You can’t miss it. It’s on the cover, across his cheekbone—faintly twisted, permanently there. A scar.
When I first imagined Markus, I knew I didn’t want him to be flawless. I didn’t want the kind of protagonist who stands on a pedestal, pristine and untouched. I wanted him to carry something visible. Something uncomfortable. Something that couldn’t be hidden behind a clever line of dialogue or a dramatic escape.
Because in life, we don’t always get to hide our scars.
Some of us carry them on our skin. Some on our hearts. Some in silence.
Markus’s scar, in many ways, began as a reflection of something I’ve lived. Years ago, I went through a period of illness that left lasting marks—physical ones. I learned quickly how aware people can be of what makes you different. The stares. The polite avoidance. The questions. The silence. And above all, the feeling of wanting to pull back into yourself.
But I didn’t want to write Markus as a victim. I didn’t want the scar to be a source of pity. I wanted it to be a symbol—a before and after. A truth that marks him, not as broken, but as someone who has walked through pain and kept walking.
In the story, that scar carries history. It’s tied to what he lost, who he used to be, and what he’s afraid to become. But it’s also a signal to readers: this is not a story about perfection. It’s a story about what happens when the wound doesn’t heal cleanly—and what kind of courage it takes to live anyway.
You don’t need to know the whole book to understand that. You just have to know what it feels like to be looked at and not fully seen. To carry a part of your story that no one asks about, but that you can never forget.
That’s what Markus’s scar means to me.
And maybe, to you.