In an astral expanse beyond time and matter, a voice spoke.
And a being listened.
"Always remember this," the voice said."This is what you have always wanted to know the most."
A pause.
"Legend."
"The formula of legend. The definition of legend."
Adrian listened, his eyes shimmering like distant stars. Before him stood the one he called his elder brother—though he was no ordinary being. He was something vast, something celestial. In this boundless void, Adrian himself felt less human, more like an astral existence standing before a higher one.
The voice continued, solemn and steady.
"Legends are not born from miracles. They are simply persistent people."
"Unique in spirit… but ordinary in origin."
Adrian's heart trembled.
The voice softened.
"They are no different from others. Their goals are often simple. Sometimes painfully ordinary. But what separates them… is that they refuse to stop."
Silence spread through the cosmos.
"I could tell you more," the voice said,"But if I make it too complete, your mind will become narrow. I will leave it small—so your thoughts may expand."
"Go to your own world."
"Seek your own legends."
"Create your own definition."
"You can do it."
A faint warmth lingered in the endless void.
"My final legacy… Adrian Skyre."
And then, the voice faded—leaving behind not answers,
but conviction.
*
*
*
A little boy, not older than 10 or 12, sits comfortably in the back alley. His small mind was thinking deeply.
I may be right.I may be wrong.
In the end… truth has never needed my certainty to exist.
During my short and rather insignificant life, I've realized two things.
First, humans are creatures built to survive.
Strip away pride, dreams, identity… and what remains is simple.A stubborn instinct.A refusal to disappear.
People glorify it.They call it strength.They call it special.
But if clawing your way through existence is enough to be called special…Then even the most ordinary life becomes extraordinary.
And when everything is extraordinary—nothing truly is.
…How empty that sounds.
Second—special.
I am special.
Not because I believe it.Belief is fragile. It bends too easily.
Not because I want it to be true.Desire has no authority over reality.
I am special because I have no choice but to be.
In my world, my thoughts are absolute.My decisions shape every outcome I will ever face.My existence is the center of everything I perceive.
That alone makes me the protagonist of this story.
But perspective is a cruel thing.
Because beyond my own mind—beyond the narrow boundaries of my awareness—
I am nothing.
To someone else, I am just another passing figure.A background presence.A nameless existence that appears for a moment… and is forgotten just as quickly.
A main character, confined within my own narrative—and a disposable extra in someone else's.
So tell me…
If every "main character" is irrelevant in another story—if every "special existence" is just ordinary from a different angle—
Then what is special… really?
And more importantly—
Does it even exist at all?