PERFECTION: Brotherhood

CHAPTER 1: Disease

In Germany, there's a little house all by itself, surrounded by lots of green plants. The house is a bit mysterious, standing there in the calmness of nature as the sun starts to shine. It's like a secret place, hidden away from the busy world.

This house is in a peaceful area, with hills and fields all around. In the morning, when the birds sing and the leaves make soft sounds, the house feels like it's holding onto stories. The bricks of the house look old, showing how many years have passed. What kind of stories are kept inside, and what secrets does the quiet countryside in Germany know about?

From the weathered door of the little house emerged an elderly man, his steps slow and deliberate. With a furrowed brow and a gaze searching the surroundings, he called out, 'Markov! Markov!' His voice echoed through the peaceful landscape, carrying both urgency and familiarity.

The old man scanned the green expanse, his eyes squinting against the morning light. The stillness of the countryside seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a response. 'Markov!' he called again, the name hanging in the air like a plea, a connection between past and present, reverberating through the tranquil scene.

From a distance, a muffled voice reached the old man's ears, 'I am down here.' Grandpa turned towards the sound, his eyes widening in surprise. As he approached, he discovered his grandson, Markov.

"How'd you get there?" - asked the old man

"It was MARKOS !!! NOW get me out of here" - shouted Markov

Reacting swiftly to the situation, the old man seized a nearby rope and skillfully tossed it down to Markov in the well. The coarse fibers unraveled through the air, finding their way into the hands of the young man below. With a firm grip, Markov secured himself to the lifeline, and, with the assistance of his grandfather, began the ascent from the depths of the dry well.

Breathless from the rescue effort, both grandfather and grandson found themselves panting at the edge of the well. In a sudden outburst of frustration, the old man slapped his forehead and exclaimed, "There is no kid named Markos here, you idiot."

"Oh" Markov realized.

As dusk settled in, casting shadows across the German landscape, the two made their way back to the solitary house. Once inside, with the warmth of home surrounding them, Grandpa turned to Markov, curiosity etched on his face.

Seated in the comfort of their shared space, Grandpa queried, "What was all that about, Markov?" 

Dodging the question, Markov evaded the curiosity in his grandfather's gaze. Without explaining, he retreated to his room, the door closing softly behind him. In a hushed tone, he uttered, "I'll not have dinner tonight," leaving the weight of unspoken thoughts lingering in the air.

Markov locked himself in his room, leaving the old man curious about what he was doing. The old man thought, "Maybe Markov is just being a regular 15-year-old, going through a rebellious phase?" With a sigh, he accepted that sometimes teenagers act a bit mysterious, and he didn't need to worry too much about it.

The old man sat alone at the dining table, lost in thought about Markov's social well-being. Deep in contemplation, memories flooded back to him, recalling the moments when he had adopted Markov.

Four years had passed since that fateful day when Markos, at the tender age of 11, was discovered by the old man near the forest—naked and frightened. Despite the years spent together, Markov had never opened up about his past, keeping even the most personal details shrouded in secrecy.

From that moment onwards, Markov became a part of the old man's life. He took on responsibilities like chores and, over time, the old man embraced him without probing into the details of his past. 

However, the old man couldn't help but observe certain issues within Markov that hinted at a troubled past. Markov frequently uttered the name "Markos," even though there was no one by that name around. Despite the absence of any real presence, Markov seemed to consider this elusive "Markos" as his brother, raising questions about the untold and possibly painful chapters in his history.

The perspective shifts to Markov as he sits on his bed, contemplating recent events. In a moment of introspection, he murmurs to the empty room, "My old man thinks you are fake, Markos," yet receives no response. This quiet exchange hints at a deeper internal struggle, suggesting the possibility of Markov grappling with a condition akin to schizophrenia, where the lines between reality and imagination blur within the confines of his mind.