with the expression...

When Gaya used it, it was comforting. But seeing that girl using it, it was a horrible feeling. Before she could ask how the child did that, Lily started to speak.

"So many people dying because of you, Gaya." The woman froze as the child continued, "That's how it works. Even though it's natural, humans can never accept death. It always has to be caused by someone. There always has to be a trigger pulled. A gas leak not noticed. Words not spoken. Always, if you look closely, it's possible to blame someone for someone else's death. I wonder why you all insist so much on blaming... Why can't you just cry? There's always a conspiracy. Always a reason. Always guilt. But never just shut up and cry. Never just accept that someone died. And do you know what the worst part of it is?"

The virtue didn't continue, just stared at the woman, waiting for her response.

"It's that... guilt hurts too much," Gaya replied, refusing to cry. She would keep herself safe, hold everything in that expression, and never let it out again. "There's no defense against guilt, because often it doesn't make sense; it's just there to attack. Guilt tears you apart and violates you, making it impossible to breathe. How do you overcome the guilt of something you did? Or something you feel like you did, even knowing you didn't?"

"Exactly," the girl whispered, now on Gaya's back, her hair curling around her body. "Guilt is heavy. So why don't we make people stop dying, Gaya? Join me, you who have guilt as despair; you are the perfect person to become the extermination of death. This bitter soul you carry, let me use it to fulfill your will. My sweet killer."

Lily suddenly disappeared, causing Gaya to collapse to the ground, coughing and weak. Only hearing the girl's voice whisper: "Think about my offer."

Gaya thought, thought, and thought. She thought about those she lost, not letting any of her anger and sadness out. She accumulated so much bitterness that while she slept, her heart couldn't take it.