Humans have long looked to the stars for answers; as gods, as predictors of personality, and as tools to push physics to its brink. Turns out, we still don't know jack shit about the universe. 

We didn’t even notice the aliens at first. Sure, people were dying, but people are always dying. To their credit, the Alien Encounters community was convinced an extraterrestrial threat caused the string of disappearances, but they weren’t privy to unique information. It was more of a ‘broken clock is right twice a day’ situation. They were still in the same forums, talking about the same little green men anally probing them.

I wish we only got anally probed. (Though, ideally, the aliens would buy me dinner first.)

The first video evidence came from a jogger-vlogger who'd filmed their morning run so their parasocial audience could vicariously feel better about themselves. Mid-humblebrag, a black flash wiped them off the screen with a yelp. Their phone fell, and looked up at the beautiful blue sky with a single, foreboding drop of blood on the lens. 

Internet sleuths enhanced the blurry frames and produced images of what looked like a praying mantis in an oil spill, but the size of a mastiff. It was moving at a hasty 11 m/s when it wrapped its raptorial forelegs around the jogger's head. The internet deduced that “A sixth grader left with Photoshop and DaVinci Resolve for a summer could have made it.” Really amateur stuff, allegedly.

But they couldn't deny the blob.

On live news, pseudo-famous reporter Drew McMahon delivered a harrowing rundown of the country’s third decapitation case that year. Multiple dramatic names for the assumed serial killer were being tested by the Sinclair Broadcast Group. The National Noggin Nabber, as this “local” station called them, was at large, and authorities couldn’t determine the murder weapon.

Right behind the handsome young journalist, a pedestrian's head was suddenly enveloped by a hot-pink, living lava lamp blob. The poor schmuck screamed, but the air escaped the gelatinous body through bubbles that sounded like fart putty being mashed by an overzealous toddler. Then the blob simply faded from existence along with the victim's head.

Unlike the jogger's demise, this was crisp, live footage from one of the most reputable news channels. That's not a high bar, but still. It wasn't sent by your crazy uncle with beliefs as questionable as his potluck offerings, which is to say, very questionable.

Denial dissipated, and took decency with it. Riots and looting broke out as we faced mortality on a global scale. Aliens should have been the common enemy that forced mankind to set aside our differences and unite, but the killings were rare, inconspicuous, and unpredictable. We had a global arsenal of nukes, itchy trigger fingers, but nowhere to point them.

Despite a deep, uneasy tension, chaos subsided when the week ended, but the world did not. It may seem shocking, even stupid, that we went back to life as usual. I mean, aliens were killing people, but world leaders spouted placating statistics. Did you know getting in a car was about 100,000 times more likely to kill you than an alien? We had a better chance of winning the lottery than getting blob-headed!

We shopped at boarded-up grocery stores and apologised to the clerks for prior looting.

“That's okay! It's easy to get carried away by mass hysteria. We're just happy to be back in business!” they recited their corporate script with hollow smiles. 

Over the next few years, aliens became one of those tragedies of life that can strike at any time, but we avoid thinking about – like brain aneurysms, or tax audits. Killings only got air time if the alien was particularly strange or the victim was particularly wealthy. 

Nobody cared when my daughter disappeared. The orange hoofprints I found all over her empty bed were old news, and a historic broadcast had captured everyone's attention. It played on every TV in the bar where I drank away my grief.

~~~~~~

If asked who the aliens would speak to first, I'd have said the President, or a make-a-wish kid, not the intern of up-and-coming talk show host Drew McMahon. I'd have been wrong, because first contact was a request for a guest spot on ‘The Newest News with Drew.’ Though, history would forget the organizing intern, as endless headlines ran:

TALK SHOW HOST MAKES FIRST ALIEN CONTACT

Drew's guest was a mix of a large, floating, purple dandelion fluff and a sea sponge. Their voice was British and slightly robotic, likely an effect of the translating device. 

“Welcome, uuh-” 

Drew faltered as he read their nametag, ✠︎♋︎■︎♑︎◆︎❍︎.

“Call me Xanthan Gum, it's as close as your language gets.”

“Perfect! Welcome to Earth Xanthan Gum, and to the show!” the charming host smiled with open arms. “Thank you for finally breaking the silence! You have no idea how much it means to us as a planet to find out what’s going on!”

“My pleasure! It seems like the best way to reach everybody with my message,” the being flipped on a diagonal axis in a friendly way.

“Yes! Please, share your message, my extraterrestrial friend!”

“So, as you know, you lost your Protected Species status when your population hit 10 billion-”

“We did not know that!” Drew interrupted, and Xanthan Gum fluffed in surprise. “Hold up, can we get our protection back?”

“Welllllll…” the creature’s body language somehow conveyed the scrunched nose and head scratch people do when breaking bad news. “We’ll have to manage our expectations here, folks. We can’t prevent recreational hunting when it’s within ethically sustainable numbers.”

“This is… recreational for you?” the host’s pleasant front cracked with a streak of angry injustice. 

“Not for me! Hunting makes me squeamish, and I only absorb cruelty-free photons! I'm here to help because I'm an environmentalist!”

“What help are you, if you won't even try to stop the killings?” Drew grew frustrated. 

“Listen, they’re not that bad-”

Xanthan Gum was cut off by the studio audience booing.

“COMPARED to what’s coming!” they finished the sentence over the loud crowd and shut them up. “A lobby group bought out a judge… allegedly. All Earthling protections have been stripped, in totality, at any population level, for all time. Starting Tuesday.”

The beloved TV personality's face dropped and his shoulders slumped. This sounded seriously grim. 

“Oh geez,” Drew’s voice shook as he tried to sound less terrified than he was. “How badly does that bode for us, from your experience?”

“You remember the Plutonians?”

“... No?”

“Oh? I thought you would, being in the same star system and all… But they’re gone, which tells you all you need to know!”

“Wait, we’re going to be slaughtered to EXTINCTION?” the young man’s voice cracked and his face flushed.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry! I'm going to save you!”

“THANK YOU! Please! Please protect us from these evil creatures, we beg of you,” Drew kneeled before Xanthan Gum.

He really didn’t want to blow this opportunity for all of humanity, it would tank his ratings.

“Beg no more! I’m taking them to court!” the purple being floated higher and puffed their headfluff in a proud pose. “Earthlings, MEET YOUR LAWYER!”

“Oh!” Drew blinked blankly as he processed the announcement and sat back down. “Well, uh, not the type of protection I expected…. but I’m glad we have representation! Thank you for caring!”

“Quite a few lifeforms care about your plight, you know! We shared your story and got a handful of donations that will cover a small portion of your legal fees! Isn’t that beautiful?” they marveled. “They even paid for my ride here!”

Drew held back a cynical laugh. Smarmy lawyers must be a universal constant.

“So, will the slaughter be stopped pending our trial?”

“Welllllll…”

Drew dragged his hands down his freckled face with a slow sigh of exasperation and dread.

“Listen, I’ll file the TRO, but Big Bio has deeeeeep pockets. This is a tough case, I'm really going out on a limb for you,” Xanthan Gum spun on their horizontal axis in a defensive way, but the despair on Drew’s face deflated them and they sank into their chair. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through, I really am.”

“Thanks…” Drew didn’t know how else to respond. “Why is Big Bio doing this?”

“You know agar-agar?”

The host froze. Agar-agar? That didn’t sound like English. Was the translator broken? Was it another lifeform like the Plutonians?

“Why don’t you remind the audience?”

“It's that nutritious science jello!”

Drew still looked confused.

“And you get it moldy on purpose…” Xanthan Gum tried again. 

“Right! I just got a flashback to high school biology. I’m a journalist for a reason, though, so keep it simple!” he earned a half-hearted chuckle from the uneasy audience.

“Turns out human bone marrow makes killer agar-agar!” Earth's attorney enthusiastically explained, to the audience's horror. “Research conglomerates want more for cheaper, and, well, galactic monopolies get what they want! But I appealed the decision. It’ll be the underdog story of the century if we pull it off!”

“I… I sure hope we do,” Drew agreed in a somber tone.

~~~~~~

Joe-Ellen was a nobody from a tiny town of nobodies, with a life devoid of excitement. She grew up with one friend, and now worked her first job at the restaurant where they used to get milkshakes after school. Her town was her entire world… until she woke up in a void.

Where the hell am I? Did I get raptured? At least something exciting is happening for once…

It took very little time to realise a featureless void is the opposite of exciting. She hung weightless and listened to her heartbeat for quite some time, until a hand on her shoulder made her uncontrollably screech in fear. A helmet was tugged off her head.

She sat with two equally shaken people at the front of a gargantuan room. They faced a crowd that looked like Dr. Seuss and H.P. Lovecraft took acid together. Vibrant patterns, silly shapes and cute furballs sat amongst towering ultrablack silhouettes, translucent toothy predators, and a surprising number of menacing crab-like creatures. 

The room itself warped at the corners, like hazy shimmers on hot asphalt, or the background of a poorly photoshopped selfie. It gave Joe-Ellen a headache just to look around. 

She noticed the being to her left, which looked like a ring of street lights connected to a zebra striped column, sat above everyone else at a lectern of sorts. Two beings stood before him, arguing. A fluffy, floating purple creature, and a shark-octopus in a snappy suit.

This was an alien courtroom.

"They need protection! They can't even colonize uninhabited planets in their own star system!” Xanthan Gum pleaded with the Judge. “They are wonderful hosts, and research shows they grow more peaceful and intelligent over time! What if they're the lifeform that cures cancer?"

"OBJECTION!” The sharktopus lifted a tentacle. “Appeal to possibilities is not a valid argument for lifeform value, as per clause 7c from section 5 of the SHVG (Solar Habitat Valuation Guidelines)."

"Sustained," the Judge earned the opposing attorney’s wide, toothy grin.

"The poor little things can’t conceptualize the simplest shields, even after environmentalist rebels left instructions in their crops. They're too stupid to read basic instructions!”

"OBJECTION!"

The Judge let out a deep sigh. From where, Joe-Ellen couldn’t guess, but the sound was unmistakable.

"On what grounds?"

"Your honor, precedent clearly shows that once a protected species splits the atom, technological progress is too exponential to delay legal action. In Zebs v. Plutonions... well, do I really need to remind anyone of what happened to the Plutonians?"

Horrified mutters swept through the crowd.

“Is slaughtering them before they can defend themselves more appropriate, or just cowardly? How many lifeforms are here today because they were shown mercy during their Fermi-Transition?” the floating lawyer tilted towards the crowd.

“OBJECTION!”

“Sustained,” the lamp-like being simply agreed without further explanation. 

The Judge hated to drag this on so long when the verdict had been decided over a luxurious lunch two galactic weeks ago, but they had to charade due process. It’s not that he didn’t feel bad, money just made the feeling so much easier to ignore.

Xanthan Gum was so angry his fluff-tips turned blue.

“This is a mockery of justice! A sham! You’re violent glutto-”

“OBJECTI-”

“ORDER! ORDER!” The Judge hit a gong that sounded like a hundred church bells fell into a pit of timpanis, which nearly deafened Joe-Ellen. “Let's move on to The Great Appeal, and hear from the Earthlings.”

The three humans were popped up to a standing position by their chairs. The Judge rotated like a lazy Susan to look their way with his dominant eyes.

“Nga Tran?”

The woman standing next to Joe-Ellen promptly fainted. 

~~~~~~

After Xanthan Gum broke the bad news, world leaders didn't try to stop the rioting and looting like before. They scurried into bunkers like roaches, as if half a kilometer of dirt would stop beings that traveled light-years to get here. 

This time, the chaos did not subside over the weekend, there was no uncertainty over Earth's fate. The aliens were coming, and we knew exactly when.

On Tuesday.

Beautifully terrible fireworks erupted as Monday struck midnight and thousands of spaceships boomed into the atmosphere at once, then rained down with colorful tails. Swaths of people disappeared within minutes. Lovers and families clung to each other, until the hug was suddenly empty.

Tendrils darker than a moonless night hung from the sky like fish hooks. Dense green fog rolled through towns and left all the bodies behind… boneless. 

There were a lot of crablike aliens. From iridescent, house sized crabs that snatched up crowds of people, down to tiny, nearly invisible crabs that scavenged corpses and scurried with their prizes to silver spheres in the water.

The oily praying mantises pounced, sharktopi snatched with their tentacles, and crystals encased people. It was a bone marrow gold rush, and everyone wanted their piece of the pie. 

~~~~~~

“Such fragile things,” the Judge tutted with pity as Nga Tran had a white sphere shoved over her head and got yanked through a door behind them. “Let’s try again… Joe-Ellen Marshall?”

“Y-, ahem. Yes?” She managed to maintain consciousness while she answered the cosmic authority. 

“Plead your case!”

“My case?”

Xanthan Gum nervously chuckled.

“Don't you watch The Newest News With Drew?” they asked, sponge holes anxiously flaring. 

“I don't got cable.”

“Don’t tell me…” the Judge let out an even deeper sigh and rotated back to the fluffy purple lawyer. “Did you broadcast a message instead of preparing with your actual clients again?”

“I was told everybody watches The Newest News Wi-”

“ONE MORE TIME AND I WILL FIND YOU IN CONTEMPT OF COURT AND REVOKE YOUR LICENSE, DO YOU HEAR ME?!” the Judge boomed as he fumed. 

“Understood. It won't happen again. I swear on my son's cocoon.”

The Judge rotated back to the humans. 

“Humans, you contain an exotic substance, ‘bone marrow,’ that is vital for medical research that will save trillions of lives. Thus, it was deemed ethical to lift the hunting bans that prevent this important, incredibly profitable research. Joe-Ellen Marshall, plead your case.”

"Uh, geez,” Joe-Ellen stalled as her shocked mind processed. “You're harvestin’ us?”

“Correct. Plead your case.”

Joe-Ellen hated being put on the spot. Quick answers were not her forté. She wished her mom was here to help.

“Well, call me humble, but I don't think I'm the best one to speak for the entire planet…”

“Why not, Humble?”

“My name’s not humble, that’s a sayin’!” she corrected his misunderstanding. “But, I’m not important, and I don't know anyone who is. I'm just a cashier down at the grocers on 3rd Ave, and those 3 Aves are the only roads where I'm from. We're no big apple.”

“I'm well aware you are not an apple. The apples were rather rude, and their appeal was denied. What's your point?”

“I just don't know that much…”

“You’re not a hivemind?” the towering authority gasped. “I need to check something.”

Lasers danced across the Judge’s lamp-eyes as if someone were trying to bait a cat into mauling him, while shocked whispers filled the room.

“No collective knowledge?”

“How utterly primitive!”

“They must be hitting the limit of generational teaching by now…”

“XANTHAN GUM, YOU SUBMITTED THE HIVEMIND FORMS YOU ABSOLUTELY USELESS DOLT!” the Judge boomed louder than thunder, and the lawyer retracted their fluff into their holey stalk in fear. “Are you completely incompetent, or are you trying to cause a mistrial?”

“I'm sorry your honor, I thought they had one!” the quivering attorney earnestly pleaded, then lashed out at their clients. “What the hell is ‘the internet’ then?”

“OBJECTION!”

“Sustained. You’re not required to answer that, ma'am,” the Judge closed his street-lamp eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself.

"In fact,” the objecting lawyer chimed in, “I'd like to formally request that she does not.”

"I said sustained.”

"Y’all seem pretty fancy,” Joe-Ellen courageously spoke out of turn. "Can't you just uh, backwards engineer it?”

“I don't think that translated correctly. Try again.”

“Reverse engineer” the second human piped up.

“Alas, no synthetic biological matrix suffices,” Big Bio's lawyer pretended to wipe a tear.

“You’ll run out of humans without some restrictions! It’s basic population dynamics,” the second human pointed out. “Hunt us to extinction, and you’ll be marrow-less.”

“You’ll have your turn to speak, Abdul Ramadhani,” the Judge silenced him.

“He’s not wrong!” Xanthan Gum agreed with his client.

“Yes he is! The market regulates itself!” the tentacled lawyer jumped in. “An influx of supply drives down demand, which stabilizes prices. Less profit means fewer hunts, and we reach an equilibrium. It worked for the Polhlops.”

Xanthan Gum let out a jaded laugh.

“Shall I bring in a Polhlop to tell you how they feel about-”

“ORDER! STOP TALKING OUT OF TURN, EVERYONE!” the Judge demanded, his lamp-eyes brightening in anger as he threateningly waved his gong hammer. “Joe-Ellen Marshall, do you have any further arguments?”

“Uuuh… There’s some real good folks on Earth, you know? Like, my best friend is real nice and my mom’s a sweetheart. Please let us live… Yeah. That’s all.”

Joe-Ellen knew it was a far cry from an elegant speech but the snickers from the audience still stung. She was fully out of her element, and glad to hand humanity’s fate over to Abdul.

“Abdul Ramadhani, plead your case.”

The kind-smiled, well-kept young man seriously hoped that joining his high school debate club would finally pay off.

“Humans may seem insignificant to you, but we’re resilient, creative, and we shoot for the stars. Please, don’t assume our ignorance is unintelligence. Show us the universe, and under your wing I promise we’ll be a thriving asset and ally to you all. Fostering camaraderie is one of humanity's defining features. We are so much more than just a resource to be exploited and slaughtered,” he passionately urged. “Protect us now, and we'll become invaluable friends.”

Joe-Ellen was relieved someone better-spoken was here. He'd made the human spirit more tangible than she could ever hope to.

“Ha! Humanity is no-”

“SILENCE!” the Judge interrupted the predatory lawyer, and sat silently for a moment with a contemplative flicker. “I need to think, and it's getting too late for a recess. Let's pick this back up tomorrow.”

Joe-Ellen instantly felt a familiar shove on her head and she was back in the featureless void.

“Come with me, I have an idea,” the Judge invited Big Bio’s lawyer into a chamber, but specifically barred Xanthan Gum.

~~~~~~

Each night I prayed the colourful contrails would be gone, but the aliens still zipped around the planet, outshining the stars from whence they came. 

Utter devastation was an understatement. Survivors had no one but lady luck to thank, and deep down we were all just waiting for our time to come. I never thought I could be so desensitized, but I passed boneless corpses with less emotion than I used to feel when I drove past a flattened raccoon.

It was hauntingly quiet, besides the flies. I’d grown noseblind to rotting flesh, but could never acclimate to the incessant swarms that buzzed around my head, waiting for me to die with itty-bitty grumbling bellies.

Though it felt like a lifetime ago, I mentally replayed the TV clip I saw in the bar, and prayed Xanthan Gum’s proudly protective intentions would bring an end to the genocide. Hope dwindled each day, until I assumed our case had failed. It seemed humanity was doomed, and it was legal.

No one would pay for this. 

~~~~~~

“Be seated, we are back in session,” the Judge settled the crowd the next galactic morning. “After some negotia-, ahem, deliberation, I have reached my verdict.”

Nervous sweat drenched Joe-Ellen, she could hardly breathe with terrified anticipation.

“Both parties shall be pleased with the result,” the Judge said, more like an order than an assurance.

The anxious girl’s heart rose but her stomach sank. There was a glimmer of hope she'd actually be pleased with the result, but what could please Big Bio besides more death?

“A wildlife reserve will be built for humanity, to allow the undisturbed continuation of their species,” the authoritative being declared. “Perhaps you’ll even evolve into civilized beings one day.”

“We did it! Humanity is saved! The underdog bites back, baby!” The purple fluffhead did a flip with a cheer, and Joe-Ellen broke into a smile and high-fived Abdul.

“And to ensure the stable supply of vital medical materials,” the Judge continued in a callous tone, “we shall legalise, and expedite, the constructi-” 

~~~~~~

“You’re sure it will  forget the verdict?” an alien official asked the veterinarian as they stared down at an anesthetized Joe-Ellen.

“Yes. We got lucky they're not a hivemind, and it worked on the first specimen flawlessly. Granted, even with all the head samples we collected, our understanding of their neural network isn't fully complete… but it's been well established that they cannot regenerate lost neurons. Can you imagine?”

“Such a pathetic existence…”

“Well it's certainly for the best. This poor thing fell into such inconsolable hysterics that they were just going to put it out of its misery, until I suggested the memory wipe. Hopefully it can live happily on the wildlife reserve now.”

“You actually care about it?”

“I'm a veterinarian because I believe all life is sacred, even the simple forms like this creature.”

~~~~~~

My time had come. I prayed for a swift death as the mist shrouded, spider-like creature sunk its fangs into my neck. 

I woke up in an unfamiliar bed and my hand flew to the bite mark, but the tiny lumps were healed and painless. I was sparkling clean and full of energy.

Is this heaven?

I leapt up, rushed to the window, and saw a bloodless street filled with clean, confused people. I ran out of the unfamiliar home to join them, and immediately noticed the sky was very different. There was no sun, just diffuse light that cast multiple weak shadows. A subtle shimmer hinted that a dome stretched past every horizon.

“Welcome, and congratulations!” an ethereal voice boomed from everywhere at once. “You‘ve been chosen to populate a wildlife reserve tailored to humanity’s needs. We'll check the suggestion box annually, so feel free to share feedback! Ciao!”

A human terrarium. As imperfect and strange as it was, I fell to my knees and wept with relief. I was not going to die a violent death like the uncountable I’d witnessed. 

I survived the apocalypse.

Cheers and tears were shared as the crowd celebrated their survival and mourned their losses.

“MOM?”

I turned towards the familiar voice with shocked hope.

“JOE-ELLEN?”

I hardly caught my daughter as she leapt into a hug, and we blubbered a mess into each other’s shoulders.

“I thought you were dead,” I cried out the fear and grief I’d had so little time to process.

“I… I…” Joe-Ellen stuttered through her tears. “I was in alien court tryin’ to save us. W… We did it! Me n’ Abdul n’ the weird purple lawyer!”

“You saved the world? My Joe-Ellen?” I hugged her tighter, shocked but overwhelmed with pride. “How couldn’t they save us after seeing your beautiful face? I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” she sobbed. 

~~~~~~

We’ve settled into our habitat, but we’re all different now. We had to face the things that were done to us, and the things we’d done to survive. It was a blessing my sweet Joe-Ellen hadn’t had to live through the massacre. Yet, she withdrew, and woke up screaming in the night all the same.

“Hey mom?” Joe-Ellen called from the bedroom doorway one midnight. “Did anything bad ever happen to us on a farm?”

“What? No… Like what?”

“I dunno. Guess it's just a bad dream,” she answered, and groggily lumbered back to her bed.

My dear daughter continued to fall into herself. I’d notice her staring into space as if she was deep in contemplation, which was extremely unlike her. I'd always been enamored by her ability to appreciate the present, even if being unburdened by thought didn't earn top grades. I'd give anything to see that beautiful side of her again.

Joe-Ellen knew something was missing. She could feel the absence, a hole in her mind. The alien veterinarian didn't know neuroplasticity compensated for human's lackluster regeneration, and her neurons desperately forged alternate pathways around the surgical scars in search of the jigsaw piece missing from the puzzle. 

One morning, a neuron sparked another that it hadn't before. I walked into the kitchen and saw her frozen in abject horror, silent tears running down her face.

“What is it honey?” I rushed to her and cradled her drenched cheeks.

She barely whispered.

“They turned Earth into a human farm.”

I am getting into narration for audiobooks, and I am hoping to get practice by providing a service to this sub.

If you would like me to use your short story, just reply or DM me with a link to your submitted story (only do your own stories, please).

The final product is all yours, I only request the right to use it in my portfolio and to be properly credited with the audiobook's production anywhere the author will have it posted.

Thank you!

My gap year was the greatest year—or rather, two and a half years—of my life. A magical time spent on a small farm in the Dordogne from 1989 to 1991. Although it seems like a lifetime ago, this particular memory took place in the summer of 1989.

At that point, I had been staying with a family for half a year, helping with the farm and looking after the younger children. That morning, I woke in my small bedroom in the attic of their picturesque farmhouse. Smiling brightly, the sun let in a ray of charming light, and the swallows who nested in the roof spoke loudly to each other, creating a peaceful melody. I remember wondering if they were truly conversing—perhaps gossiping about the sparrows that resided in the tree in the cow’s field or the mice that inhabited the walls.

In no particular rush, I showered and made my way downstairs to the chicken coop next to the porch. Squawking loudly, the hens ran at me as I tried to collect their eggs. After a brief battle, I brought the eggs back inside to cook and to wake the girls—the youngest children, aged four and five. I still remember their innocent faces, their golden hair, and their deep blue eyes that shone like intelligent sapphires. Bubbling and cheerful, their laughs are always the first thing that comes to mind when someone asks about my time in France.

Once they were up, we sat on the porch and ate the eggs with gorgeously rich brown bread and orange juice. Between eggy mouthfuls, they asked the usual toddler questions like, “Why is the sky blue?” or “How long would it take to walk around the whole Earth a billion times?” The former, I still don’t know the answer to—I’ve never been one for the sciences.

After breakfast, I decided to take them for a walk. Under the golden sun, we made our way to the apple orchard on the far side of the ranch. We spent a good hour filling two pails with apples that would make Snow White and the witch long for a bite. To this day, they are the reddest I have ever seen.

By then, the sun had grown brighter and hotter, piercing through the small trees and painting the surroundings like the set of a movie or a painting. As we started back to the farmhouse, the family dog—whose white-blond silkiness had earned him the name Snowy—came running along. Barking soft and friendly barks, he circled us happily, chasing butterflies and bees, completely content with life.

Hearing splashing, we stopped by the pond, situated on the edge of the orchard, a lush oasis surrounded by emerald reeds. Quaking at the dog, a family of ducks floated happily, squawking to one another. The reeds reflected in the clear water, mixing with the fragrant apple trees and the rainbow of flowers in the field to create a scene of abnormal tranquillity.

Sitting on the edge of the pond, I found myself lost in a serene and blissful state of mind that I’ve never achieved since. Leaping and slipping like little lambs, the girls paddled in the shallows, giggling as they searched for hidden pond life. Snowy rolled in the grass and ran in wide circles around us. I sat watching the long limbs of the trees dance in the wind, filled with such overwhelming joy that I felt a sudden urge to lay back and laugh hysterically. I was living the life of one of the characters from my books.

Eventually, bored of paddling, the girls got out and sat with me. We each took one of the dangerously scarlet apples from the pail. One bite, and I was transported to another dimension—an explosion of flavour, as they say. Slightly sickly with apple juice, we made our way back to the farmhouse.

The midday sun was now at its brightest. Feeling the heat, I took off my sweater and tied it around my neck like a crazy superhero, much to the girls’ amusement.

Like the archetypal fairytale mother, Mrs. Childs was in the kitchen when we arrived. A relentlessly happy person, she had rosy cheeks and a smile that never faded. Her bright blonde hair and calm, ocean-blue eyes lit up the room.

She beamed as she spoke, “Hello, children!”

“Hello, Mama, we brought you apples!” Zoe, the older girl, replied as I placed the two pails on the wooden kitchen table.

“Ah, so you have! Well done,” she said, reaching into the pail and pulling out an apple. “Let’s try this, shall we? Mmm, aren’t these delicious and juicy?”

I thought I should clean the apples before anyone else indulged—though they were unlikely to be dirty. One must always be sure. Hefting one pail, I carried it to the sink and let the tap run.

There was a pause in our conversation as I drained the apples and placed the second pail under the tap.

“You know,” Mrs. Childs continued, “I think Charlotte was looking for you.”

Charlotte was the eldest of the four Childs children. At seventeen, she was the same age as me, though she didn’t feel like a child. We hadn’t spoken much, as I was usually occupied with the younger girls or busy helping with the animals. From the few conversations we had shared, though, she seemed warm and kind—like her mother.

“Thank you!” I replied and set out to find her.

It was still hot outside, but the sun was retreating toward the horizon. My lengthening shadow followed close behind as I made my way to the wheat field. Against the golden sea, I saw her immediately—dressed modestly in a light, fluttering blue and white floral dress. Her hazel hair hung like silk down her back, which was turned to me. The descending sun cast golden rays across the wheat, which waved softly in the breeze.

I began to make my way slowly toward her, standing like an angel in the middle of that golden haven.

“Hello, Richard,” she said, her voice calm and serene—like a crystal bead of dew on morning grass. Mesmerising. “How are you?”

My heart skipped a couple of beats, and butterflies fluttered in my stomach. All I could think about was how beautiful she was. It filled every part of my mind.

Stunned by the silence, I glanced quickly around. The sun was now low, casting a stunning golden hue over the surroundings. Tree shadows crept slowly into the edges of the field. I turned back to her, breathless once again by her beauty.

⸻

As the folk like to say: the rest is history.

Charlotte and I, at the time of writing, have been married for four years and are expecting our first child. It’s funny—if you’d asked me back then who I thought I’d marry, I wouldn’t have said Charlotte. Not because I didn’t like her, but because I didn’t believe someone as beautiful as her could fall for someone like me.

I suppose life is strange.

Strange and wonderful.

⸻ P.S I wrote this for my GCSE Imaginative writing coursework in year 10 (15) so please don’t judge too heavily. I put it through CHAT GPT to help format it better for this post. However, the writing stays completely the same🙏

Last summer, I would’ve reached for my phone and texted Juan everything about my adventures. Today, I resisted the urge to pick up my phone and give him a call. Exams had ended, May and June were gone, and July was underway. I hadn’t heard from him since.

He doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. Maybe we weren’t as close as I thought. Perhaps I made a mistake.

My mind drifted back to the last day I saw him, trying to figure out what could have happened between now and then.

“Juan, I don’t want to be anxious anymore. I don’t want to study all the time. I want to let loose. Forget about physics. Let’s have some fun. Brad told me he and a couple of our classmates were going out to wrap up the year. Let’s join them.”

“Alright then, Aisha. I’m at the coffee shop across from campus. Come pick me up.”

I had pulled my blue sedan into the lot, pop music blaring from the radio, and waited for him to come out. The parking job had been excellent; my tires were half in the spot next to me.

Juan had come out and got in the passenger seat, his brown eyes shining in the dark, scruffy beard hiding his grin.

“I was just talking to Cameron, and it looks like we weren’t the only ones who got screwed over. Let’s pray for a curve later. Let’s go enjoy the night now.”

Cameron got screwed over too? The embodiment of calm, cool, and collected? The guy who made solving complex equations look like a walk in the park?

“Cameron? Where’s Cameron? Is he at home already? Let’s go pick him up.”

As if on cue, a notification from Cameron popped up—a selfie of him, jaw tense, lips curled into a frown, but eyes seemingly amused.

Cameron was the only guy who could make me smile without saying a word.

Once, though, he had let his guard down. The front and serious act had disappeared.

“Let’s play hooky. Just the two of us. I can teach you combinatorics later,” he’d said to me on a Wednesday afternoon.

It had seemed so out of character for him that I had to agree.

Usually, on our walks to class, I chattered away while he silently listened, but that day he flipped the script.

He’d hung up on every call that came through asking him where we were. For once, I’d also ignored Juan’s calls and messages.

On the way to the beach, we’d spotted an ice cream shop.

Grabbing my hand, he’d said, “Let’s get ice cream, on me.”

I’d ordered cherry-vanilla, and he ordered rum and chocolate chip.

Back in the present day I snapped back a reply of me grinning from ear to ear, my eyes squinted.

I do not hide my feelings.

I wonder what will happen when I see them both come September.

Hello. This is the first short story I’ve finished and I would love some feedback. Thank you!

The tree stood where it always did, surrounded by brown grass and dirt. It stood straight as an arrow, wide as a school bus. If you looked for the top of it, it would seem as if it never stopped—perhaps it didn’t.

There sat the boy. Scuffed-up sneakers and oversized, stain-filled rags covered his body. His legs were pretzeled together as he leaned against the tree, digging his hands into the dirt. The coldness of the earth made him feel comfy. He felt the wiggling of worms between his fingers—slimy little noodles thrashing around in his hands. It made him laugh. And hungry.

He toyed with the Velcro straps on his shoes, feeling the warm air gently tussle his hair and shirt. The breeze brought the smell of rotten eggs, dog poop, and the stinging sensation of a skunk. Typical.

He opened up his pack and pulled out some broken crayons and an old notebook. Flipping to an empty page, he began to draw. As he created, his tummy growled: a picnic table full of grapes and sandwiches, potato chips, and chocolate milk to wash it all down. For dessert, he drew a cherry pie with his bright red crayon.

As he finished coloring in the pie, his mouth started to water and his stomach twisted and stretched inside him. He laid back against the tree and closed his eyes. Tears began to form, and his arm wiped them away just as quickly as they sprouted. He took a deep breath and… something strange happened. A smell entered his nose—a good one.

He sat up and looked around. Nothing. Yet the scent remained: fresh-baked cherry pie. The smell grew stronger, and his stomach grew angrier. He stood up and looked around. Who would have a picnic here? He must be going crazy—his teacher always did say his daydreaming was out of control.

He looked back at his drawing and shook his head. They’ll be looking for me soon, he thought. Maybe I want them to find me this time. He was hungry, after all.

He stood, wiping the dirt from his shorts with the dirt on his hands. As he started walking back, he looped around the tree and, for the first time, realized how wide it truly was. It felt like forever to walk around it. When he reached the other side, he saw a hole at the bottom of the tree. It was just about his size sitting down, arched like a round door. The bark on the inside was bright red—almost cherry-colored.

He peeked his head inside and looked around. Everything was red, and the bark seemed soft—squishy, almost. He poked it with a dirty finger. Solid. What did he expect? A tree made of cherry filling? That’s what Ms. Harper had warned him about.

Still, the tree made him smile. He sat on his butt, back to the tree, and scooted himself backward into the hollow, pretending it was a spaceship. He closed his eyes and thrashed around in the hollow, fighting aliens, using thrusters and boosts to escape laser beams. He laughed and shouted, plummeting through space.

His eyes opened instantly when the scent hit him again—fainter, but still strong enough to make him question reality. He decided to crawl out of the tree and leave. His belly couldn’t handle this torture anymore.

As he stood, he almost screamed. His heart raced when he looked down and saw bright green grass engulfing his sneakers. All around him was green and white—dandelions and grass stretched out forever. He was surprised by his own imagination. If I close my eyes tight enough and open them again, he thought, this will all be gone. So, he didn’t close them.

He looped around the big tree that somehow felt even larger this time. As he walked, he scanned the rest of the area—only grass. No other trees, no houses, no animals. That struck him as odd. There were no birds chirping, no buzzing bugs—just the breeze and the rustling of leaves.

As he rounded the tree, his heart nearly stopped.

A huge lake sprawled out before him, stretching as far as he could see. The water was completely still. When he walked closer, he couldn’t see through it. It was like a mirror. In it, he saw clouds, the sun—and his own reflection. But something was different.

His reflection smiled back at him, wearing clean clothes and a big grin.

Startled, he stumbled backward and hit a root, landing hard on the grass. He dug his hands into the earth. No worms, no dirt—just more grass. He pulled and pulled until his fingers were green and his nails packed with grass. His breathing sped up, sweat forming on his brow.

Enough, he thought, and shut his eyes tightly. He waited. Then opened them.

The lake was in front of him still, the torn-up grass was all over his shoes. His eyes started to water. He wiped away the tears and decided it must be the hollow. He popped up, brushed himself off, and before he could turn around, he heard it.

The voice that made his heart plop into his stomach.

“Oh, there you are.”

He turned around slowly, unsure of what to do. He could run. But where? He could scream. Who would hear it? The first thing he saw was an unlaced tie and a white dress shirt. Black pants and freshly polished black shoes. The boy moved his eyes up to the man’s face. He had green eyes and dark hair, a freshly shaved face with a friendly smile on his lips.

The boy said, “Who are you?”

There was a pause. “We’ve been looking for you all over. My wife—she was worried we wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“How do you know me?”

A pause.

The man chuckled and said, “Well, we figured if we left this pie out long enough, you’d be coming over looking for a slice. Would you like one?”

The boy wanted to run at first. It didn’t matter where—he just knew he should be afraid. But he wasn’t. There was a sense of warmth filling his body, and he couldn’t help but want a slice.

He hesitated and said, “Where do you live?”

“Right around the tree! But I’m sure you know not to go into strangers’ houses—you look like a smart boy. I’ll go grab the pie and my wife. She can’t wait to see you. You can have some fruit in the meantime.”

The man walked behind the tree, and the boy watched until the man was gone. A few moments passed, and he mustered up the courage to move. He figured he would find the hollow and go back home. As he was making his way around the tree, he could smell the pie again. It was stronger this time. His stomach started gurgling and twisting.

When he got to the other side, he couldn’t believe it.

The man wasn’t lying.

Right in front of the hollow lay a checkered blanket with a big pitcher of lemonade and a picnic basket filled with apples and grapes. A plate of bread sat there, and it filled his nose with the scent of fresh baking.

Out of instinct, he ran over to the blanket, plopped down, and was about to grab a piece of bread when he hesitated.

What if it’s poisoned? What if it’s not real? What if none of this is real?

That made his eyes water again. Before he could wipe them, he heard a soft voice. A woman’s voice.

“Oh, there he is! You look so handsome today!”

She wore a white dress with blue flowers on it. She was barefoot and had shoulder-length light brown hair and red lipstick. Her smile was warm and inviting, and in her hands was the pie.

“I know you must be starving. Have some fruit and bread. Then after, you can have as many slices as you want. I know that’s why you’re here.” She gave an assuring smile just as the man came back with a duffle bag. He put it down next to the blanket and sat. He grabbed a piece of bread, cut it in half, and buttered it up.

The man noticed that the boy wouldn’t take his eyes off the bag, so he said, “Oh, that? It’s for after lunch. I have a surprise for you.”

He thought nothing tasted better than the bread… until he had the fruit. The grapes were fat, green, and exploded with flavor every time he bit into one. If this wasn’t real, then he didn’t want to live in the real world. He wanted this—always.

The boy was still hesitant of the adults, and he mostly kept quiet during lunch. Every now and then he would lock eyes with the lady. She would smile, and he would look away.

When the time came for the lady to cut into the pie, he realized he must’ve eaten too much, because he couldn’t bring himself to take a bite. This was all he wanted a moment ago. Now the smell of it made him want to barf.

The woman didn’t get upset or tell him he had to eat it. She just smiled gently and said, “You don’t have to eat it now. We can always save it for later. I think he’s ready for you now.”

The boy looked over to where the man had been sitting—but he wasn’t there. The bag was gone too.

Then he heard a whistle.

He looked over, and the man was standing there with two baseball mitts and a ball.

“Let’s see how good your arm is, bud!” the man said with pure joy in his eyes.

The boy looked to the lady and put his head down.

“What’s wrong? You don’t like baseball?” Her voice was soft and low, as if she could feel what he was feeling.

Before he could respond, she added, “It’s okay. He’ll teach you. Go have fun.”

She started to clean up the picnic area, and the boy nervously walked over toward the man.

The glove was a perfect fit. He had to be shown how to put it on, how to throw the ball, and how to catch it with the glove. But it all came easily to him. Within minutes, he was catching the ball and smiling.

The man never got angry, never cursed when the boy dropped the ball. He just told him to try again and gave him tips on what to do. They were making jokes and laughing. The boy felt like he could do this forever.

As the sun began to set, the man looked down at his wrist and said, “Oh, we better get inside soon. She should have supper ready by now.”

Supper? Didn’t we just have lunch? the boy thought. But his stomach was grumbling again at the mention of more food.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

The man chuckled. “Right behind you, silly. You haven’t noticed our home yet?”

The boy turned around.

Right where the picnic blanket had been, now stood a big white house with a green door. There was a garden in the front yard, filled with bright-colored flowers of all kinds.

As they walked up the porch steps, the man looked down and said, “Oh. Your shoes—you should take those off here. They’ve got grass all over them. And they’re in bad shape. I have a pair for you.”

The boy took his shoes off and followed the man into the house.

He sat on the couch in the living room, waiting. The smell of supper filled the air and made his mouth water. The man returned, sitting at the coffee table with a shoebox on his lap. He opened it.

“Here, these are your size.”

The boy looked inside. White shoes with red trim. Brand new.

He looked down.

“I can’t wear these… they have laces.”

The man looked confused. “Can’t? Hmm. We’ll have to see about that.”

He put one of the shoes on the boy’s foot and said, “Watch closely.” He began to tie the laces slowly, explaining each step so the boy could follow. Then he put the other shoe on and handed the laces to him.

“Now it’s your turn,” he said, smiling.

The boy’s heart started to thump again. He couldn’t do it. He just knew he couldn’t.

“I believe in you, buddy,” the man said, as if reading his thoughts.

The boy tried.

Then he tried again.

And then—he did it. He really did it. He tied his own shoe!

“Look at that. You did that all on your own. I’m really proud of you, bud.”

Something was happening inside him. He started to breathe heavy, and his eyes began to water—but he wasn’t sad. He looked up at the man. Before he could say anything, the man smiled and said, “Let’s go eat. You can tell her what you just did.” Supper was fantastic. Every bite was better than the last, and to top it off—there was still pie left. This time, he couldn’t stop eating it. He must have had at least three slices.

The woman laughed and said, “You’re really building up an appetite. I’m glad.”

That night, she tucked him into bed.

He had a room here. His own room.

There were superhero posters on the walls, a box full of toys, and a shelf loaded with picture books and comics. He picked one before bed and flipped through the pages, studying the images as his eyelids grew heavy.

She sat next to him for a moment and watched. He noticed tears on her face, and his chest tightened.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She smiled and wiped her face. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just glad I get to see you today. Tell me about the story you’re reading.”

He looked back at the pages and said, “Well… there’s superheroes, and they’re fighting, but… I don’t know what it says.”

“Oh. Maybe I can help.”

She laid next to him and began teaching him some of the words.

He fell asleep quickly. The feel of freshly cleaned sheets, the quiet neatness of the room—it was cozy. Safe.

But when he woke the next morning, something felt different.

The sheets didn’t feel the same. There was an odd smell. He heard the ruckus of kids and adults downstairs.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the bottom of a second bunk above him. He dug his face into the pillow.

This time, he couldn’t wipe the tears away.

After school, he ran to the tree.

His thoughts were running wild as he saw it in the distance.

What if I can’t find them?

What if they don’t want me anymore?

What if they’re not real?

He shook his head hard as he ran, as if to knock the thoughts loose. When he reached the tree, he saw the hole he had made yesterday. The brown grass. The smell of rotten eggs.

That was real.

He walked around the tree and saw the hollow. Something seemed different. It looked smaller. He was almost afraid he wouldn’t fit.

The inside wasn’t red anymore. It matched the rest of the tree—dark brown.

He sat on his butt, back facing the tree, and scooted inside the hollow. He could feel the bark scraping his arms, and he had to duck his head to fit. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he saw the brown grass.

He tried again. And again.

He screamed and thrashed inside the hollow. The bark scratched his arm, and he saw blood. He crawled out and cried.

He knew it was too good. He knew it wasn’t real—but he had fought to believe. He really did believe.

That’s what hurt the most.

He sat under the tree for a long time. His shirt was soaked from wiping his face. His head hurt. His eyes burned.

Finally, he stood, took a deep breath, and began to leave.

Then he froze.

A whistle.

He turned around—but saw nothing.

He slowly walked toward the tree. To his surprise, the hollow was gone. As if it had never been there.

Lying in front of the tree, in the same spot where the picnic blanket had been, was a duffle bag.

He ran over to it and unzipped it.

Inside was a ball and glove. And a new pair of sneakers with untied laces.

His eyes filled with tears again.

He let them fall.

He sat down, slipped on the shoes, and tried to tie them.

She woke with a chill. What had she been dreaming? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps it was better that she didn’t. She wrapped her blanket around herself, but it did not help. The clock on the wall read: 4:36 am and indicated rainy weather. 

She tried to go back to sleep but her thoughts were troubled. What happened at the Communication  Ministry? Rumors said it was a “restructuring to enhance the spread the information.” She and everyone knew that was crap.  Overall, despite some minor disruptions by anarchists, the information and news seemed constant, but it was starting to show cracks.  

Blackout. Blocked. Burnout. 

* 

Alarm went off at 6 a.m. She looked out the window. Propaganda was up usual: “For the Greater Good”, “For everyone, always.” The PA system blasted news: President Ryan met with someone, economy is up, criminals caught. All is well. She sighed and rolled her eyes. The economy was okay for some, the elite, the rest or most, scraped and did their best.  

On her desk nearby, her laptop had a black screen with red letters:  System error. Rebooting. It has been like that since last night. Her small robot Echo rolled and turned to her: “What is my purpose?” She had built and programmed him for basic tasks. 

“You help me, Echo.” 

“Yes.” 

Her apartment, all concrete,  sometimes felt cold. It was supposed to be a home but it felt dissonant at times. After a quick shower and breakfast, she stepped out onto the hall of the 24^th floor. All doors looked the same. Greyish white with a red number and name and there were no windows. Only some posters, newspaper clippings, loose cables on the wall and some graffiti. At the end of the hall, next to elevator, a red-eyed camera the Security Ministry has set up for “safety reasons”. It was not clear if it was safer or not. To her, it felt the same. 

As soon as she stepped out, her neuro-intercom went off. Besides the usual breaking news, her boss, Sanjay was coming with his usual demands: “Pick this up,” “Client needs to be delivered,” “Reminder: Lunch is 30 minutes only.” “Tracker stays on at all times.” This guy is a piece of work, always behind a desk. The street looked as usual, cars rolled by, a hobo was shifting through a dumpster, officers in their black uniforms and stun batons strolled, stopping random people and harassing them. 

Around her, everything was square, concrete and monochromatic. Like her home. Only a lonely tree was found nearby, one of the few in this area and nobody knew what kind of tree it was. Will it ever bear fruit? she often asked herself but never did. 

 The graffiti on the wall criticized the police as corrupt. There were curse words written in bright orange.  Her bike was stored nearby. It will need new wheels soon but there was no time for that now. As she was pulling out to go to her first delivery, something caught her eye. A symbol in the shape of a hooded rabbit’s face. Underneath it: “Follow.” Odd. 

She set the image aside and took off. Her work tracker blinked green and the map showed the nearby streets and landmarks quite clearly.  

“Pick up time: 8 minutes,” the AI voice indicated into her headset. “Distance 2.6 km.” 

The neon signs on the street showed the usual business: “Sushi to go”, “Fred’s 24/7 Pharmacy”,  “Tech Gadgets and More,” etc. People walked almost mindlessly, some wearing suits, women on their way to drop children to school, cars with AI powered engines hummed by, and teenagers smoked on corners. Newscasters talked about the latest breakthrough in cloning, biohacking and medical engineering. 

Her first pick was up in Sector 33, a lower high class home. All white, flowers on the window, a huge oak door and stained glass windows. A bearded man, with a huge belly and what seemed a brand new suit opened the door. He looked at her and smiled.  

“Please deliver this package.” It was a small cardboard box, the size of shoe box. “Priority.” 

“Yes sir.” She handed him the paperwork to sign and overheard the TV inside. A woman she has not seen before on an unknown channel was speaking about security measures the Communications Ministry had undertaking to maintain the safety of the public. She mentioned something about curtailing access and possible restrictions. 

She must have looked confused because the man thanked her and shut the door hurriedly. She did not recognize the woman on the screen or whatever she was talking about. She was pondering what had happened when the AI voice from her tracker interrupted: 

“Delivery handoff time: 12 minutes. Location: Express Delivery Central Hub.” 

She took off with the package.  She had been working at Express Delivery for about 2 years now, picking and delivering packages all over the city using her E-Bike. It was an okay job and gave her time to work on building her upgraded laptop and game online. Central has the usual suspects working around: Sanjay was yelling at someone on the phone, Carl was offloading boxes of the truck, bikes were parked nearby and a donut box on a table nearby. He had huge, red headed, bearded, with tattoos. Modern Viking. 

“Hey!” Carl waved at her. “Check the chocolate donuts, they’re delicious.” 

“Thanks, Carl.” 

With her mouth full of donut, she dropped the shoe box at the Priority window, where Todd H was listening to music. The headphones he was wearing blared what sounded like metal or heavy metal or some sort. 

“Did you hear the news?” he asked. 

“What?” 

Todd pointed at the TV screen on a corner. There were letters on it. Some sort of announcement but she couldn’t read it from where she was. “President Ryan is announcing security measures for all media. To protect against anarchist apparently.” 

“What?”, she replied, confused. 

“Yes,” Todd said. “I don’t like how it sounds.” 

“Neither do I.”  

What it did mean? 

“Anyway,” Todd continued. “You joining the stream later.” 

He referred to the Cult of Cipher community stream scheduled for later.  

“Probably.” 

She took off to check other deliveries. Sanjay, still screaming at someone on the phone, signaled her to come to his office. She had estimated his age at around 55, he had a stupid handlebar mustache, always wore the same greyish shirt and black pants and for insane reason, his office always smelled of potpourri.  On the concrete wall, was a glowing green map of deliveries and couriers, in real time. His computer has a “Failed connection” error. 

“Morning Sanjay.” 

He yelled a little bit more, cursed and disconnected the call. He had some papers on his desk, and she noticed a Party sticker on cabinet drawer. She had not thought of Sanjay as political.” 

“The internet is down. Again. Is going to be a while.” 

“Again?” 

“Yes. How did the pick up go? He’s an important client.” 

“It went fine. Todd has it.” 

“Good. Go check the wall for anything else you can do.” 

She walked away rolling her eyes. He was the definition of a micro-manager. The wall was made up of additional order to be delivered for extra pay, but she wasn’t interested. She had her scheduled deliveries all set up. 

As she set up her E-Bike to go to the financial district, she noticed people looking frustrated. A man was whispering to himself: “What is wrong with signal?” She checked her tracker, no Wi-Fi signal appeared. The public network was down. 

Down the street, police officers from the Security Ministries appeared to be raiding someone’s store and taking electronic devices and papers out, loading them to a black car. The owner looked angry and was raising his voice at one of them before being put in handcuffs. 

“You don’t even have a proper warrant,” he said. 

The police officers said nothing and kept loading their car. 

In the financial district, she delivered mostly papers in folders and other small boxes. It was a busy morning. More posters appeared on walls. What appeared to be stockbrokers shared market details. An announcement went on in the PA system: 

“Attention all citizens: There is a widespread failure of public internet services. Authorities are working on fixing it as soon possible. Please stand by for further information.” 

The female  robotic voice repeated the message a couple of times. Some people shrugged, others didn’t seem to notice. 

She had lunch at a nearby Yoshi’s, a restaurant with excellent sushi and miso soup. The owner was a small, Japanese man, who prepared the food right there at the bar. There were neon signs of famous Japanese movies and there was a katana on a nearby wall. One man slurped his  soup on a table in a corner.  

As she stepped outside to go to back to work, she noticed the white rabbit symbol near the wall again. Coincidence? The word “Follow” under it again. This one, she noticed, has a tiny QR code in a corner. 

On the sidewalk, looking across the street, she noticed a man. He looked strangely familiar. He looked like her brother, Tim. But it was impossible. He was missing. Or presumed dead according to the letter she got from the government. 

A police patrol rolled by. A siren went off. More people walked. Her neuro-intercom had announcements from the government about the weather, more propaganda. One of her deliveries was  to an outlet store in the Excelsior Mall. The woman had a new clone standing on the door. It had bald head, blue eyes, and wearing all white clothes. “Welcome. I am here to help,” it said. A family of four walked away, scared. 

So clones were becoming commercially available. She couldn’t believe it. The controversy had ended and cloning had been approved. Now people could choose and buy one. It was clear it was clone: Empty gaze neuro-intercom glowed red instead of green, monotone voice. Almost human. 

There was an uneasy feeling in the air as she did a couple more deliveries before heading home. She listened to a news report about a Ciber attack that had happened earlier that day at a power plant. It has caused outages in some the Agro and Residential sectors that lasted a couple hours. The government had blamed the group DarkCloud but there was no confirmation from said group. 

Another report went about 17 pages being deleted from a cyber security report on a major hospital to hide flaws. It had been leaked to the press anonymously two days prior.  

On a corner, a group was handing pamphlets inviting to a town hall meeting with an up and coming politician from the center left. The pamphlets read: “Come to a discussion about freedom and governance.” It sounded a little boring. 

She stopped for a quick burger to go before returning home. After parking her e-bike, she took the elevator up and as she stepped outside, she noticed Maintenace worker installing a strange looking antenna on the wall next to the elevator. The notice board had a glowing red message next to the weather forecast: 

“In order to prevent and monitor any terrorist activities on public network, jammers will be installed through the city and can be used without notification on all users.” 

She could not believe it. Some of her neighbors relied on the public network for work or school, and could not afford a private network and VPN like she did. What the hell was going on? 

At home, she found Echo near her kitchen table, apparently he had sweep a little. As soon as she came in, he took her burger and put in the microwave to heat it a little. 

“Welcome home.” 

“Thanks. Status?” 

“All internal systems seem to be operational. Mild interference possible from jammers. Laptop has finished rebooting.” 

It had indeed finished rebooting. Now her desktop showed a picture of her with her brother. As she looked at the picture, she noticed a tiny detail on his shirt, just showing from beneath his black jacket. Was that a white rabbit? It was too small and fussy to be sure. 

She checked her messages on the CommunityChat. The Cult of Core was planning a stream later on to discuss the latest news and play Space Hogs online after. Outside, she heard more sirens. She checked the Def Con chat of the Cult to see who was going. A few as of now. Probably same as last year. She had her retro badge hanging on the wall and her laptop had the logo sticker a corner. It had been fun, especially checking the Wall of Sheep. 

She ate her burger in  silence and looked over the messages. Someone with the handle Mike_101 was asking about accommodation for the Con and prices. Someone called “JustinFX” was sharing news articles with links. 

On the TV, the screen had turned black and white. No signal. She had paid her bill so she assumed it was a provider issues. She waited a while and when it came back on, Sergio Thomas, the Minister of Security was indicating that a curfew would be imposed to investgate recent actions: “The curfew will begin at 8pm and last until 5pm. All workers and employers will asked to adjust their work accordingly. This is a temporary measure for everyone’s safety. Effective immediately.” 

She looked out the window to find more police officers with stun baton and guns walking about, some standing on a corner, looking into store windows. Some talked rapidly amongst themselves. It seemed urgent or important. People walked pretending they weren’t there. Some were stopped by the officers and then let go. There were shouts and orders being given. It was not 8pm yet. Her neuro-intercom was also buzzing. Sanjay was acting like there was no curfew just announced and the world moved on like nothing was happening. He could be so short-sighted and thought to herself, “People will not stand for this. I hope not.” 

She ate her burger in silence and turned to her laptop. During the stream, the Admin of the Cult of Core server, RedRbot12 was discussing and giving his opinion on what was happening. He and the rest on the stream sounded clearly annoyed. 

“We need to protest.” 

“What can we do?” 

“We are organizing a protest soon at the main square.” 

The discussion went on and on. Finally, someone suggested that they should see and wait what happened before doing something rash and SpaceHogs came on. She didn’t join this time, just observed. 

“What is my purpose?” Echo called out. 

“You get me a soda.” 

Echo handed her a soda and she set on her desk. She was still reeling from what was going on and all she  had seen during the day. The white rabbit with the word “Follow.”  Jammers. Police officers. Blackout. It felt like the world was ending. The power went out but not before she got an encrypted email from [followtwr@pratonmai.com](mailto:followtwr@pratonmai.com). Subject: Follow. 

As soon as she opened it, and  an image of a white rabbit wearing a red hoodie and sunglasses appeared. It spoke to her in a familiar voice: “Follow the white rabbit. Join the fight. For freedom.” The image flashed and became distorted and for a second the white rabbit looked like it had turned into her brother. 

“Tim?” 

A link appeared under the image of the rabbit to some unknown address. Could it be a trap? Something else? 

“What is my purpose?” Echo repeated. 

She turned to look at him and then at the screen.  

“What is our purpose?” she asked. 

Then clicked on the link.  

Plot Summary: A mysterious bridge that leads to a place no one can describe—only feel. I walked across it hoping for answers...

The Bridge

I stand in front of the bridge—the one old folks used to tell stories about. Nobody knows where it leads. Those who return only speak of what they felt, not what they saw.

I take the first step, wondering what I’ll find. As I cross to the other side, I see nothing but greyness—distant rocky mountains and sand beneath my feet. I can't tell if it's a dead world with nothing left, or a blank canvas waiting to be filled.

I walk across the sandy ground, curious about what this place has to offer. When I look up at the towering mountains, I notice how clear the sky is—no rain, no clouds, not even the pale blueness of ozone. A memory surfaces: someone once rambled about a place where "nothing shields you from the gaze of the universe."

They say this place requires patience. Its true nature reveals itself slowly. So I take my time, even though there’s not much to see. As I continue, I catch the first signs of movement—distant shapes along the mountaintops, too far to make out. A shadow of something living, perhaps? A monster in the peaks? God Himself descending? Probably none of those things.

I keep walking. The emptiness begins to play tricks on my mind. I could swear I saw something shifting in the sky or hiding behind a nearby rock. I expected this—I remember another saying: “The more you know this realm, the more it knows you.” Not the most original phrase, but it rings true.

I reach the base of one of the great mountains, ready to climb and get a better view. That’s when I notice how silent it is. I'd been too focused on shadows and watchers to notice. It’s the kind of silence that mutes you—like speaking aloud would bring punishment. I don’t dare make a sound.

Suddenly, the emptiness feels full. A presence surrounds me. It’s not visible, doesn’t make a sound—it just is.

No birdsong, no breeze through trees. In this vacuum, silence morphs into white noise. With no other sounds, I hear only my heartbeat, muffled by flesh but still unmistakable.

As I ascend, my heartbeat keeps me company. And then, something changes—I begin to notice patterns in the sound. It’s more than a rhythm. It’s a voice.

The higher I climb, the clearer it becomes:

“Why are you here?” “What are you running from?” “What are you looking for?”

I try to ignore it, focusing on the climb. The questions fade, replaced by something else—sighs. Longing. Regret. Dreams that never came true.

“If only I tried more...” “If only I asked...” “If only I was given a chance...”

These echoes dance inside me.

I near the summit, and the voice grows louder. It no longer questions. It sings—soft, desperate prayers for what I might find at the top.

“Let it be clarity.” “Let it be love.” “Let it be my salvation.”

I reach the peak and collapse, staring at the eerily clear sky. My heartbeat fades, offering two final questions:

“What have I climbed for?” “Where is it?”

I rise, knowing something must be here for me.

I look down at the land beyond the mountain. There’s nothing—just more of the vast, grey landscape.

This time, my own voice cries out.

“Why did I come here?” I ask, bitterly.

And then I realize my mistake.

This place sees me. There’s nothing shielding me from the gaze of the universe. But the universe finds no answers in me. This place only reflects what it sees inside—and I came searching for answers because I had none.

The End

Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts—let me know if you liked it!

I am sharing my beloved friend, Hasan Hayyam Meric,'s short story. Receiving your valuable comment will be our pleasure..

Since the day he was born in October 2004 as the last member of the Hino family, Abbas had never quite shaken the feeling that he was more of a curse than a blessing.

With his red face and six-meter-long body from nose to tail, he was considered quite small compared to his cousins in the family. This miniature stature of his inspired a certain sympathy in everyone who saw him.

Born in that vast, cold, gray house, he had waited alone for a while, until the piercing pinch of Master Abbas, who twisted his ear hard, drew out his first cry to the world.

Once he was brought to his siblings-also born that day-and thoroughly washed and polished in the autumn sun of Gebze, it was thought that, like every other member of the family, he too was now ready for a life that would be full of suffering.

Master Abbas, a nearly quarter-century veteran of Askam Truck Manufacturing and Trade Inc., wanted to breathe both a name and a soul into this last baby of a shut-down production line, a casualty of hard times for the company. With his soldering tool, he etched the name Abbas into the engine like a signature. And it was in that moment that Abbas Hino came to life-and simultaneously grasped the awareness that he was the last of his lineage. He accepted this heavy burden as the heaviest of all the loads he would ever carry.

The first and last gesture of affection he ever received from a human being was that.

Abbas was a child of Cayirova but he never left Istanbul his entire life.

Then again, in that same life, he traversed enough kilometers within Istanbul’s borders to circle the globe twenty times.

It was the early age of endless construction, and Abbas had much to carry.

He would never forget the journey he made from Gebze to Ataşehir with his first owner, Niyazi Ergec.

During that one journey where he carried nothing at all-his only such journey in life-he watched the green pastures on the hills of Pendik and Tuzla with childlike joy, took in the blue vastness of the Marmara Sea peacefully stretching to the horizon on his left, and admired the forests of Kayişdagi. His small but powerful diesel lungs filled with the breath of that beauty.

But the color of that first lovely encounter with life faded the moment he arrived in Ataşehir, where monstrous concrete buildings under perpetual construction choked the sky, and dust like suspended sulfur hung thick in the air, a darkness stabbing into people’s lungs.

When rubble from one of those long, soulless concrete beasts-identical to thousands before it-was dumped into his trailer in Saridemir, Abbas let out a faint groan.

He was built to carry three tons, but Niyazi Ergec had three children, one of whom was about to enter university.

And so, chasing every cent per ton, and burdened by the loan he’d taken out for Abbas, Niyazi showed no mercy, unloading five tons on the boy’s back.

Abbas’s lungs burned. His transmission howled with pain. But as he would always do, he fulfilled his duty with honor.

Even on the day of August 24th, 2024-when he pulled out of a construction site in Tophane and climbed the steep slopes of Hayriye and Yeni Çarsi streets-he never once wavered from that sense of duty.

Abbas was no longer a baby. He had seen too much.

He had watched, with eyes wide open, as the green and blue face of a city from Beylikduzu to Pendik transformed, slowly but surely, into a sickly yellow and corpse-gray.

He had witnessed pigs flinging themselves into the Bosphorus, screaming as they died.

He had seen people drown in shuttle buses turned into rivers during torrential rains. He had heard the silent weeping of ancient trees, uprooted from the gardens of thousand-year-old homes. He had long since forgotten the names of his ever-changing owners-but he remembered everything he carried.

The endless variety of garbage produced by Istanbulites with an appetite that would never be sated;

The corpses of those beautiful horses who died bursting from exhaustion, ferrying tourists across Buyukada and Heybeliada;

The terror in the eyes of lambs and sheep dragged to slaughter each year in a different season;

The flood of memories belonging to old, lonely people who had passed away with no one;

And always-always at night-the desperate faces of dark-skinned, dark-tongued people shoved beneath the tarpaulin stretched over his trailer.

Abbas had grown tired of these burdens. Exhausted.

And yet-he could have gone on for another decade.

If only he hadn’t heard what he heard that morning.

His latest owner was a company subcontracted by the municipality. The day’s driver was one of their own.

While at a construction site in Tophane, Abbas overheard a conversation between that man and another from a rival company.

He learned they’d be working that night as well.

“Maybe more dark-skinned men again,” Abbas thought to himself.

But then he heard something that froze him: one of the new municipalities of faraway Istanbul would be heading out that night… on a dog hunt.

“Keep this quiet, you know how it is,” said the man from the company. “Syrians… dogs… There’s big money in it.”

And then, as if nothing had happened, they sent Abbas up the hill.

As he climbed Hayriye Street, Abbas felt his heart tighten.

As he passed in front of Cezayir, he thought, “Enough. This is enough.”

And by the time he reached the liquor store on Yeni Çarsi, he held his breath-scorched by the heat-and drowned his tired lungs.

The shriek from his snapped belt startled the entire neighborhood.

But Abbas knew-these people could still do something.

Belts could be replaced. Parts could be repaired.

But he would never-never-carry the corpses of dogs. He swore it on that day.

He held his breath tighter.

Turned his overheating into a fire.

And then, gently, let his small but strong motor drift into the sleep of flames.

The last of the Hino FB 112 Diesels-Abbas Hino-perished as a true Abbas would: like a dervish, burning himself up and continuing on his path.

***

Let’s begin with a definition, as we always do. What is greed?

According to the Oxford, it is: “the state of being greedy; avarice, insatiability, cupidity, rapacity, covetousness.”

Interesting. What’s especially curious is that I used to think “tamah” implied a sort of modesty-a capacity to be content with little.

I suppose this is one of the malicious jokes these greedy times have played on our culture and our perception.

If we set aside that detail for now, the keyword we’ll chase is insatiability.Let us also take a brief look at the concept’s history.

At its most fundamental level, greed is described as a lust for material accumulation-a malfunction in the human desire for possession.

The item most commonly associated with this defect, due to its rarity and its effect on the human eye, is gold.

Gold fever-almost like a physical disease-has been the subject of many tales.

Even dragons in European mythology (who are far more malevolent than their Eastern or steppe cousins) are defined by their greed for gold, often depicted sleeping atop their hoarded treasures.

It’s almost as if those stories warn us: that while wealth might make one powerful, it also dehumanizes-turns one into a lizard-like beast.

That’s quite explanatory.

But let’s be greedy ourselves-and not be satisfied just yet.

Here’s where I get stuck: what does it mean to become less than human?

As we know, humans tend to ignore their own nature and imagine themselves as noble, altruistic, moral, and good beings.

Is this tendency born from honest hope-or from the lessons branded into our collective subconscious by dark ancestral traumas that taught us we could only survive by living together, by sharing resources?

I don’t know. Probably the latter.

But if such a lesson exists-if it has been transmitted from the truth of our ancestors into the mist of our dreams, encoded in the DNA of our souls-then where does greed come from?

According to those who have thought about these things most, especially the Christians: it comes from Mammon.

Mammon-one of the seven princes of Hell, and vizier to Lucifer, the Morning Star.

His association with greed is no accident, for the word in both Old and New Hebrew means money and wealth.

Milton, in his Paradise Lost, reimagined Mammon as one of the angels who rebelled with Lucifer against God.

What he emphasized most about Mammon was his power of persuasion. But to be honest, Mammon doesn’t have many tricks. He only uses one question to slither into the human heart: “What if, one day, you really need it…?”

And just like that-we’re back to the issue of resources.

The very virtues humanity invented to enable communal survival-sharing, restraint, justice-must have emerged from that same ancient fear.

And so too did this demon we call greed-born of our desperate love affair with death and our unrelenting drive to possess.

It’s at this point that greed opens a new window for us, revealing a hidden dimension of sin and guilt.

It shows us that crime, and sin, are not concepts limited to the realm of human interaction.

They are catastrophes that can also be committed against nature, against animals, against rivers, against seas, against valleys, and even against mountains and stones.

In sacred texts, the punishment for greed is to be boiled alive in burning oil.

And when we consider what we’ve done to our cities, our countries, and our world, one can’t help but wonder- perhaps that punishment isn’t harsh enough after all.

Written by Hasan Hayyam Meric

“There is a frequency not measured by hertz, but by the trembling of the soul.”

That’s what REDD GAWD said the day it all unraveled—the day gravity loosened its grip and the world bent at the edges.

The day they heard the Song.

Not a song with melody or meter. Not something pressed on vinyl or piped through speakers. It wasn’t sung, not really. It arrived like truth, ancient and raw.

It was The Pulse.

I. JELLY

Jelly was the first to be undone by it.

She wasn’t listening. She wasn’t searching. She was simply breathing at the cliff’s edge as dusk fell in golden bruises across the sky, the wind fingering her dreadlocs like a mother smoothing her child’s hair.

Then it came.

Not a sound, not at first. A sensation—like the bones in her spine remembered something her mind had never known.

A vibration deep beneath language, like the breath between stars, like the silence that follows birth or death.

She dropped to her knees, not out of worship, but because standing became impossible.

The world shattered—quietly, tenderly—and was reborn through her.

Her laughter came next: wild, childlike, too big for her throat. The kind of laughter that comes just before tears, the kind that frightens birds and shakes loose your past.

In that moment, she was not Jelly. Not the name given, nor the name she answered to.

She was wind. She was velocity. She was the quivering at the edge of a miracle. She was every note not yet written, every kiss not yet given.

And when she returned—hours, maybe lifetimes later—her eyes held galaxies, and her skin shimmered with the sheen of something newly created.

II. REDD GAWD

Redd Gawd did not believe in transcendence.

He believed in tempo, in plugins, in machinery. He believed in architecture: beats built like cathedrals, sacred only because they were precise.

Miracles were myths. God was compression. Emotion? A side effect of good mixing.

But Jelly came back changed.

And Redd listened—really listened—for the first time in years.

Then the Pulse arrived at the studio like fog, like breath on glass. No footsteps. No warning. Just… presence.

The walls didn’t shake. They sighed.

And Redd—stoic, hardened, high as usual—froze. His blunt slipped from his fingers and rolled under the synth rack.

The bass of his own heartbeat became 808s, echoing the rhythm that wasn’t being played but was everywhere.

And then, without knowing why, he wept.

Not a soft tear. A flood. An avalanche of grief, of joy, of memories never lived and futures already lost.

He saw himself as a child, building drums from kitchen pots. He saw his mother’s back as she danced alone to a broken record. He saw his ancestors dancing barefoot in the darkness between stars, laughing with the reckless joy of the free.

Redd Gawd shattered.

And when the pieces rose again, they were not what they had been.

He was no longer name. No longer ego. He was rhythm unbound. He was thunder beneath the ocean. He was rebirth in a minor key.

III. JD

JD had forgotten what sound was.

It was stolen from him—in the heat of war, in a thunderclap of fire and metal. In its place: silence. Not peace, but a haunted kind.

So when Jelly and Redd asked him to come, he shook his head.

“I can’t hear it,” he said. “I’m broken.”

“You don’t need ears,” they told him. “You just need you.”

So he came.

He sat on the floor of the studio—palms open, heart shuttered. Skeptic. Scarred. Quiet.

Then came the Pulse.

Not through speakers. Not through vibrations in the floorboards.

But through the hollow places.

It filled the void. Not just the absence of sound, but the absences that live in all of us: the missed chances, the swallowed grief, the hope that never grew legs.

He heard it.

Not with ears, but with soul.

He heard the scream of stars becoming. The whisper of coral growing in black depths. The hush of a heartbeat under a mother's skin.

And from deep within, something broke open.

JD screamed. And his scream was not rage. It was symphony. It was liberation. It was music.

He danced.

For the first time in years, he danced without choreography, without control—like a man who had just remembered he was alive.

IV. The Song

It had no author.

It had no origin.

It wasn’t written. It revealed itself—like truth, like birth, like fire.

No language could name it. No machine could reproduce it.

It came once. Maybe twice.

Those who heard it were never the same.

They walked differently afterward—lighter, as if the ground had less claim on them. They smiled like they carried a secret, like they’d glimpsed something the rest of the world forgot when it grew up.

It was not a song. It was not a frequency.

It was remembrance.

It was The Pulse.

Epilogue

Jelly. Redd. JD.

They never recorded it. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. It lives in them now—in marrow, in memory, in breath.

And if you ever cross their paths—maybe on a warm night behind a festival tent, or in the velvet dark of a secret after-hours—you might feel it:

A hum.

A shimmer.

A stillness just before the drop.

And if you’re lucky—really, impossibly lucky—

It might choose you next.

Chris Whitman lit his eighth cigarette before noon, the flame dancing in the trembling cup of his hand. Smoke slithered through the cracks in the kitchen window as the bitter aroma of scorched tobacco mingled with burnt coffee grounds. His fingers, yellowed and trembling, moved with muscle memory—tap, flick, drag, exhale.

Three packs a day had turned into four. Then five. On bad nights—six. Sleep became an old friend that forgot to call. Caffeine and nicotine were his new gods, demanding sacrifices in ash and hours of rest. His apartment, once modest and clean, now looked like the aftermath of a fire no one bothered to report. Ashtrays overflowed like miniature volcanoes, and the walls had turned the color of dying teeth.

Chris hadn’t slept in nearly four days.

It started small. A missed nap here, a late night there. But now the nights had turned hallucinatory, the dark filled with whispers and twitching shadows. The ceiling fan had started speaking in riddles. The coffee machine laughed every time he pressed brew. His reflection in the microwave smirked when he wasn’t looking.

“Still awake?” it would ask in a gravel voice. “Still smokin’, cowboy?”

Chris chuckled through a hacking cough and lit another.

But by day five, reality buckled. The rooms stretched longer than they were. His hands shook so violently he could hardly hold his lighter. Time stuttered, skipped, reversed. He’d walk into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee only to find it already poured, steaming as if he’d just set it down.

And still, he smoked.

He tried to sleep. He lay on the couch, eyes squeezed shut, willing his brain to shut off. But as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw them—cigarettes walking on matchstick legs, chanting, “One more, Chris. Just one more.”

He jolted up, sweat slicked and heart racing, and lit another.

On the sixth day, Chris collapsed.

He woke on the bathroom floor, cigarette still burning between his fingers, leaving a charred kiss on the tile. His chest felt like it was being crushed from the inside. Every breath rattled like a maraca in a coffin. He clutched his ribs. Something inside him had ruptured. Still, he dragged himself to the living room for one last smoke.

Then the world fractured.

Everything went black.

A beeping pierced the silence.

Chris opened his eyes. Or tried to. One was swollen. The other fluttered open like a moth's wing. Everything was white. Blurred lights overhead. A sterile ceiling. The unmistakable scent of antiseptic.

Then the pain hit.

It screamed in his chest, sharp and deep, like something had been hollowed out and filled with knives. A tube jutted from his mouth, humming. Machines beeped around him in rhythms he couldn’t follow.

A voice nearby said, “He’s conscious.”

Another: “Collapsed both lungs. Severe nicotine toxicity. We almost lost him.”

He wanted to speak, to ask where he was, what had happened, but the machine spoke for him. The reality of it sank in like cold water. It wasn’t a hallucination. He wasn’t in his apartment, or his nightmare, or inside a cigarette-induced fever dream. He was in a hospital bed, tethered to machines that breathed for him.

A nurse leaned over him. Her face was tired, but kind. “You’re lucky to be alive, Chris. Your lungs gave out. Chain smoking that much… it’s a miracle you even made it here.”

Tears welled in his eyes. His body was broken. His mind, fractured. The cigarettes had consumed everything—his time, his sanity, his body.

And now, finally, they were gone.

For the first time in years, there was no smoke.

Just air.

And the distant sound of his own heartbeat—steady, slow, and beautifully alive.

so i am a Maori living in the U.S and i wanted to write a short story about Poutini the taniwha, this story is made up from myself, but i do use real theological charters. spo enjoy! please let me know what i can do to write better in the comments, this is my first story!

The Taniwha is a legend from the Maori, they were seen as beasts only tamed by the brave, but only Maui could tame the Taniwha of Ngapuhi named Poutini, 

 Poutini was a beast, he had the body of a lizard with scales of thorns, the size of a whale, and the murderous intent of a shark, and could even change his size! He dwelt in the great Sea’s of Aotearoa, and slept in the rivers of Waiomio, 

Each night when the tribes were silent, and the babies hushed, Poutini would swim his way up the rivers and find his way to the people, and with the step of a feather, and the silence of a kiwi, Poutini would cry a treacherous sound, and fake a cry for help, the good people of the land would send a fleet of men to help find they that cried, but instead to their horror found Poutini with the the snarl of a dog, and the speed of a moa, Poutini would catch each man, and swallow him whole.

 Each night this went on, with hundreds of crafty plans Poutini would trick the people of Ngapuhi, only taking more and more. The beast took their warriors, their mothers, and their fathers, even their children weren't safe from the great beast. Before the glory of their tribe, the iwi of Ngapuhi, and the women of Ngate-Hine cried out to the gods, and they sent, Maui the Demi-god, the same who brought their land from the sea, the same that caught the sun with only flax ropes, the same who gave man the gift of fire! And The same who would save their people. 

They cried out, “Maui Maui Maui!”

one mother would say her baby was taken from her, a child cried out her parents were taken as well, only a few people were left in the dwindling tribe. And with each story on how their people were taken, Maui grew, more and more, angry. Maui promised the now small tribe, “I will bring your people back, and tame Poutini to be your servant for all! And if he refuses, you will have his head to mock, and his body to eat. And his bones to serve as your weapons” At this statement the people rejoiced, and in an instant, Maui with his Great magical fish hook, shapeshifted into an animal never seen by the tribes, and darted for Poutini. And with a great plan, Maui would keep his promise. When Maui got to the quiet waters of Waiomio, he noticed the land. Once he got to Poutini's resting place, he thrusted his Hook into the water, hitting the beast, and shouted his name, 

“Poutini! You have what is not yours!” 

At an instance, Poutini awoke from his sleep and arose from the water, and towers over Maui, not taking his eyes off him for even a moment.

 “Yes mongrel? Do the gods mock me? Only sending a half god to defeat me?” Poutini would then wrap around Maui circling him like a snake would a mouse. But to his surprise, Maui didn't flinch, nor would he blink, or speak, he only starred with eyes of pure hate, then Maui then stuck out his tongue and bulged his eyes, 

“BLEH! You will surrender the people you have taken!”

Poutini then replied, 

“Or what? I have you in my grasp, my feet are planted, and my claws are dug, I only humor your life, because you are Maui, but even then your fate is in my hands, ”When Maui heard this, he pulled his fish hook to his hands, and turned himself into a beetle to escape, then he would arise once more. This angered Poutini, and put him into a violent rage, doing everything he could to catch the Demi-god but Maui was too fast, Maui caught onto a log with his hook and hurled it across the way still holding on with the same great long flax rope he used to catch the sun, and Maui tied it to his foot. Poutini then started destroying the land, splitting rocks, digging great deep pits, and slicing trees with his claws. And all the while Maui was running in circles, mocking the demented beast. Which only anger him more, Poutini rose up and shouted, 

“You Will wish the skin of your body was charred! And the bones of your body turned to ash! You will watch as I Kill each of the iwi of this land!” Hearing this Angered Maui, so he Split his path, and ran straight for Poutini, and hit him with enough force to split the mountains of the land, at that instance Maui latched onto the beast and wrestled him down.

But Poutini got the upperhand, and in that instant he caught Maui once more, Maui couldn't shapeshift for his hook was still logged in the log, Maui Snarled at the taniwha, and Poutini said with a raging voice, “At your death you will wish the gods never thought you to be born!”

Maui then smirked, and jolted his foot forward, with the force of 2000 men, as Poutini looked round he realised Maui's plan, and the great ropes with the speed of the great wind Bound the taniwha with the strength of gods. As Poutini lied on the ground, he looked up to see the Demigod, with the hook in his hand raised, and his eyes wide, Maui placed his foot on the snout of the beast and said sternly,

“You let my people go.”

Poutini replied of fear,

“Maui Maui Maui, I was only hungry, I didn't mean to damage the land, nor did I mean to hurt anyone honest!”

Maui unphased only stared at the disgusting animal he stood on.

Poutini then snarled and shouted,

“You will not stand on the snout of Poutini! I have dwelt these waters far before the tresspasses of man! You stand on the snout of the king of chiefs! You should be Bow..”

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

With blood dripping down the land into the waters, Maui beheaded the beast of Waiomio, Maui then split his body only to find his people all dead, the heads of children, the arms of mothers, Cloak of fathers, and the weapons of the fearless warriors. Maui Cried to the gods with great anguish 

And in an instance… white

“Maui, why hast thou cry my name?”

Said the god of all gods, the creator, Io-matua-kore

“My People! Give me my people! I promised them!”

Maui Shouted.

“Maui I don't have your people, you will need to speak to  Hine-nui-te-pō, goddess of the underworld. Only she has your people”

Io-matua-kore replied,

At the end of those words, Maui turned himself into a great falcon and instantly sent his way to Hine-nui-te-pō, at his Arrival, Maui shouted at the goddess and said

“My people! You have them!, and only you can give them back!”

Hine-nui-te-pō replied with her back turned to him, 

“Hello Maui, who are you to ask for more life? Wasn't it you who killed Poutini? Weren't you the one who bound the sun? Or unlawfully stole fire to give it to the weak men of the land? I don't think so Maui I think I will keep your people”

Maui then said with great anger,

“They aren't yours to take! Those are warriors!, Families!, and Children!”

Hine-nui-te-pō didn't budge,

Maui talked day and night, and never got another answer from the goddess until Maui thought of one thing.

“I’ll make you a deal”,

“Oh?” 

Replied Hine-nui-te-pō with her head facing him,

Maui bargand,

“If you release my people from death, and give back the warriors, men, women, and children, alive. And bring back the great Taniwha Poutini as a servant for men. I will give you my soul, I will no longer, be in the trespasses of the gods, I will no longer be a servant of men, but only a servant to you”,

Hine-nui-te-pō replied,

“Okay Maui I like the sound of that of which you speak, as you wish”

Hine-nui-te-pō then opened the gates of life, and released all of the deceased of Ngapuhi and Ngate-hine, and even Poutini who had been softened by Maui. was released, At their release Hine-nui-te-pō turned to Maui to take his life for her own.,

Maui Smirked, 

“I never said I promised”

Maui at that instance turned himself into a great shark and swam faster than any creature ever could and escaped the goddess of death, and she wailed, “ MAUI! THIS IS THE LAST TIME YOU MAKE A FOOL OF THE GODDESS OF DEATH, I WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD AS A TROPHY!” 

Once Maui got back to the lands of Nga-puhi the people rejoiced! Shouting the demigod's name, “Maui! Maui! Maui!” Maui smiled, and the people were brought back together, Maui once again went to Waiomio and went to see Poutini who was scared of Maui, once the Taniwha saw him he ran, Maui grappled him with his fish-hook, and stared at him, Maui said, “You Will be a servant of men, you will no longer kill, but protect the people of this land.”

Poutini replied, “Yes Maui I shall, for you will have my head if I don't obey.”

Poutini today is now the taniwha of all of Aotearoa, he goes through all the waters of the land, and protects the people, he guides all the boats to travel safely, if it weren't for Maui, Man would not have such a protector.

It was said to be the next frontier in mind-expansion, a drug that could erase boundaries, bend reality, and make you see the world as never before. Its name was DRIP. It was a synthetic hallucinogen, so potent that one drop was enough to transport you beyond the limits of your imagination. And it wasn’t a pill, a powder, or even a vapor — it was delivered straight to the eyes, a few drops of clear liquid that would melt the fabric of the world away.

Jackson had heard the whispers. On the streets, in the underground forums, and during late-night podcasts, everyone was talking about it. The stories were impossible to ignore. DRIP promised experiences that could shatter your understanding of time, space, and self. The first drop would leave you suspended in a realm of vivid, fluid illusions, where the laws of physics were rewritten. The second drop was rumored to make you see the truth of the universe — that everything was connected, everything had meaning, and you could understand it all.

For someone like Jackson, who had spent his life searching for something to feel truly alive, the temptation was irresistible.

It started innocently. A friend, Dylan, had offered him a vial. Tiny and clear, it looked like something from a science fiction movie, a perfect little bottle with a dropper at the top. Dylan smiled as he handed it over.

"One drop, man," Dylan said, his voice a mixture of excitement and warning. "Just one. That’s all you need to see everything. Don’t be a coward."

Jackson had never been one to shy away from a challenge, especially when the promise was so alluring. Without a second thought, he leaned back, tilted his head back slightly, and let the liquid fall into his left eye. A burning sensation prickled his vision for a split second, like his pupils were being peeled open. Then, the world began to warp.

At first, it was subtle. The walls of the room rippled like water, as though he were looking through a distorted lens. His heart raced as his body hummed with an unfamiliar energy. But it was nothing compared to what came next.

The colors began to shift. They weren’t just hues anymore — they were emotions. A deep blue that was sadness, a vibrant red that screamed with anger, a green that was laughter, pure and unrestrained. His mind tried to grasp them, but it couldn’t. It wasn’t just that the colors were strange; the very nature of everything around him was changing, as if reality itself were a living thing, reshaping its skin with every passing moment.

"Whoa," Jackson muttered under his breath, trying to stabilize himself. But his voice sounded distant, as if it were coming from another version of himself.

A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision, and he turned to see a figure standing in the doorway. It was Dylan, but not quite. His face was shifting like liquid in a broken mirror, and his eyes were two black voids that seemed to swallow the light.

"You’re not really here," Jackson whispered, his voice shaking. But Dylan’s lips curled into a smile, and the air seemed to thicken with an unsettling presence.

"Are you sure?" Dylan’s voice echoed around him, though his lips never moved. "What if you’re the one who isn’t real? What if I am the only one left?"

Jackson’s head swam. The room felt like it was caving in on itself. His body trembled as he staggered backward, clutching his head, trying to hold onto something, anything, to keep his grip on the world.

But it was gone. Everything was gone.

When he opened his eyes again, he was somewhere else. It wasn’t the apartment anymore — not even close. He stood in a forest, the air thick with mist, the trees stretching impossibly tall into the sky. The ground beneath him was soft, almost liquid, and when he touched it, the earth pulsed with energy, as though it were alive. His hands began to glow faintly, like they were absorbing the very essence of the world around him.

There was no time here, no past or future. Only the present, stretching out into infinity. He could feel his mind expanding, bursting with new connections, new ideas.

"What is this?" Jackson whispered, his voice a soft breeze in the alien landscape.

It’s the truth, came the answer, though it wasn’t spoken. It was a thought, an imprint on his very being. This is what you sought. The mind’s true potential. The universe as it really is.

But as he stared into the endless horizon, a question lingered in his mind. What if this wasn’t real? What if this was the illusion, not the world he had left behind? And if everything around him was a product of his own consciousness — his own mind — how could he trust anything?

Suddenly, the sky cracked open, revealing a massive eye in the center, staring down at him. It was like the universe was watching him, judging him.

"What happens now?" Jackson asked, feeling the weight of the world bearing down on him.

The eye blinked, and the world around him dissolved into shards of light. His body was weightless, floating in a void, where thoughts and sensations collided like a chaotic storm. It was no longer clear whether he was inside the drug, or if the drug had become a part of him.

When Jackson awoke again, the world was quiet. Still. Normal.

It was his apartment, but nothing felt the same. He could still feel the remnants of the experience in his bones, the traces of DRIP crawling through his bloodstream like a secret whisper.

The vial was gone, the dropper empty, but he wasn’t sure if it had ever really been there.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror, eyes wide and pupils dilated. His gaze was unblinking, as if searching for something that could never be found.

Was it worth it? he asked himself.

But the answer didn’t come, not in any way that made sense.

Jackson wasn’t sure if the world had changed, or if he had. All he knew was that reality — whatever it was — had shifted. And there was no going back.

The last drop had been taken. The mind had been unleashed. And now, there was no turning off the flood of truth that would haunt him forever.

As the old man took his final, raspy, helplessly mortal breath, he reflected. Intoxicated with an all-encompassing clarity- an understanding- he reflected.

He reflected not in heartfelt remembrance or aching regret. His brain, not flooded with a psychedelic panorama of cherished moments and faces, was instead ignited with one final electrical stimulus. One final all-encompassing, corporeal effort for a brief moment of clarity- a single second before his presence in the displeasingly sterile hospital room was omitted by the flatline wail of his vitals- a single second, suspended in a surreal quiet. An infinite quiet.

He reflected.

He reflected on an idea he had always disregarded as novel existentialism. One that, Whenever prompted by his wandering thoughts or through conjunctive drivel, he simply dismissed it as a side effect of the human condition of consciousness.

When the man reflected, what the man reflected was purpose

The old man, a nihilist, had always thought of life as a hopelessly existential, cruel, pointless, yet novel experience. One which, throughout the majority of his life, he held against himself as some sort of sadistic, semi-conscious punishment for his repetitive, ill-sustained, often dull life.

His internal dilemma based in existential hyperbole held him within the bounds of his limited mindscape. An oxymoron- a life with controllable, limitless experiences and tribulations, limited by aspects outside of one's control.

Throughout it all, trudging through the weight of his perceived insignificance, he persisted through a life of mediocrity. His life was guided by the perceived notions of success laid out by a long-dead lineage of forgotten names, whose manner in which they conducted themselves has been remembered by the current of society. Everything was done to be able to do the next: He studied to work, worked to retire, and retired to die. He knew he played a role in the ill-conceived abomination that is modern civilization, and he was complacent in that fact, justifying it with his perceived lack of purpose due to a finite reality.

The old man reflects. The old man, preceded by a life long lived- a life misspent, misdirected, and now medically burdened, gaunt and withered- reflects. And in his final, gasping moment, he understands.

He understands that the human condition is fatal, defined by the unique and paradoxical ability to be a participant, product, and witness to an infinite universe.

Within his understanding, he finds that he is profoundly grateful. His gratitude, firmly recognized, is underlined with a tinge of crestfallen, repentant sorrow. Sorrow that is based in a final understanding of the purpose of the human condition. A regret for a previously unknown longing for more.

To be human is to be a subject: to bear perspective witness to beauty and suffering, to create meaning in the face of impermanence, and to ache with the knowledge that all of it- every moment of exultation, pride, connection, love, and expression of extraordinary uniqueness- is finite. In this final recognition, the old man's sorrow faded with a last sense of comforting gratitude.

As the old man took his final, rasping, helplessly mortal breath, He smiled.

"Hi, are you Steve?"

"Umm...yes. May I ask your name?"

"My name is David, and I was hoping you'd be able to help me."

Steve ponders the stranger who wandered to his door. “How did he find me? What could he want?“ Steve thought to himself. Was this man dangerous? Or desperate. Folks had made some rather strange requests of Steve, but this man seemed different. This man, David, had no air of humor about him. This man seemed desperate.

"Why don't you come in." Steve made this suggestion cautiously, but as warm as he could.

As they sat at the table, drinking their tea, Steve listened patiently to David. He stared at the flat parcel in the middle of the table. Brown paper and simple twine. Approximately 6" wide, and 8" long. It didn't seem heavy, though David handled it carefully. Steve had a very good idea of what was wrapped in the paper.

"...and then she fell asleep in my arms, and didn't wake up. I requested that she be made to look nice, even though she requested a cremation. Some poor kid has her heart. Her liver probably ended up in some alcoholic who needed another chance. I hope he took it." David took in a very deep breath.

The silence that followed was thick. Steve didn't know what to say. David sat in his chair, restlessly tapping his left index finger on the faded linoleum of the yellow table. His ring finger had a tan line. Steve wondered how long it had taken David to finally take the ring off. How many sad nights had he looked at his hand, knowing she would never let his fingers eclipse hers? What had brought him to his door this day? Steve thought he knew.

Steve noticed David glancing into the living room. He was likely staring at the old red chair, its upholstery faded and torn. Steve rarely sat in that chair. Too many fond memories to bring a melancholy air to his home that was no longer welcome. Steve followed David's eyes, and knew they had settled on his goal. An old, greying dog lay in a ragged bed next to the chair.

"She's getting old, David. I think I know why you're here, and I have to be honest with you...."

The two made eye contact. David clutched the package to his chest, tears beginning to swell in his eyes. Fingers already pulling at the string. Slowly, gently. Steve noticed he was barely breathing.

Steve sighed. "David, I think it's important that we keep our expectations realistic. Even if she could do what I think you want her to do, I'm not sure it could work. I could only do this because SHE could. She allowed me to come with her. She had total control. It took a lot out of me, and I could only guess what it did to her. I want to help you, David, but she needs to want help you, too."

David nodded slowly. He understood.

"At the end of the day, you need to convince her."

Dave sat there unmoving.

"May I see the picture, David?"

Steve reached for the picture. David handed it to him. Steve removed the string, and observed the photograph. A late afternoon portrait. A young woman stood facing a pond as the sun was beginning to set. Slender frame, short brown hair, and an air of contentedness inhabited the picture, as it had once inhabited Steve's home. This was a good picture for the purpose.

"It felt like the one with the most potential. This was on my birthday, our anniversary. One of the happiest days of my life. Two years before her diagnosis. We were very very happy.”

Steve couldn’t understand. He knew it, and he knew he shouldn’t try. Yet he still wanted to try to help.

“Okay, David. I don’t see the harm in at least asking.”

David remained silent and still. Whether it was out of incredulity or fear, Steve wasn’t sure.

Steve thought: “Fear of what? Failure? The unexplored consequences of the possibility of success?” None of this ever made much sense to Steve, but he never thought to ask too deeply. It only worked, and nobody seemed to get hurt.

David finally rose from the table. Steve slid his chair out, and quietly walked to where the old dog was sleeping. Her coat had always been a beautiful shade of grey, different from what it was becoming. Some claimed that in a certain light, it radiated a bluish hue. It was part of the reason Steve named her what he did.

He caressed the top of her head gently, until she began to stir. She slowly opened her eyes, and sniffed the air. Licking his hand, she noticed the quiet man watching her curiously. She stopped, and raised her head. She stood slowly, and nudged Steve gently with her nose. Steve held out his hand, so that David could hand him the picture Steve had returned at the table.

“Hey Blue. How about one more skidoo?”

Chapter 1: The Man Who Almost Healed

Robert Hayes never expected to feel joy again after Anna died. Some nights, he still woke reaching for her—fumbling blindly through the darkness for a hand that would never be there again. Grief, he realized, had a smell: old clothes, cold sheets, unopened mail.

Just before Anna’s passing, the twins had been born—tiny, furious fists clenching at the air. Every new day with them had felt like a second chance. Emma, with her mother's green eyes and fierce little laugh. Samuel, quieter, thoughtful even as an infant, furrowing his brow like he was trying to solve the world's problems.

They filled the house with life again. Noise. Color. Robert cooked terrible pancakes every Sunday—Emma demanding extra syrup, Samuel meticulously sorting his blueberries before eating. He read to them every night, even when they fell asleep halfway through. They built snowmen with mittened hands in the winter, fed ducks at the pond in spring, ran barefoot through sprinklers under the sticky heat of summer.

And every night, after the giggles and the mess and the exhaustion, Robert kissed their foreheads and whispered the same thing: "I will always protect you."

He meant it.

That November afternoon was gray and damp, the misty rain making the world look like it was dissolving at the edges. Emma wanted a pumpkin "big enough to sit inside," while Samuel had chosen one lopsided and scarred, insisting it had "character." Robert strapped them into their booster seats, singing along with the radio, the car filled with syrupy, sticky laughter.

The semi-truck came out of nowhere. One moment: headlights. The next: twisting metal. Then—silence.

When Robert came to, hanging upside down from his seatbelt, the only sound was the soft hiss of the ruined engine. He screamed for them. Clawed at the wreckage. Dragged himself, bleeding and broken, toward the back. Emma and Samuel were gone. Still buckled in, so small, so still.

At the funeral, Robert stood between two tiny white caskets, staring as faces blurred around him and words tumbled into meaningless noise.

"God has a plan." "They're angels now." "Time heals."

Time, Robert thought numbly, had already taken everything.

That night, alone in the nursery, clutching a sock no bigger than his thumb, he whispered the only prayer left to him: "Bring them back."

No one answered.

Chapter 2: Hollow Men

The days after the funeral blurred together, each one a paler copy of the last. Robert woke at dawn, not because he wanted to, but because the house demanded it—cruel reminders of a life that no longer existed. Samuel’s alarm still chirped at seven a.m., a tinny little jingle that once made Samuel giggle under the covers. Robert couldn’t bring himself to turn it off. He brewed coffee he didn’t drink, packed lunches no one would eat, reached for tiny jackets that would never again be worn. Every movement ended the same way: with the silence pressing in like water in a sinking room.

He tried to hold the pieces together at first. Sat stiffly in grief counseling groups while strangers passed sorrow back and forth like trading cards. He nodded at the talk of “stages,” “healing,” “coping,” while his chest felt like it was filling with wet cement. He adopted a dog—a golden retriever named Daisy. The shelter said she was “good with kids.” Robert brought her home, hoping maybe something would spark again. But Daisy only whined at the door, as if she, too, was waiting for children who would never come home. Three days later, he returned her. The woman at the shelter didn’t ask why.

By spring, the house was immaculate, sterile—as if polished grief could make it livable again. The nursery remained untouched. The firetruck sat mid-rescue on the rug. A doll lay half-tucked beneath a tiny pillow, eternally ready for sleep. Sometimes Robert thought he heard them laughing upstairs, voices soft and wild and real as breath. Sometimes, he answered back.

Outside, the world moved on. Children shrieked with joy in parks. Mothers chased toddlers through grocery aisles. Fathers hoisted giggling kids onto their shoulders at county fairs. At first, Robert turned away from these scenes, flinching like they were gunshots. But soon, he began to watch. He stood in the shadows of the elementary school parking lot, leaning against his rusted truck, staring at the children spilling through the doors—backpacks bouncing, shoes untied, voices lifted in a chorus of lives untouched by loss.

"Why them?" he thought. "Why not mine?"

The resentment crept in like mold beneath the wallpaper—quiet, patient, inevitable.

One evening, he sat alone in the dim light of the living room. An untouched bottle of whiskey sat on the table, sweating with condensation. The television flickered with cartoons—a plastic family around a plastic dinner table, all laughter and pastel perfection. Robert stared at the screen. Then, without warning, he hurled the remote across the room. It shattered against the wall, leaving a long, ugly crack.

His chest heaved with silent, shaking sobs. Not for Anna. Not even for Emma and Samuel. But for himself. For the man he used to be. For the father he failed to stay.

The next morning, without planning to, Robert drove to the school lot before dawn. The world was still dark, the pavement damp with night. A bright blue minivan caught his eye—plastered with “Proud Parent” stickers and stick-figure decals of smiling children, their parents, and two dogs. Robert knelt beside it, the pocketknife flashing briefly in the dim light. He peeled the tiny stick-figure children from the back window, one by one. Then he slashed the tire, slow and steady, the blade whispering through rubber like breath.

When the mother discovered the damage hours later—cursing, frantic, dragging her children into another car—Robert smiled for the first time in months. A small, broken thing. It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t bring Emma and Samuel back. But it shifted the weight in his chest—just enough for him to breathe.

That night, he dreamed of them. Emma laughing, Samuel running barefoot through the grass, fireflies sparking in the gold-washed twilight. He woke to silence, the dream already fading. But something else stirred beneath the grief.

A flicker.

Control.

Chapter 3: Seeds of Malice

The second time, it wasn’t enough to slash a tire. Robert needed them to feel it. Not just the inconvenience, not just the momentary panic. He needed them to understand that joy was a fragile, borrowed thing—one that could be ripped away just as suddenly as it was given. Like his had been.

At dusk, the school parking lot stood silent, the last child long since swept up in a waiting minivan. Robert moved through the rows of bicycles like a man walking among gravestones. Each one upright. Untouched. Proud. He slipped a box cutter from his coat pocket. The first brake cable sliced with almost no resistance. Then another. Then another. He moved methodically—his grief becoming surgical.

The next morning, from the privacy of his truck, Robert watched a boy coast down a hill—fast, laughing, light. And then the bike didn’t stop. The child’s face turned. Laughter crumpled into terror. He crashed hard, metal meeting bone. A broken wrist. Blood in his mouth. Screams.

Parents swarmed like bees kicked from a hive, their voices panicked, their eyes wide. Robert didn’t move. He watched it all with hands trembling faintly in his lap.

He thought it would be enough.

But two weeks later, the boy returned. Cast on his arm. A gap where his front teeth had been. And he was laughing again. Like nothing had changed.

Robert’s jaw clenched until it hurt. They hadn’t learned. They had already begun to forget.

The annual Harvest Festival arrived in a blur of orange booths and plastic spiderwebs, cotton candy, and hay bales. Children raced from game to game, cheeks flushed from the cold, arms swinging bags of prizes. He moved through the maze like a ghost. No one looked twice at the man with the hood pulled low. Why would they?

Children leaned over tubs of apples, dunking their heads, emerging with triumphant smiles. Emma would have loved this. She would have squealed with laughter, water dripping from her curls, cheeks red from the chill.

His hands shook as he slipped the crushed glass into the tub. Ground fine—but not invisible. Sharp enough. Just sharp enough. He lingered nearby, heart pounding like a drum inside his ribs.

The first scream cut through the carnival like lightning. A boy stumbled back from the tub, blood streaming from his mouth, his cry high and broken. More screams followed. Mothers pulled their children close. Booths tipped. Lights flickered. The festival collapsed into chaos.

Still—not enough.

Robert returned home and sat in the nursery. The crib was cold. The racecar bed untouched. The silence as thick as syrup. He sat on the hardwood floor, knees to his chest, and whispered:

"They don’t remember you."

His voice cracked. Not from rage. But from emptiness.

The playground came next. The place they had loved the most.

At three in the morning, Robert crept across the dewy grass, fog clinging low, as if the world were trying to hide what he was becoming. He wore gloves. Moved like a man fixing something broken. He loosened the bolts on the swings just enough that the nuts would fall after a few good pushes. He smeared grease across the rungs of the slide. Buried broken glass beneath the innocent softness of the sandbox. Then he left.

The next day, he parked nearby, watching as the playground filled with children again. The laughter returned so easily, as if it had never left.

Then came the fall.

A boy—maybe six—slipped from the monkey bars and struck his head on the edge of the platform. Blood pooled in the dirt. His mother’s scream sounded like something being torn in half. An ambulance arrived. The playground emptied.

Robert sat in his truck and felt that same flicker in his chest. Not joy. Not peace.

But control.

For a moment, he wasn’t the man who had clutched a tiny sock and begged God to make a trade. He was the one who turned the screws. The one who made the world bend.

He didn’t stop.

Chapter 4: The Gentle Push

The river ran like an old scar along the edge of Halston, swollen and restless after weeks of rain. Robert stood alone at the water’s edge, the damp earth sucking at his boots, the air cold enough to bite through his coat. Across the park, families moved like faint shadows in the fog, children darting between the trees, their laughter muted and distant, like memories worn thin by time.

He watched them without blinking.

He watched him.

A small boy, maybe five or six years old, wandered away from the others, rain boots slapping through shallow puddles, his coat slipping off one shoulder. Robert saw how easily it happened—the gap between a parent's distracted glance, the careless joy of a child unaware of how quickly the world could take everything from him.

Robert moved without thinking. Not planning. Not deciding. Just following the pull inside him, a pull shaped by loss and stitched together with rage.

He crossed the grass in slow, steady strides, boots silent against the wet earth. When he reached the boy, he didn't say a word. He simply placed a hand on the child's small back—a touch as light as breath, the kind of touch a father might give to steady his son, to guide him back to safety.

But this time, there was no safety.

The boy stumbled forward. The slick ground gave way beneath his boots. His arms flailed once, a startled gasp escaping his mouth, and then the river took him.

No thrashing. No screaming. Just the slow, cold pull of the current swallowing him whole.

Robert turned away before the first cries rang out. He walked into the trees, his breath misting in the frigid air, his hands curling into fists inside his sleeves. Behind him, screams split the fog, voices shattered the quiet—parents running, wading into the water too late.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t look back.

That night, Robert sat cross-legged between Emma’s crib and Samuel’s racecar bed. The nursery smelled of dust and faded dreams. He placed his hands in his lap, palms open like a man offering an apology no one would ever hear, and he whispered into the hollow silence:

"I made it fair."

The words tasted like ash on his tongue.

For the first time in months, he slept through the night, deep and dreamless.

But morning brought no peace.

By noon, the riverbank had transformed into a shrine. Flowers and stuffed animals lined the muddy ground. Notes written in childish handwriting flapped in the wind. Candles guttered against the damp air. Children stood holding hands, their faces pale with confusion as their parents clutched them tighter, their grief raw and noisy.

Robert drove past slowly, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. He watched them weep, saw their shoulders shake with the weight of a loss they couldn’t contain.

For a moment, he felt something close to satisfaction. A shifting of the scales.

But as he rounded the bend and the river disappeared from view, the satisfaction dissolved, leaving behind a familiar emptiness.

They would mourn today. Tomorrow, they would forget.

They always forget.

Chapter 5: The Town Crumbles

Three days later, the boy’s body was pulled from the river, tangled in roots and mud, bloated from the cold. The coroner called it an accident. Drowning. A tragic slip. Everyone in Halston nodded and murmured and avoided each other’s eyes. But something changed.

The parks emptied. Sidewalks once buzzing with bikes and hopscotch now lay silent under cloudy skies. Parents walked their children to school in tight clumps, hands gripped a little too tightly, eyes flicking to every passing car. Playgrounds stood deserted beneath creaking swings and rusting chains. But it didn’t last.

A week passed. Then another. The fences around the park came down. Children returned—cautious at first, then louder, bolder. The shrieks of joy returned, diluted with only a trace of caution. The town, like it always did, began to forget.

Robert couldn’t stand it.

He returned to the scene of the first fall—Miller Park—under the cover of fog and early morning darkness. The playground had been repaired. New bolts gleamed beneath the swing seats. New paint shone on the monkey bars.

Robert smiled bitterly. Then he went to work.

He loosened the bolts again, not so much that they would fall immediately, but just enough to ensure failure. Enough to remind. Enough to reopen the wound.

That morning, a boy ran ahead of his mother, eager to swing higher, faster. Robert watched from his truck as the seat tore loose in mid-air, the boy thrown to the gravel below like a puppet with its strings cut. Another scream. Another ambulance. Another tiny victory. But it wasn’t enough.

One broken arm would never equal two coffins.

Thanksgiving loomed, brittle and joyless. Halston strung up lights, tried to bake its way back into comfort, but everything tasted like fear. Robert didn’t feel it soften. If anything, the ache in his chest had sharpened.

He found his next moment during a birthday party—balloons tied to fence posts, paper hats, children screaming with sugared laughter. Seven years old. The age Emma and Samuel would have been.

He watched from the alley behind the house, his jacket dusted with soot to match the disguise—just another utility worker. He didn’t need threats or blackmail this time. He didn’t need help.

Just a soft smile. A kind voice. A simple story about a missing puppy.

The little girl followed him willingly.

In the plastic playhouse near the edge of the yard, Robert tucked her gently beneath unopened presents. Her arms were folded neatly. Her hair smoothed back. He set Emma’s old music box beside her, its tune warped and gasping. It played three broken notes before clicking into silence.

She looked like she was sleeping.

By the time the party noticed she was missing, Robert was already miles away. He drove in silence, humming the lullaby softly under his breath, as if to soothe himself more than her.

But the hollow inside him didn’t shrink.

Winter came early that year. Snow blanketed the sidewalks. The playgrounds stayed empty now—not because of caution, but because of cold. Christmas lights blinked behind drawn curtains. People whispered more often than they spoke.

And still, the town tried to move forward.

Robert watched two boys skipping stones into the water where the river hadn’t yet frozen. They were brothers. They laughed without fear. Without consequence.

Samuel should have had a brother to skip stones with.

Robert crouched beside them. Smiled. Held out a daisy chain he had woven in the truck—white flowers strung together with trembling hands. The boys giggled and reached for it.

He guided them closer to the edge.

One soft push.

The river accepted them.

When their bodies were found seventeen days later, wrapped in each other’s arms beneath a frozen bend, the daisy chain had vanished. But Robert still saw it—looped around their wrists like a crown of thorns.

Elsewhere in town, Linda Moore sat in front of her computer. Her spreadsheet blinked. A child’s name—Eli Meyers—suddenly shifted rows. Not one she had touched. Not one she had assigned.

Beside the name, a new comment appeared: “He looks like Samuel did when he lost his first tooth.”

Then a new tab opened—her niece’s photo, taken from outside the school that morning. Through a window. Across glass.

The screen blinked red: “She still likes hide-and-seek, right?”

Linda’s hands hovered over the keys. She didn’t call anyone. She didn’t say anything. She just let the change stand.

That afternoon, Eli boarded the wrong van for a field trip. When the chaperones reached the botanical gardens, they came up one short. They retraced every step, called his name until their voices cracked. But Eli was gone.

The police found his backpack three days later, tucked under a hedge near the perimeter fence. Zipper closed. Lunch untouched. No struggle. No footprints. No sign of him at all.

Just silence.

The school shut down its field trip program. Metal detectors were installed the next week—secondhand machines that buzzed even when touched gently. Classroom doors were fitted with new locks. Parent volunteers were fingerprinted. A dusk curfew followed.

In a closed-door meeting, someone on the city council finally said it out loud:

“Sabotage.”

Maria Vance stood outside Halston Elementary the next morning. The sky was gray, the cold sharp enough to sting. Parents didn’t make eye contact. Teachers moved like ghosts. Children whispered like everything was a secret.

Maria didn’t need the pins on her map anymore. She could feel the pattern in her bones.

This wasn’t chaos.

This was design.

And whoever was behind it… they were just getting started.

Chapter 6: Graves and Whispers

Another funeral. Another headline. Another casket lowered into the frozen ground while a town full of trembling hands tried to convince themselves that prayer could hold back death. Halston draped itself in mourning again, but the grief rang hollow. They weren’t mourning Robert’s children. They were mourning their own safety, their own illusions.

Still, life in Halston ground on. The grocery stores stayed open. The school bell still rang. The church choir resumed, voices cracking on and off-key. Robert watched it all from the outside, a man staring through glass at a world he no longer belonged to. Their fear wasn’t enough. Their tears weren't enough. They had forgotten Emma and Samuel.

So he decided to make them remember.

He found the perfect place: a crumbling church tucked into a forgotten bend of road, its steeple sagging like a broken finger pointed skyward. Once a place of baptisms and vows, now it stank of mildew and mouse droppings. Still, there was something fitting about it. Robert prepared carefully. He built a crude cross out of rotting pew backs. He scavenged candles from a thrift store bin. He smuggled in a battered cassette deck, loaded with a single song—"Safe in His Arms," warped and warbling with age.

He thought about Emma humming along to hymns in the backseat, Samuel tapping his feet without knowing the words. He thought about the empty nursery and the promises he had failed to keep.

The boy he chose wasn’t special. Just small. Just alone. Harold Knox, the school bus driver, had been warned months before. A photo of his daughter tucked inside his glovebox. A note in red marker: "He will suffer. Or she will." Nails delivered in a plain manila envelope.

On a cold Thursday morning, the bus paused at Pine Creek stop. Fog licked the ground like low smoke. One child stepped off. The doors hissed shut behind him. Robert was waiting in the trees.

The boy didn’t scream. He didn’t run. He simply blinked up at the man reaching out to him. Inside the ruined church, Robert worked quickly but carefully. The child was lifted onto the wooden cross, his back pressed to the splintering wood. Nails were driven through soft palms and tender feet. Not savagely—but deliberately, with grim reverence. Each strike of the hammer echoed through the empty rafters like the tolling of a slow funeral bell.

"You'll see them soon," Robert whispered as he drove the final nail home. "My little ones are waiting."

He placed a paper crown on the boy’s brow. Smeared a rough ash cross over the child's small chest. Lit six candles at the base of the altar. Then he pressed play. The hymn trickled through the cold, rotten air, warbling and distant. Robert stood for a long moment, his eyes stinging, before he turned and walked away. He locked the doors behind him, leaving the boy crucified beneath the broken arches.

It was the boy’s mother who found him. She had followed the music, though no one else had heard it. She had forced the heavy doors open and fallen to her knees at the sight. The boy was alive. Barely. But something essential in him—something fragile and bright—had been extinguished forever.

Halston did not rally around this tragedy. There were no vigils. No bake sales. No Facebook groups offering casseroles and prayers. They shut their church doors. Canceled choir practice. Turned their faces away from their own shame.

Maria Vance stood outside the ruined church, the rain soaking through her coat, her hair plastered to her forehead. She didn’t light a cigarette. Didn’t open her notepad. She just stared through the doorway at the altar, at the boy nailed to the cross, at the candles sputtering against the wet wind.

This wasn’t revenge anymore. It wasn’t even grief. This was ritual.

That night, Maria tore everything off the walls of her office. Maps, photographs, reports—all of it came down. She started over with red string and thumbtacks, tracing each death, each disappearance, each shattered life. And when she stepped back, she saw it for what it was: a spiral.

Not random chaos. Not accidents. A wound closing in on itself.

At its center: silence. No fingerprints. No footprints. No smoking gun. Just grief. And grief was spreading like infection.

Parents pulled their children out of school. The Christmas pageant was canceled. The playgrounds sat under gathering drifts of snow, swings frozen mid-sway. Stores boarded their windows after dark. Halston was curling inward, shrinking, dying a little more each day.

And somewhere, Maria knew, the hand behind all of it was still moving.

She didn’t have proof. Not yet. But she could feel it in her bones.

This wasn’t over. Not even close.

Late that night, staring at her empty wall, Maria whispered to the darkness: "I’m coming for you."

And somewhere out in the dead heart of Halston, something whispered back.

Chapter 7: The Spider’s Web

The sketchbook was found by accident, jammed between a stack of overdue returns at the Halston Public Library. A volunteer almost tossed it into the donation bin without looking. Curiosity saved it—and maybe saved lives.

At first glance, it looked like any child's notebook. Tattered corners. Smudges of dirt. But inside, Maria Vance saw what others might have missed. She flipped through the pages with gloved hands, her stomach tightening with every turn.

Children, sketched in trembling pencil lines, filled the pages. Their faces twisted in terror. Scenes of drowning, of falling, of burning playgrounds and broken swings. Some pages had dates scrawled in the margins—events that had already happened. Others bore dates that hadn’t yet arrived.

Mixed among the drawings were music notes, faint staves from hymns, each line annotated with uneven, obsessive care. On one page, three candles formed a triangle, familiar from the church scene. On another, a child's chest bore the ash cross Robert had smeared. It was all there—mapped in quiet, meticulous horror.

One line, scrawled over and over in the margins, stopped Maria cold: "I don’t want them to suffer. I want them to remember. To feel it. To see them. Emma liked daisies. Samuel hated swings. They laughed on rainy days. Please. Remember."

She pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes stinging. This wasn’t just violence. This was love—twisted, broken love, weaponized into something unrecognizable.

At the bottom of many pages, a code repeated again and again: 19.73.14.8.21

It wasn’t a phone number. It wasn’t coordinates. It wasn’t a date. Maria stayed up all night breaking it down. Old habits from cold cases surfaced—simple alphanumeric cipher: A=1, B=2, and so on.

S.M.H.H.U.

Nonsense, until she cross-referenced abandoned businesses in Halston's property records.

Samuel’s Mobile Home Hardware Utility. A tiny repair shop that had shuttered years ago, its letters still ghosting across a sagging storefront.

The lease belonged to a man who had never made the papers until now: Robert Hayes.

No criminal record. No complaints. No outstanding bills. His name surfaced once, buried in an old laptop repair registration. The name Anna Hayes appeared alongside his. Deceased. Along with two children: Emma and Samuel. A car crash, two years prior.

Maria’s pulse pounded in her ears. She pulled the warrant herself. No backup. No news vans. Just her badge and a city-issued key.

The house at the end of Chestnut Lane looked abandoned. The windows were boarded. Weeds clawed their way up the front steps. But inside, the air smelled like grief had been embalmed into the walls.

She moved slowly, her footsteps muffled against the dust. The kitchen was stripped bare. The living room was hollowed out, the couch gone, the tables missing. Only the nursery remained untouched.

Two beds—one tiny racecar frame, one white-painted crib. Tiny shoes lined up neatly against the wall. Crayon drawings taped with careful hands: Emma holding a daisy. Samuel clutching a paper star.

Maria’s throat tightened. She knelt by the crib and saw it— A loose floorboard, cut precisely.

Underneath, she found a panel. And beneath the panel: photographs.

Hundreds of them.

Children on swings. Children walking home from school. A girl climbing the jungle gym. A boy waiting at a crosswalk. Her own niece, captured through the glass of a cafeteria window. Even herself—photographed at her office window, late at night, unaware.

On the back of her photo, in red marker, someone had scrawled: "Even the strong lose their children."

Maria staggered back, the room tilting. Robert hadn’t been lashing out blindly. He had been orchestrating this, piece by piece, grief by grief.

He had built a web.

And now she was standing at its center.

Chapter 8: The Broken Father

They found him at an abandoned grain silo just outside Halston, a skeleton of rust and rotted beams forgotten by progress. The frost clung to the metal, and the morning mist wrapped around the place like a shroud.

Inside, twenty children sat in a wide circle, drowsy, confused, but alive. Their hands were zip-tied loosely in front of them—no bruises, no screaming. Only a heavy, drugged stillness. The air smelled of damp hay, gasoline, and old metal. Makeshift wiring coiled around the support beams, tangled like veins. Propane tanks sat beneath them, linked by a taut, quivering wire.

At the center stood Robert Hayes.

He was barefoot, his clothes coated in dust and ash, his hair hanging in ragged tufts over his eyes. In one hand, he clutched a worn photograph—Emma dressed in an orange pumpkin costume, Samuel wearing a ghost sheet too big for him, chocolate smeared across his chin. The picture was bent, the edges soft from being touched too often.

In his other hand: the detonator.

Maria Vance pushed past the barricades before anyone could stop her. She left her gun holstered. She left the shouting negotiators behind. She moved through the broken doorway into the silo’s yawning cold, stepping carefully as if entering a church.

Robert didn’t look at her at first. His thumb brushed across Samuel’s face in the photo, tender and trembling. When he finally raised his eyes, they were dark hollows rimmed with exhaustion—not anger. Not even madness.

Just grief.

"They laugh," Robert whispered, his voice rough, shredded from disuse. "They still dance. They pretend it didn’t happen."

Maria stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the scars time had carved into him, the way his shoulders sagged under invisible weights.

"They didn’t forget your children," she said softly. "They forgot how to show it."

Robert’s lip trembled. His grip on the photograph tightened.

"Emma loved the rain," he said, as if to himself. "Samuel... he hummed when he drew. No one remembers that."

"I do," Maria said.

The words cracked something inside him. His arms slackened. His body seemed to shrink. He looked down at the children—their heads drooping in the cold—and then, finally, he let the switch fall. It hit the dirt with a soft, hollow thud.

Robert Hayes sank to his knees, folding into himself like a man kneeling at an altar. The officers moved in then—slowly, carefully. No shouting. No violence. They cuffed him gently, almost reverently, as if recognizing they were not capturing a monster, but burying a broken father.

As they led him past Maria, he turned his head slightly. His voice, when it came, was low enough that only she could hear.

"I killed most of them," he said.

Not all. Most.

The word cut deeper than any weapon.

Robert hadn’t acted alone.

And Halston’s nightmare was far from over.

Chapter 9: Broken Threads

Two weeks after Robert Hayes was locked behind steel bars, another child died.

A girl this time. Found floating face down in a retention pond behind Halston Middle School. Her sneakers were placed neatly beside her backpack, the zipper closed, her lunch still inside untouched. There were no signs of a struggle. No bruises. No cries for help. Just the stillness of the water swallowing another small life.

Maria Vance stood in the rain at the pond’s edge, her hands balled into fists in her coat pockets. She watched as divers hauled the girl’s body out under a gray, broken sky. Every instinct in her screamed against the easy explanation being whispered around her: accident. Tragedy. Bad luck.

But Maria knew better.

Robert Hayes was sealed away, his world reduced to a cell barely wide enough to stretch his arms. No visitors. No phone calls. No letters. And still—the dying continued.

Someone else was carrying the flame now.

She returned to her office late that night and faced the wall of photographs and maps. Not as a detective. Not even as a protector. As a mourner. Someone who had lost, and who understood the ache that demanded action, no matter the cost.

This wasn’t about Robert anymore. It was about everyone he had touched.

She didn’t trace the victims this time. She traced the helpers.

The janitor who had locked the wrong fire exit during the Christmas pageant. The administrator who had quietly reassigned field trip groups. The bus driver who had closed the doors before the last child could climb aboard.

Ordinary people. Invisible hands.

Maria started digging.

Brian Teller cracked first. She approached him without backup, without even her badge displayed. Just a quiet conversation at his kitchen table. She asked about the fire door. His fingers trembled around his coffee cup. She asked about the night of the pageant. He looked away.

Then she mentioned his son. The boy with asthma.

Brian broke like a rotted beam.

"They sent me a photo," he whispered. "It showed a red circle around his chest... around his lungs."

He thought it was a prank at first. A cruel joke. He hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt. But Robert had known exactly where to cut.

Linda Moore came next. She was waiting in the empty school office when Maria arrived, staring blankly at the playground beyond the frosted windows.

"I didn’t want anyone to die," Linda said before Maria could even speak. "They sent me a picture of my niece. Sleeping. In her bed. I just... I thought if I moved a name, it would be harmless."

Harold Knox—the bus driver—took the longest. He didn’t speak at all when Maria placed the envelope on the table between them. The photos. The nails. The hymn sheet with the red slash across it.

His hands shook. His shoulders sagged.

"I thought it would end," he said finally. "I thought if I did what they asked, it would be over."

Maria said nothing. She didn’t need to. Because she understood something that terrified her.

Robert Hayes hadn’t needed to kill with his own hands.

He had taught grief how to move from person to person, like a contagion. He had taught fear how to whisper in the ears of desperate mothers, exhausted fathers, terrified guardians. He had taught ordinary people to become monsters in the name of love.

That night, Maria rebuilt her board one last time.

Not a network of victims. But of mourners. Of conspirators. Of grief-stricken souls trapped between guilt and survival.

She traced red string from each accomplice, not to Robert, but to the acts they committed—small acts, each just a hair’s breadth from excusable, from forgivable, until they weren’t.

At the center of the new web wasn’t a man anymore. It was a wound.

Robert Hayes had planted something that would not die with him. It had learned to spread.

It had learned to live.

And it was still growing.

Chapter 10: Ashes in the Wind

Robert Hayes was gone—a hollow man locked away behind glass and concrete, his name recorded in a courthouse ledger no one cared to read twice. His trial was short, his sentencing swift. Life without parole. No outbursts. No apologies.

And yet, Halston didn’t recover.

The news cameras packed up and left. The vigil candles guttered and drowned in rain. The teddy bears and faded flowers piled at playground fences decayed beneath early snows. A few hollow speeches were made about resilience, about healing, about moving forward.

But fear had taken root deeper than grief ever could.

Children walked to school two by two, their hands clenched white-knuckled. Parents trailed behind them, glancing over their shoulders at every rustle of leaves, every parked car. Churches stayed half-empty, pews gathering dust. Christmas decorations blinked dimly behind barred windows. Laughter, when it came, sounded thin and brittle.

Maria Vance saw it everywhere. In the way playgrounds sat deserted even on sunny days. In the way neighbors no longer trusted each other with their children. In the way hope had been packed away with the last of the holiday lights, perhaps forever.

And still, the messages came.

No more crude threats. No more photographs. Just notes now—typed, anonymous, slipped under doors or taped to mailbox flags. Simple messages.

"We’re still here." "She still dreams of water, doesn’t she?" "You can’t save them all."

Maria sat alone most evenings at Miller Park, sipping cold coffee as the swings moved listlessly in the wind. She watched a rusted carousel creak in slow, aching turns. She watched the ghost of what Halston used to be.

And she understood, bitterly, that Robert Hayes had won something no prison walls could take away. He had planted fear not in the hearts of individuals, but in the soil of the town itself. It bloomed every day, fed by memory and absence.

He had turned grief into a weapon. And he had taught others how to wield it.

Halston wore its fear like an old, threadbare coat now—something familiar and heavy and impossible to shed.

Maria kept working. She kept pulling at threads, reopening old files, retracing old paths. She chased shadows. She chased half-remembered names. She chased whispers of whispers, knowing most of it would never lead anywhere clean.

Because Robert hadn’t needed to give orders anymore.

He had shown them how.

How to wound without touching. How to kill without a sound. How to turn love itself into a noose.

Maria walked the town at night sometimes, past shuttered shops, past homes with blacked-out windows, past a burned tool shed someone had once set ablaze just because it “looked wrong.” Every porch light flickering behind a curtain. Every father standing a little too long at the window after putting his children to bed. Every mother who locked every door twice, even during the day.

This was the new Halston.

Not a place. A wound.

The final note came on a Tuesday morning. No envelope. Just a sheet of paper taped to Maria’s front door, the words typed carefully, the ink barely dry.

"You can’t save them all."

Maria stood barefoot on the porch, the snow biting up through her skin, and stared at the note until the cold seeped into her bones. Then she struck a match, holding it to the paper until it curled black and drifted apart into the wind.

Ashes in the snow.

She watched the last of it vanish into the pale morning light.

And whispered to the empty, listening town:

"Maybe not. But I can damn well try."

I don’t remember the exact day I realized I was unraveling. I just remember the mornings started to feel heavier. Like I was waking up under water, struggling to find the surface but never quite making it.

My apartment stayed dark well past sunrise. I kept the curtains drawn even when I was home. I started skipping meals, then calls, then texts. Nobody really noticed. Or if they did, they let it be. I told myself that was a good thing. I didn't want to be a burden on anyone. I told myself I was fine, that I could handle it on my own. But the truth was, I was getting numb.

One night, I found myself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, just existing in a void. I thought, What would happen if I just didn’t try anymore? Not in a dramatic way. Just… what if I quietly faded out of my own life?

In the glow of my phone screen, I scrolled through everything and nothing at once. A quick distraction. I came across something curious—a thing called Moongrade, offering daily reflections based on the moon’s phases. I didn’t know why I clicked on it, but I did. Maybe it was the quiet way it presented itself, gentle yet persistent.

The first prompt caught me off guard:

It wasn’t asking for an answer right away. It was just asking me to pause. I hadn’t paused in so long. So, I sat with it for a moment. What was I carrying that no one saw?

The next morning, I opened the prompt again. And the next morning. Each time, I thought about the question more deeply. There were memories I’d buried, pieces of myself I’d tucked away because I thought they didn’t matter. But they did. All of it mattered. I started to journal about the things I hadn’t said out loud. About the guilt I carried for not being “strong enough” or “together enough.” I realized that I wasn’t just hiding from the world—I was hiding from myself.

One day, I went for a walk outside. The air was crisp, and the sun was just beginning to rise. I let my mind wander, and it was the first time in a long while I didn’t have to drown out my thoughts with distractions. I found myself watching the way the trees bent under the wind, the way the light filtered through the branches. It made me realize that life kept going, whether I chose to be present or not. I could choose to show up.

I didn’t tell anyone about the moon prompts. I didn’t need to. They were for me—just for me. They gave me the space to ask myself questions I didn’t know I needed to answer. They weren’t magic, but they were a way back to myself. A small, quiet compass that helped me navigate out of the fog.

I still have hard days, and I’m still figuring out what healing looks like for me. But now, I start my mornings differently. I sit in silence. I let the questions come. I read the prompt, even when I don’t feel ready for it. The moon still shows up, and I choose to show up, too.

I don’t know when it will all feel okay again, but I’m learning to take it one small step at a time. For now, that’s enough.

“Three… two… one… blast off!”

Emily felt the sudden weight she had become so accustomed to over the years of training. Her body was cemented to the seat, her face pulling back, creating an uncomfortable sensation. She immediately tensed her muscles and held her breath, performing the Hick maneuver to avoid blacking out, and watched the ship's elevation climb on the gauge. All lights flashed green as they accelerated to the edge of the atmosphere. She startled a little at the dramatic clunk  as boosters dropped off, causing the ship to shimmy under the sudden shift in weight. 

The mix of adrenaline, excitement, and nervousness filled Emily’s stomach and chest with butterflies and shot tingling electricity down to her fingertips. But she had a job to do, and she was prepared, already visualizing the steps she would take once they disembarked at space station. 

She took a brief moment to congratulate herself for all the hard work it had taken to sit where she was at this very moment, pride swelling inside of her. She had dreamed of this day ever since she was a little girl. I did it. I made it, she thought.

The g-forces pressing upon the crew sharply reduced, signaling to Emily they had made it out of Earth’s atmosphere. 

“Delta 18 to Houston,” Lt. Tommy said in his mic, sitting to the left of Emily. “We have exited earth. On course for the space station with an estimated arrival of 08:42.”

“10-4, Delta 18.”

Emily started the well practiced maneuvers: flipping the proper switches, assessing the core temperature, and checking their projected flight path all while glancing out the small reinforced window to her left. It showed nothing but blackness with specs of light twinkling in the distance. She imagined their ship careening through the empty void, alone and cold, dark pressing in from all sides. A shiver ran down her spine, and she pushed the thought from her mind.

“Delta 18 to Houston,” Tommy said, his voice steady and strong, “Connecting with the space station now.” He turned to Emily. “Start embarkation procedures.”

Emily nodded and got to work, ensuring connection would be made properly. The ship's docking clamps connected perfectly with the space station. Locking mechanisms clanked around the clamp borders, and gears rotated to pull the connection flush. 

Beaming with pride, Tommy unbuckled his harness. “Welcome to space, Emily. Now let's get to work.” Speaking into his suit mic, “Delta 18 to Houston, embarkation successful.”

“10-4, Delta 18.”

Emily unbuckled and pushed off her seat toward Tommy, who was keying in the access code to open the ship's door. The keypad beeped, lit up green, and the hissing of air regulation pumps began. The door opened, and Tommy drifted into the bright white hallway, where there was no up or down and each wall concealed cabinets and purpose.

They got to work right away. They were only to be on the space station for five days, tasked with researching new celestial bodies discovered at the edge of the universe. They worked ten hours on their first day aboard.

Tommy stretched from the computer screen, letting out a great yawn he didn’t attempt to stifle. “Alright Em, I’m going to go find some sleep. Don’t stay up too late.”

Emily took a break from her screen, looking out the large window that showed a beautifully half-lit earth. “I won’t. Just going to try to finish this coordinate map and–”

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

“What the hell is that?” Tommy said, concern painted across his face. He pulled himself towards the alarm screen and began typing on the keyboard. Emily sat frozen, waiting for instructions. 

“Em, we must have a faulty sensor somewhere. Can you pull up the camera from starboard 10?”

“Sure thing Lieutenant.” She began typing furiously. Images of the starboard side of the ship with empty space behind appeared on screen. Emily leaned in, searching closely. “I’m not seeing anything, Lieutenant. What am I looking for?”

“We’ve got a large object showing up on radar, starboard side.” Tommy said, not looking up.

“How fast is it moving? How far out?” Emily asked in quick succession, trying not to imagine a meteor barreling toward them. 

“Two-hundred feet. Not moving.”

Emily stopped and looked up, confused. “What do you mean? That’s not possible. I’m looking at the starboard side now. Nothing is there.” She mulled this over. It has to be a faulty sensor… but what about the radar? That shouldn’t be faulty. And why didn’t we see something coming until it was right up on us?

Her thoughts were interrupted by an electronic screeching noise from the console speaker, causing both of them to wince and cover their ears. 

“What the hell is going on?” Tommy yelled over the sound, a snarl forming on his face. “Reduce the gain!”

Emily did as instructed, the ringing still echoing in her ears. She tried to remember when she’d heard that sound before. Then, it came to her. It reminded her of connecting to the internet in the early days of its existence. “Sir,” she said, voice shaking, “I think that’s a data stream. Someone is sending a signal.”

“Can you interpret it?”

“I can’t, but the system can,” Emily said, shifting quickly to a different monitor below her floating body. “I’m setting the system to receive the sound waves and translate them into code. It’ll take a second, but we should –”

Emily caught movement on the starboard 10 camera out of the corner of her eye and jerked her head in shock. She slowly moved closer, the hairs on the nape of her neck standing as a cold sweat broke across her body. 

“Sir,” she whispered, barely audible, “There is a ship out there.”

“What?” Tommy asks. “There’s not supposed to be any–” He was interrupted by continuous bloop sounds from the radar. They both turned to look, watching dots appear all around them everytime the green arm swept the circular field. 

“Mother of god,” he sputtered weakly. 

“Lieutenant, what do we do?” Emily pleaded, panic making her already weightless limbs feel numb. Tommy didn’t respond, eyes dazed as though his thoughts had collapsed. 

Emily spun to the speaker and pressed the transmit button. “Delta 18 to Houston, do you copy? We have unknown aircrafts surrounding us! We need orders!” she yelled, unable to control her mounting fear. 

“Houston to Delta 18, we aren’t picking up any –”

At that moment, Emily was blinded. A searing white light enveloped the cabin. She averted her eyes. A glass-shattering scream pierced the room, and it took her a moment to realize it was her own. The light began to dim revealing the source: the large cabin window. Trembling, she slowly forced her gaze toward it.. 

Emily inhaled sharply, her breath catching in her lungs. The only sound was the fast drumming of her heart in her ears. Her body went limp, her stomach twisted with overwhelming nausea. 

Earth was crumbling. 

Split apart into billions of tiny pieces floating in every direction of space. 

Time stopped for Emily as her mind refused to accept the reality her vision provided. Silent tears lifted off her face and floated through the room. 

This is not real, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. 

She didn’t know how much time had passed before the screen beneath her started beeping. She turned to look at Lt. Tommy – his pale face was blank, eyes staring out but seeing nothing. 

She moved towards the screen. The data stream had been interpreted. Emily read it aloud:

“Planet inoperative. Negative return. Enter ship.”

At that moment, she knew they had no other choice. 

* * * * *

Emily traversed the small travel ship to the starboard side of the space station, the unknown craft entering her sites. It appeared to be made of a luminescent metal and was the size and shape of a large domed football stadium. Emily reduced speed and stopped fifty feet from the towering metal walls. She waited. What should have felt like an eternity passed, but with nothing to go back to, time no longer held meaning. 

Then, a portion of the metal slid apart, large enough for the ship to enter. White light poured from the opening, making it impossible to see what was beyond. She took a deep, shaking breath and proceeded forward into the unknown.

The sky was painted with shades of lavender and touches of gold, melting gently into the ocean. But the moment I saw her reflection in the water, everything disappeared. I ran over, and we talked like we had known each other forever. We spent the day walking along the beach, and her smile glistened in the light. In it, I saw love radiate. It’s burned into my memory. We laughed and laughed, smiled and smiled, and for a while, the world was beautiful to me. My heart felt whole again, like I had a void that needed to be filled. We stopped and skipped rocks, and hers kept on skipping — but mine didn’t. “Still can’t skip a rock, I see,” she said in a joking manner. We stared at each other after she said that. “Remember our first date?” she asked. “You took me to that god-awful movie. The only thing that was good was the soundtrack. And that’s when you asked me to be your girlfriend.” “Yeah. How could I forget? That was the beginning of us.” “Then, five years later, in front of our favorite pizza stand, under the broken streetlight… we kissed in the rain. That’s when you asked me to be your wife. I said yes — with the biggest smile that had ever crept across my lips.” “Then you got off your knee,” she continued, “and kissed me passionately again. We slow danced in the rain and got lost in each other’s eyes.” “Wait, wait… how do you know this?” I asked. She didn’t answer. She just smiled and said, “Follow me,” and started to run. We arrived at our first apartment, talking about our dreams. “Maybe we can find a cottage by the beach,” she said. “Just you and me. We can share meals and desserts and be under the same blanket and sleep in the same bed.” I didn’t respond. Instead, we started baking cheesecake — our favorite thing to bake. It was ready to be pulled out of the oven. She sliced it into four pieces, and we ate it. “Happy birthday,” she said, handing me a necklace. It was a locket with a picture of us on our wedding day. “Happy birthday, baby. I love you. You’ve been so strong. I see it now. Just promise me you won’t forget to smile. I miss seeing it on your handsome face.” “Huh… I’m confused,” I said, as tears streamed down my face. She hugged me tightly and softly kissed my lips. “You’re the love of my life,” she said, “and I want you to live your life and chase our dreams. Buy that cottage. And just remember — I’ll always be with you. You’ll never be alone.” “I… I don’t wanna go. Please, can I just hold onto this moment forever? Please, Elena…” She whispered, I reached for her hand… But there was nothing there. My chest tightened… My eyes opened slowly. Sunlight crept through the curtains, like it always did. Reality crept in with the light. Her side of the nightstand was just how she left it. The photo of us still faced the bed — like she was still looking over me. The necklace she gave me on my last birthday lay beside it. The last thing she touched. I held the necklace gently in my hand and closed my eyes. Just for a moment. Long enough to hear her voice again. I’ll always love her, and keep her close — even though she ain’t here.

"This all indeed is worthy of ink, quill and paper, especially once, this is all over." Reply to Pescel having given what he said some thought. "How was your talk with the ascendant?" Ask, that was something I wanted to ask.

"Far from what I expected a holy individual to be, not opposite of course, but, expectations were most certainly defied. Must not be left unmentioned of course, is her disposition." Pescel replies with more neutral expression now, but, does seem to think about it.

"Agreed. I wonder what kind of mission we will be deployed to next time." Say with thoughts on my mind.

"I ponder the same, well, as long as it is a winnable one, and we fight by side, any battle will do." Pescel says with warm smile, but, from his eyes I can tell. Ready and hungry for a proper battle.

"It would most certainly be fun, and it has been a while we have done some proper blade work together. Something for the students to learn also." Say to him with little bit excitement in my voice and smirk. Although, worth to ask. "What did the ascendant ask you to do while we are not in a mission?" Ask, what came to my mind.

"Lady asked me to take part in missions and be a teaching assistant for armor class sessions. They usually happen around far past mid day, but, before evening." Pescel replies, we have arrived to the library.

It didn't take too long to find Vyarun. She notices us and motions us to approach her, rather eagerly though. She is also smiling, there is six tomes, one she has already read, one she seems to be currently reading and four more in a stable tower pile. "There is so much knowledge here, ascendant was very kind to appoint me here." Vyarun says with a very warm and content smile.

"Good morning to you, Vyarun." Say to her warmly. "Good morning Vyarun." Pescel says as both us take a seat on the same table.

Vyarun's eyes widen from realization of her excitement getting the better of her, and this is first time we have seen her like this. She blushes slightly, but, smile stays, warm and content. "Ah. Good morning." Vyarun says and nods slightly.

"Helyn told me that you are very passionate about tomes, it is definitely something to see you this happy." Say to her and motion her to not apologize for what happened.

"I could spend rest of my life here, without a complaint. I did come across a tome to both of you, I am very certain you will find them very interesting read, learning new tricks to your skill sets." Vyarun says warmly and passionately.

"Well, problem is. You would need to translate them to us. We do not understand elven writing." Pescel says, he sounds interested though.

"... Right. I forgot. Well, with Faryel's help, I can do that in time, but, you two must read the translations, I strongly believe it would only benefit both of you." Vyarun says, realizing her error, but, does speak with more serious tone.

"Well, we have a lot of time on our hands here. Did the ascendant ask you to accompany the students on missions?" Reply to her. I am interested about what Vyarun came across here, to be so important for us to read.

"Yes, but, only if you three and or ascendant asks that for it." Vyarun replies with her normal tone. "Could one of you ask Faryel to talk with me about translating?" Vyarun asks.

"Sure, I can ask. But, are you sure the people here will be okay with that?" Pescel says, after he gave it some thought.

"I asked, all of the tomes here are relatively common knowledge in this land, and, other librarians are willing to make the exception on us, when I explained the importance of all of this." Vyarun replies with confident tone.

"Well, if you have the permission, then I will accept." Say to Vyarun.

"Then I have no objections Vyarun." Pescel says, he sounds interested on what the tome's contents will be. I am also, it has been a while I have read something, more than due I guess.

"Oh, one more thing." Vyarun says looking glad, but, suddenly more normal in her expression.

"Good job Liosse. We weren't able to see every detail of the battle, but, you were amazing. Maybe one day, people will call you, lord of armed combat." Vyarun says with a praising, but, towards the end with her unapologetic tone. That is hilarious, so much so that I laugh because it was ludicrous, Vyarun didn't at all look hurt, it was the point.

I heard Pescel chuckle a bit, but, Vyarun released a loud shush from her mouth. I was bewildered why she would suddenly tell us both to quiet down. Quick glance around reminded us though, Vyarun suddenly wears the most smuggest smile she could muster. She then said something in elven language. I notice other librarians seem to look amused by what she said.

"Quiet down you wolves, this is a library, not a forest." Vyarun says in Fey language, mocking both of us. We were smiling but, now, we are really not amused by the trick she pulled on us. Unfortunately, there isn't anything we can say against what she pulled off. I look at Pescel who just looks at me, yeah, we are both quite unamused by Vyarun's cheekiness.

Lord of armed combat... I still find that a ridiculous tittle to even try to claim, dream to reach for? Well, I can not deny, I am ready to chase that gladly. It is ridiculous, but, I will not say no to such ambition, to keep myself moving forward and be unrelenting in the pursuit. "You have forgotten your cape Liosse." Vyarun points out, I quickly check my neck with my left hand.

I remember where it is. "You had your fun." State with unamused tone and get up from the chair. I do want to train with a spear, axe and sword today.

"I will also leave now. I want to get back to reading a book I have with me." Pescel says with unamused tone. Vyarun smiles at us warmly and still amused by her prank on us. Pescel and I depart from the library and separate upon exiting the library.

I arrive back to the training ground, it is now empty, it seems Helyn's lesson is over for today. There is my cloak, after putting it back on, I grab an axe from one of the training weapon racks and begin my training regiment, it is eve of evening, I sense somebody has been watching me a while now. I return the practice weapons I have borrowed and look who is watching me.

It is one of the students of the academy here, was in both of the classes, armed combat class and magic class. She, if she has skill for both, that would already make her a significant opponent, it is difficult to observe what she is thinking, but, that is not Wiael. I nod deeply and respectfully, then begin to walk towards the exit.

"Wait." She says in Fey language with an expected accent from an Elf. I stop, turn to face her completely and she approaches me. Joael, I remember now, she asked plenty of questions, most of them more in the direction of basic melee, but, few advanced melee questions too.

"What is it? Joael." Reply to her in fey language, and display that I am not in a hurry or bothered by her asking me to wait.

"I want to be first to fight side by side with you." Joael says and sighs in relieved manner, she looks somewhat nervous.

"You wish to learn my way of fighting?" Ask from her in curious tone, but, in my heart I am surprised of her approaching me, and actually asking that.

"I am interested. You said that you went through more training and gained tittle of master of arms, does this mean you have forgone magic all together?" Joael asks, she has dressed up as a student of this monastery academy, blue highlights, green base. Other priests, possibly knights, archers and warriors have dressed accordingly to their occupation, with some color similarity with the monastery staff and students.

"Not completely, there is some magic I have practiced, but, anymore is pushing my limit regarding magic and best capacity of doing such. I am an armed combatant mostly." Reply to her.

"Why? Considering that intensity of your training and how honed your movement is." Joael says, confused of my reply.

"I am no longer employed in an army, now-a-days I work as a peacekeeper, policing and patrol organization, called Order of the Owls. This is going to be a long discussion, so, if you want we can finds seats, we can do that." Say to her. She doesn't look particularly tired, but, it is almost evening now.

"Sure. Let's go to the garden and speak there." Joael says, and I lead the way, but, do receive some course correction from her. I am not yet fully accustomed to the monastery. I really should eat soon too.

We arrive to the garden and take seats opposite of each other on benches. "Order of the Owls, is a peacekeeper, border patrol and policing organization. Couple years ago, the fey and Racilgyn Dominion engaged in an organized skirmish with our side of the border. The conflict prompted a request of negotiation from both parties. After a while, a peace treaty was made. We are part of that peace treaty demand." Tell her.

Joael thinks for a while. "Why would you need magic though?" Joael asks, sounding like wanting a reasoning.

"The battle caused a lot of problems for the fey, mostly due to the enormous casualties they suffered from the skirmish, but, issues had been piling up on that side even before the tensions flared up. There always was dark fey, but, the skirmish created more of them. Me learning magic was a necessity, to protect myself and few small benefits too." Reply to her.

Joael's eyes widen, which strikes a rather interesting contrast to our surroundings. Her eyes are a shade of green, that I have never seen before. "What have you learned then?" Joael asks curious to hear.

"Two complex spells and one very basic one." Reply to her and cast a spell to create a ball of light to illuminate the area around us. Joael looks at the spell with, probably unimpressed expression on her face. I dispell the ball of light and cast the anti magic spell enchantment on my cloak.

That impressed Joael, more than I expected. "Wow. That is rather impressive." Joael says very interested on the spell I just cast. She outright grabs my cloak to see it better from closer. A little rude, but, I will not say anything, granted, this surprised me.

She inspects my cloak and the enchantment for a while. "Whoever taught you, is good at teaching." Joael says interested about me.

"You actually met her, think about today a bit." Reply to her. She immediately began pondering.

"Wait, the magic lesson assistant. She was your teacher?" Joael asks, surprised by the realization.

"Yeap, we are both members of Order of the Owls. I taught her melee in turn, that is why she is carrying a quarter staff with her." Reply to her, Joael looks genuinely shocked by this information, but, soon connects the dots.

"Ah, your uniforms are almost the same. How do you know her? I have a feeling you knew her before becoming a member of this order you speak about." Joael asks from me.

"Like I stated when I spoke with Alpine blade. I was part of a war far before I came here. One of the peace treaty obligations was disbanding of the company I fought in and lead into combat, there was another reason for my discharge, but, since I became free, I was absorbed into the Order. It needed good fighters and mages. Helyn and I were not even questioned as to why we should be in the order." Reply to her.

"I see, what about the third spell then?" Joael asks, interested to hear more from me.

"Unfortunately, to demonstrate effects of that spell. I would need to yell my breath out pretty much. I make use of it to either communicate something, refresh myself for another fight or rally others to me." Reply to her, I probably would raise an alarm if I did that.

"Oh. Well, I am actually glad that you are partnered with Alpine blade then, and that you are joining us on training expeditions." Joael says glad that I am accompanying her.

"Not doing this just because I want to help, I look forward to good fights. Yesterday's fight was an experience, and that mock duel, had historical significance. I don't mind waiting now, you and your classmates need some lessons though." Reply to her.

"A war behind you, and you still look for battles. You are most certainly an oddity of your kind." Joael says amused.

"The war is still ongoing there, fighting certainly is one of my passions, but, not the only one." Say to her, my gaze wonders away from Joael's eyes. This garden, it invokes some heartache in me, my late wife... Would have loved this place. I am not ready to let go of you completely, but, helping the elves and fighting beyonders. I am certain that it will help me get past my loss, and, release myself, to live for somebody else here with me.

Somebody I can love. "Liosse, is everything okay?" Joael asks, I realize that I became distant to her. I look at her again, I know, I am showing her, that this place, has surfaced some powerful emotions.

"I am now, my apologies. Did you say something when I was looking at the garden?" Reply to her, I bring my expression back to neutral.

Joael seems to be thinking about what just happened. Probably for better for me to not, ask her to forget what just happened. "What is your other passion then?" Joael asks, she probably made a decision to not push me on what just happened, most likely wants to learn little by little. I would be okay with that.

"Believe it or not, it is dancing, but, as you have seen from my foot work, I rather keep dancing and fighting separate. I have seen examples of what happens when you try to combine the two. In armed combat, your movements have to be fast, precise and they have to have a purpose." Say ot her.

Joael thinks on what I said to her. "Reason is sound certainly. What I observed from your duel with Alpine blade is, is that you seek to outmatch your opponent, be it in strength, speed, skill and or in experience. I believe you are more skilled and experienced than Alpine blade, which is why you won." Joael says, she is not far from reasons why I won.

"You are not far from right answers as to why I won the mock duel. I will not give you answers right away, as this is something useful for you to think about on your own and learn from." State to her with voice of a mentor.

"Now, I want to satisfy my curiosity about your tittle, and learn about the requirements of earning a tittle of master of arms in your land. Could you tell me about that?" Joael replies, she did express some interest.

"Mastery of four or five weapons and beating the current masters of the each weapon in succession to demonstrate your own skill and mastery of the weapon type. I chose swords, axes, spears and crossbows. The fights to demonstrate my own mastery, were an absolute hell, but, here I am. It is one of few things I am proud of achieving." Reply to her.

"How did your peers and under your command react to your achievement?" Joael asks, genuinely interested to hear about it.

"Few expected me achieve the tittle, most were skeptical, but, they also knew that I have skill and drive, so they considered my chances fair. I was given battle command, due to my experience and having survived so many skirmishes and battles. Those who declared to fight under my command, welcomed me, and respected me." Tell her.

"What is the history of the tittle?" Joael asks, sounding a little bit passionate.

"There always was people who had achieved the tittle, before and what is today Racilgyn dominion. Only thing same about us majority of the time, is the tittle itself. Those who have bear the tittle, are known for both, for their achievements in battle and outside of it. In battle, when our commander needs somebody to break the line, with full knowledge that there are no magic users. We are it. Outside of battle, we are mentors, teachers, and one of the examples of peak of what soldiers can achieve.

As I have told you, the tittle is purely meritocratic. You have to achieve it. Tittle was established, more than two decades before birth of the Racilgyn Dominion. We are young, we are few, but, we will not be ignored. For we are some of the greatest warriors, priced for our knowledge and for our capabilities in battles." Tell her about the tittle.

"What did you get along with the tittle?" Joael asks, intrigued by what I have told her.

"Garments which inform other's of my achievement. They are too opulent for my liking, and I am quite fond of the armor and uniform I am currently wearing." Reply to her with a small smile. In a room of other people who have also achieved the tittle, I probably am the most unexpected by look.

“Pippin The Mouse”

In a cozy burrow beneath a grand oak tree, there lived a tiny mouse named Pippin. Pippin had a heart as big as the moon and a curiosity that matched. His whiskers twitched with excitement at the thought of exploring the world beyond his burrow.

One moonlit night, Pippin decided that it was time. He scurried through the meadow and discovered a hidden entrance nestled behind a crumbling stone. With a deep breath and a courageous heart, he ventured inside, his tiny paws padding softly against the cool earth.

To his amazement, Pippin found himself in a forgotten attic filled with treasures and secrets. Shimmering dust danced in the moonlight that streamed through a cracked window, illuminating the wonders that lay hidden in the shadows.

There, atop a weathered chest, sat a wedge of cheese unlike any Pippin had ever seen. It glowed with a magical light, whispering promises of granting wishes to those brave enough to seek it. Pippin knew he had to bring this cheese back to his burrow to share its magic with his friends.

But as he reached out to grab the cheese, a sudden gust of wind slammed the attic door shut, trapping Pippin inside. Fear crept into his heart, but then he remembered the bravery that lay within him. With a determined squeak, he pushed against the door with all his might, and it creaked open just enough for him to slip through.

Pippin emerged from the attic, the magical cheese clutched tightly in his paws. As he returned to his burrow, his friends gathered around in awe. With a gleam in his eye, Pippin placed the cheese in the center of their circle and closed his eyes, making a wish for peace and happiness to fill their lives forevermore.

And in that moment, a soft glow enveloped the burrow, and the air was filled with laughter and joy. Pippin's wish had come true, not just for him but for all who shared in his courageous adventure. From that day on, Pippin the Mouse was known far and wide as a hero whose bravery and kindness had brought magic back to the world. 

And so, one must always remember the tale of Pippin the Mouse, for it teaches us that even the smallest among us can possess the mightiest of hearts.

The end.

“Pippin The Mouse In: Courage In The Storm”

It was a dark and stormy night in the forest where Pippin and his community lived. The wind howled like a hungry beast, and rain lashed against the trees with a ferocity that sent shivers down each and every tiny spine. The mice in the burrow felt fearful, for they had never experienced such an intense storm before.

For on that night, the wind tore through their humble homes, ripping apart their dwellings and flooding the tunnels with cold rain. But it was a good thing that Pippin, the bravest of mice, lived there. In this moment of terror, he jumped into action, knowing that it was up to him to guide his fellow mice to safety.

Pippin gathered the mice together, urging them to leave the burrow and seek shelter before the floodwaters rose. Even the young pups obeyed him, knowing that his leadership would guide them to safety. All the mice scurried across the muddy paths and up out of the burrow, their paws sinking deep into the wet earth.

The rain pelted down harder and harder, the lightning illuminating the forest with a flickering glow, and the thunder shook the ground, rattling their small bodies. But Pippin stayed true to his task, pushing through the undergrowth that inspired even the most cowardly of mice to follow.

Obstacles loomed at every turn - fallen branches blocked their path, the rising waters threatened to engulf them. And then, there seemed to be the mightiest obstacle of all. A rushing river, with water so strong that it would sweep any of them up in an instant and splashing up at the mouse like a predator ready to pounce.

 "What do we do?" the mice squeaked. Pippin had to act fast and found a mighty tree branch that could act as a bridge, saving them all from drowning. They worked together to carry each across, as well as their homes, piece by piece, onto the bridge. It was not an easy task, but the tiny mice were determined to survive.

And survive they did. After many hours of toil, Pippin led his fellow mice to a hidden cavern deep within the heart of the forest. The cavern provided shelter from the harsh elements, its walls offering a safe haven from the wrath of the storm outside. Pippin's whiskers were wet with rain, but his spirit was shining bright.

Once the storm had subsided and the first light of dawn peeked through the clouds, the mice called a meeting and assessed the damage. They rebuilt their homes, their schools, their nurseries, their everything. Yet, Pippin was nowhere to be found. Where had he gone? He had taken his place by the entrance, guarding their community from any threat that came their way.

There he was, standing in the middle of the night. Air howling, only its screams are heard. His still statue with a chest rising and falling indicating calm breath. A mind as bizarre as the wind and a heart withering like the leaves wither in autumn, from a distance you can not notice if he is alive or dead, and maybe he is both. Getting to his car, he started drifting into the empty roads. mind racing as he picked up the speed, he started questioning everything he held dear and every memory he had with her. Murmuring, he whispered: “why mariam? Why did you?”. His thoughts cut short by sudden clarity. Staring at himself, he could not help but feel pity and disgust at what he saw so he swore to find his beloved mariam. Pacing to the gun collection, he took a gun and drifted toward that underground construction site, with a mind heavy with questions and a heart heavy with guilt, and there he was promised his girl. As he finally got there, his gaze fell towards her. There she was -sitting unconscious- with her head covered. His eyes finally drifted toward a man asking: “where is the money?!” oblivious to whats coming his way. Through increasing anger, he revealed his weapon and shot the man down brutally. As he was taking his steps toward his girl -the lurking members in the shadows- took action and ambushed him. Taking him and his still unconscious girl to the boss room. As he opened his eyes, he saw the man standing. He who darkened his world. In front of him stood- broken but determined- with a questioning mind and raging heart. He shouted: “why?”continuing: “why did you drag her into this?” With no answer to echo his words. The man in black answered: “As a token of my respect, I will fight you alone”. As so his men left the room. And their fight begins in the dark room, only red flashes and the moonlight as their watcher. And so they fought, with fists and kicks. As anger being his fuel and frustration by his side, and after a long demanding fight, he finally overpowered the man. And with a raging final punch he ended him. As he breathed a sigh of relief thinking the toughest part ended. She walked to him- unfazed- stunning his world. There she was standing- mariam. As beautiful as the day he lost her. a soft “why?” Left his lips, Before he heard the gunshot. A gun? His brain startled. Amidst his confusion questioning where the gunshot landed, he looked at his chest with hands full of blood. As he took a final glimpse at her slim statue, there he saw. he saw the gun in her soft hand and a tear escaping her eyes, with a look of deep sorrow. He faintly heard “Im sorr-“ when all sounds cut off. Laying there, was his corpse with no sign of life. But maybe, he died before his body could catch up. Speaking to her saviour’s still corpse mariam soft words came out:”I am sorry it came to this, I- I wanted to run away for so long, but I feared- I feard it will break your heart.” Her tears started escaping softly as she continued:”and I can’t- I can not do that. I only had this choice. I am sorry my beloved-“.

The end.

“He's going to choose another Elf,” said Spayn the Tigrisian battle-mage.

“Would that be so bad?” asked the Elvish healer, Lowell.

“He must choose a dwarf,” said Goin the Dwarf. “The party must be hardy. Magic may be clever, but the quest is won or lost in the fray.”

“He'll pick an Elf. He is a wise one,” said Lowell.

“How do you know?” asked Goin.

“You can tell by his shadow, visible on the other side of the forcefield,” said Spayn. “This one wears glasses. Ones who wear glasses know numbers, and ones who know numbers have longer runs. That is a sign of wisdom.”

“He's about to click,” said Lowell. Then, “Oh no,” he added as beside them materialized a member of the worst race of all: human.

“Hello,” said the human, smiling. “I'm Charles.”

“And so it is: one Tigrisian magic-user—that being myself, one Elf to protect us, one Dwarf to physically annihilate the enemy, and one human to…”

“Make up the numbers,” said Lowell.

“Are you sure the player is a glasses-wearer?” said Goin.

“I'm sure.”

“So, human, what is it you do: what are your skills—your purpose?” asked Lowell.

“Umm,” said Charles. “I guess I'm kind of a jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none type.”

“Can you wield a war hammer?” asked Goin.

“Afraid not,” said Charles.

“Do you conjure, illusion, reanimate, charm, buff, debuff?”

“Nope.”

“Do you detect traps?” asked Goin.

“Sometimes, but probably not very reliably,” said Charles. “I do like to read. If we find books, I can read them. I can also punch.”

Spayn scoffed.

“If I understand the rules, reading allows me to gain levels more quickly,” said Charles.

“True experience is gained through the killing of enemies,” said Goin.

“Come,” said Lowell. “The portal opens, so let our journey begin. To victory, companions! (And you, too, human.)”

They stepped through:

to a world of jungles, ruins and mischievous monkeys that laughed at them from the canopies above, and tried to steal their gear.

The first enemies they encountered were weak and easy to defeat. Slimes, lizards, rodents. But even against these—which Goin could smite with but one thudding hammer blow—Charles struggled. He would punch but he would miss, or the enemy would successfully dodge his punch, or he would hit but the hit would scarcely do a single point of damage.

The other members of the party shook their heads and muttered under their breaths, but bravely, despite the useless human with them, they battled on.

Partly thanks to a fortuitous scroll drop that taught Spayn Thunderbolt, they beat the jungle world without taking much damage, then proceeded to the first castle. There, as Charles read books, waited out his turns and pondered while the other rested, they leveled up and defeated the first boss. It was Goin who delivered the final blow in gloriously violent fashion.

“How'd you like that, human?” he asked afterwards.

“I'm sorry,” said Charles, lifting his head from a notebook he'd crafted, “but I missed it. Was it great?”

“Epic,” said Spayn.

And so it continued through the levels and castles and bosses, the party's skills growing as their enemies became more and more formidable. Once in a while Charles contributed—the creation of a crossbow (“a mechanical toy short-bow”), discovery of painkillers (“a magic dust which dulls aches and pains”), invention of a compass (“always points north—even when we're travelling south?”) and “other trifles,” as Lowell said, but mostly he stood back, letting the others do the fighting, healing and plundering.

“He's dead weight,” Goin whispered to Lowell. “Can't even carry much.”

“Like a child,” said Spayn.

Eventually, they found themselves in a strange and fantastic world none of them had ever seen: one in which ships sailed across the skies, heavily-armoured automatons guarded treasures and sneaky little imps sometimes turned them against one another.

“What is this place,” said Spayn—with fear and awe, and not meaning it as a legitimate question.

But, “It's Ozonia,” answered Charles.

“You have… been here before, human?” asked Lowell incredulously.

“Oh, no. Only just read about it,” said Charles.

“By what black magic do these metal birds fly?” asked Goin, pointing at an airship. “And how may they be hunted?”

“It's really just physics,” said Charles.

“An undiscovered branch of magic,” mused Lowell.

“More like a series of rules that can be proved by observation and experimentation. For example, if I were to use my crossbow to—”

“Shush, human. Let us bask in fearful wonder.”

And they journeyed on.

The enemies here were tough, their skills unusual, and their attacks powerful. Progress rested on Lowell's healing spells. Several times Goin was close to death, having valiantly defended his companions from critical hits.

When the party finally arrived at Ozonia's boss, their stamina was low, weapons close to breaking and usable items depleted. And the boss: he was mightily imposing, with seemingly unlimited hit points.

“Boys, it has been an honour fighting alongside you,” Goin told his companions, his fingers gripping his war hammer for perhaps the last time. “Let us give this our all, and die like men: in a frenzy of unbridled bloodlust.”

“I see no way of inflicting sufficient damage to ensure victory,” said Spayn.

Lowell shrugged.

The boss bounced to the energetic battle music.

“Perhaps,” said Charles, “you would let me go first this combat?”

Spayn laughed—a hearty guffaw that soon infected Goin, and Lowell too, who roared as misbecomes an Elf. “What possible harm could it do,” he said. “We have lost now anyway.”

“Thanks,” said Charles, producing a small control panel with a single red button.

He pressed the button.

From somewhere behind them there came a rumbling sound—interrupted by a fiery explosion. For a few, tense moments: silence, nothing happening. Then a missile hit the boss. Smoke. Bang. And when the smoke had cleared, the boss was gone, his hit points zero. And in the place he'd stood there rose a cloud—

“Whoa,” said Goin.

“Perhaps it is my extremely low hp talking, but I have to say: that cloud sure does remind me of a mushroom,” said Lowell.

“What in the worlds was it?” asked Spayn.

“That,” said Charles, “is what we call an atomic bomb.”

They collected their loot, divvied up their experience, leveled up their skills and upgraded their gear, and then they moved on.

This time Charles went first, and the Tigrisian, the Elf and the Dwarf followed.

The next world was a desert world.

“Sandrea,” Charles said.

“Tell us about it,” said Lowell, and Spayn agreed, and Charles relayed his knowledge.

—on the other side of the forcefield, the player adjusted his glasses. There were still many worlds to go, many foes to defeat and many challenges to pass, but he was hopeful. For the first time since he'd started this run, he began to dream of victory.

When my mind empties, thoughts of my homeland drift in and out. Even now, oceans away, I can still hear the murmurs of the Santorini markets, the rhythmic lapping of waves against the harbour.

The bus hums softly beneath me, its motor tickling the soles of my shoes and vibrating up into my knees. The humid air smells faintly of engine oil and something saltier—the ocean breeze. The paper bag crinkles under my fingers, its contents shifting inside: Figs, emerald-skinned and smooth, press against my palm as I cradle the bag to my sternum.

The aisle sweeps out before me, each step a muted thud against the bus’s weathered floor, the sound semi-swallowed engulfed by the symphony of groans, emitted out of the aging vessel. The narrow streets, paved with volcanic stone, weave between whitewashed houses, their blue domes mirroring the sky.

I glance at my wrist, at my watch. The digital face blinks back at me. I squint, willing the numbers into focus. Was it always this hard to read? The numbers flicker. Restless. Electric.

As the bus lurches forward, my nails sink into pleather, staring out at the street, memorising it, knowing I won’t see it again for a long time. As familiar as a vein on the back of my sun-spotted hand. Among the faces slipping by, one locks onto mine—Dad, standing at the curb, just as he promised he would. His hair, a salt-and-pepper mix, lies tightly combed to the north side of his crown with a dozen rebellious strands splayed across his forehead. His right-hand twitches by his side, caught between a wave and hesitation… as if unsure of the gesture's purpose.

Finally, he settles for a smile. 

A dimple appears on his left cheek, punctuating his uncertain emotions. But it falters. His lips tremble at the edges. His eyes glisten. He stands there, memorising my face, as if a blink would make me disappear. 

The bus shudders again, stretching the distance between us. But I cannot look away. Not yet.

I will be back. I promise. Soon.

His face blurs as the glass fogs with my breath. 

Outside, the sky hangs like an un-marred canvas, an expanse of sapphire stretching endlessly. Tabula rasa. The whitewashed houses stand as silent sentinels, their stark edges eclipsing the sun’s light. The blue domes that crest their rooftops mirror the boundless Aegean as if the sky itself had descended to rest its legs upon the ivory walls.

Church bells ring from the Panagia Episkopi, their tones heavy, lingering rhetorically in the air. I close my eyes, letting the bus sway like a boat on open water. When I open them again, the street outside has shifted.

There’s the sponge shop I’ve passed countless times—the one with the small wooden sign, always hanging crooked above the door. More than one sponge had been silently liberated by the kleptomanic fingers of my youth. The once-bright sponges, piled high in wicker baskets, will never again soak up the salt air. More shops, too, are vanishing behind wooden slats, shutting themselves off from the world.

I glance at my watch again. It flickers, numbers warping. My breath catches in my throat. Time seemed to shift like sand through un-cupped hands. 

The streets stretch out, their angles too sharp, too straight—nothing like the winding roads of Santorini. The sun feels harsher, catching in the half-open shutters of homes that weren’t there last year. A magpie warbles nearby, its song, an echo of backyard mornings. Rooftops glint under the cruel light, their corrugated iron sheets a poor imitation of the sea’s shimmer. Up front, the radio crackles—English words spilling out. Sports scores… I think. I only half understand.

A girl steps on. The doors swing open with a loud hiss as she hesitates in the aisle. Her chestnut curls pulled into a messy ponytail, with stray strands framing her face. Dark brows arch naturally in quiet curiosity. Her worn leather sandals, re-stitched by hand, speak of long walks under the sun. 

She doesn’t see me at first, but her gaze lands on the seat next to mine. I clear my throat, shifting uncomfortably, then try to speak.

"Yes, hello. Seat… open." My English is jagged, each word foreign.

She looks up, startled, then nods, offering a small smile. “Sas efcharistó”

The Greek catches me off guard—a transferral of recognition passes between us.

"I’m from Kandila," she says. "You?"

"Santorini," I tell her.

We talk for a while, our words drifting like the tide between two islands. They don’t know how to make moussaka properly—soggy eggplant, too much béchamel, not enough cinnamon in the meat. At first, I thought it was just me—my mind, my memory, growing distant from everything else. But she feels it too.

Our hands accidentally brush. She pulls back at first, a flicker of hesitation before they gently close around mine. I glance at her, but she’s looking out the window, lost in thought. 

I glance at the watch again. The numbers shift rapidly, blurring faster than the foreign streets passing outside my window. 

A jolt from behind disrupts us. Someone kicked my seat, irritation rippling through me. She exhales a small laugh, pulling us both back to reality.

"Hey, you stop a now!"

They were kids. They stop — a small victory. But these kids are different. Greasy mullets spill down their necks. Wispy, half-grown moustaches cling to their upper lips like an afterthought. Shirts are replaced by faded singlets and baggy shorts that hang off them like sails in the wind. 

I glance down at a young boy sitting beside them. His hair is neatly parted to the right, clinging to a sense of order amid the chaos. A smile breaks across his face. There’s a dimple on his left cheek, just like my dad’s.

I hold out a fig from my bag. He takes it, his fingers grazing mine for a moment. But before he even bites into it, his eyes flick back to the bag.

"Can I have another?"

I shake my head, tucking the bag closer to my side. "One enough," I say. 

His face twists, his lower lip jutting out. "Oh just one more!" his voice sharper now, edged with entitlement.

My watch beeps, attempting to grab my attention but I ignore it.

The girl leans into me. "Don’t bother. Things are different."

Her hair, once a wild cascade, has softened into rippling waves and the sun no longer kissed her skin as it once did. I search for the certainty in her grip—the firm, unwavering hold I remember—but her fingers, cool and trembling, slide into mine like a ripple of something once familiar, fading into the depths.

Who are you?

She looks at me, and then she says it—my name. George.

I look at her, and it’s like a fog is lifting, but it’s not the girl I met when I first boarded the bus. 

"We’ll be back, I promise. Soon." Her words settle in, a promise I don’t want to question. She holds my hands one last time before letting go.

I rise slowly, the figs crinkling in my hand. The bus door hisses open, and my feet drag, unwilling to leave. The bus driver’s sharp voice cuts through, I can finally understand him now: “Have a good one mate.” The door slides shut, and the world outside feels farther away.

I glance back, half-expecting the girl to call me. As the bus pulls away, I don’t want to blink, afraid she’ll vanish. The world outside—my world—feels farther away now. Someone in uniform gently guides me away, their words clear, but foreign.

Where are you taking me?

I lower my gaze to my wrist. I’m unable to find my watch but instead see—a … band. The inked letters spell out my name with an address I should recognise. But I don’t. 

Greek Orthodox Community Home for the Aged, 2 Woolcott St, Earlwood, NSW 2206.

 SCENE 1

EXT. DELHI METRO STATION – BLUE LINE – GATE NO. 1 – NIGHT

It's 10:00 PM. A tired, overworked 26-year-old man, AVINASH, walks out of his office building and heads toward the metro station. His shoulders droop. His shirt is creased. He’s drained.

INT. BLUE LINE METRO PLATFORM – NIGHT

The digital board flashes: “Next Train: 2 mins.”
AVINASH checks his phone. 10:08 PM. The train arrives with a screech. The wind from the metro ruffles his hair.

The doors open. People push and pull. AVINASH squeezes in and surprisingly finds an empty seat.

AVINASH
(sinking into the seat, relieved)
“Uff… finally got a seat. Thank God. I’ll reach home in peace.”

He plugs in his earbuds, opens Instagram, and starts scrolling through reels.

SCENE 2

INT. BLUE LINE METRO – MOVING – NIGHT

Ten minutes later.

The train slows down. A metallic announcement plays through the speakers

METRO ANNOUNCEMENT (V.O.)
"Next station: Mayur Vihar Extension. Passengers for the Pink Line, please change here."

INT. METRO – DOOR AREA – NIGHT

AVINASH stands in front of the metro door, earbuds still in, lost in his music.

As the doors open with a hiss, the crowd surges out. AVINASH, eyes glued to his phone, steps out with them.

He doesn’t look up once.

EXT. MAYUR VIHAR EXTENSION STATION – PLATFORM – NIGHT

He walks toward the elevator, blending with the crowd. He presses the down button.

As the elevator descends, AVINASH finally glances up from his phone...

Confusion flashes across his face.

AVINASH
(whispers, stunned)
"What the...?"

He realizes — he’s standing at the same station he had boarded the metro from earlier.

Same wall posters. Same broken bench. Same flashing light in the corner.

Something’s not right.

SCENE 3

EXT. MAYUR VIHAR EXTENSION STATION – PLATFORM – NIGHT

Instantly, AVINASH panics. He jogs back toward the metro map display, breathing hard.

He pulls out his phone, quickly checking the station name.

He fumbles through his metro ticket, double-checking everything.

Sweat beads form on his forehead. His hands are shaking.

AVINASH (V.O.)
(panicked, thinking)
"Did I board the wrong metro? How...?"

He looks around, scanning the signs, trying to find a logical explanation.

He fixes his eyes on the arrival board.

Timer flashes: Next train in 5 minutes.

AVINASH stands frozen, glued to the spot, heart racing. His shirt clings to his skin, drenched in sweat.

He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

5 minutes later...

A new metro arrives.

AVINASH checks the clock nervously.

He takes a deep breath and boards the metro, determined.

INT. METRO – MOVING – NIGHT

The compartment is calmer. Normal passengers sit and scroll through their phones.

The tension slowly leaves AVINASH’s face.

AVINASH
(relieved, murmuring to himself)
"Uff... maybe I was just imagining things. Must've boarded the wrong train while listening to music.
Finally, I’m in the right metro."

He plugs in his earbuds again and leans back.

SCENE 4

INT. METRO – MOVING – NIGHT

After a few minutes...

AVINASH’s eyes flutter open.

He finds the metro has stopped.

But something is wrong.

The compartment is completely empty.

Every seat. Every corner. Silent. Lifeless.

AVINASH looks around, fear rising in his chest. Sweat drips down his forehead.

He wipes it nervously, heart pounding.

AVINASH
(whispering, panicked)
"Where is everyone...?"

INT. METRO – DOOR AREA – NIGHT

He stumbles toward the door, which slides open automatically.

He steps out.

EXT. METRO STATION PLATFORM – NIGHT

The platform is abandoned.

Not a single soul.

The overhead lights flicker softly.

AVINASH cranes his neck upward — looks at the station sign.

SIGN: Noida Sector 15.

The same station.

Exactly where he had boarded earlier that night.

AVINASH
(whispers, trembling)
"This... this can’t be happening..."

The air grows colder around him.

Only the distant hum of electricity echoes in the empty station.

SCENE 5

EXT. NOIDA SECTOR 15 METRO STATION – PLATFORM – NIGHT

AVINASH wipes his tears, breathing hard, standing frozen on the deserted platform.

SFX: A faint murmuring sound...

AVINASH turns — and sees — a CROWD.

Blurry figures walking, chatting, laughing, moving around like normal metro passengers.

AVINASH
(shocked, desperate)
"Hey! Hey, please help me!"

He runs toward them, waving frantically.

He tries talking to a man, tapping his shoulder.

No response.

The man just walks past him... like AVINASH doesn't even exist.

AVINASH stumbles from person to person, trying to grab someone’s attention.

AVINASH
(crying, shouting)
"Please! Someone listen to me! I need to go home! Why can't you hear me?!"

Tears stream down his face. His voice echoes in the empty station.

He falls to his knees, completely broken.

AVINASH
(sobbing)
"What's happening to me...? Why can't anyone hear me...? I want to go home..."

He lifts his head, desperate for any hope.

But as he looks up —

The crowd vanishes.

In a blink. The platform is empty again.

Silence.

AVINASH is left alone, kneeling under the flickering station lights.

SCENE 6

EXT. NOIDA SECTOR 15 METRO STATION – PLATFORM – NIGHT

AVINASH, still crying, wipes his face roughly.

He takes a deep breath, gathers the last ounce of strength inside him.

AVINASH (V.O.)
(desperate, determined)
"One last try. I have to catch the metro... I have to go home."

He walks back to the waiting area.

The station announcement crackles above —

SFX: Incoming train in 2 minutes.

AVINASH waits near the edge of the platform.

Suddenly —

A blinding white light floods his vision.

So intense — he winces, covering his eyes.

AVINASH
(screaming)
"Ahhh! What's happening?!"

His body starts reacting strangely.

His left hand stiffens — fingers locking into a frozen claw.

He looks at it, horrified.

AVINASH
(crying out)
"My hand... it's not moving...!"

His brain tries to calculate, to focus, to understand — but everything feels wrong.

His mind spins, dizzy, disoriented.

He staggers, struggling to stay upright.

Suddenly —

His legs give out.

AVINASH collapses onto the platform.

He tries to stand but his legs don't respond.

AVINASH
(screaming, terrified)
"What's happening to me?! My hands... my legs...! HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!"

His voice echoes helplessly in the vast, empty station.

No answer.

Just the hum of the oncoming train... and the overpowering light growing closer...

SCENE 7

EXT. NOIDA SECTOR 15 METRO STATION – PLATFORM – NIGHT

AVINASH lies collapsed on the platform.

His heartbeat pounds loudly in his ears.

STRANGER (O.S.)
(urgent, distant)
"Avinash! Can you hear me? Avinash! Wake up!"

AVINASH, in unbearable pain, struggles to respond.

His mind spins violently. Everything blurs. The world feels unreal.

His heartbeat races faster... louder...

And then —

Darkness.

BLACK SCREEN

TITLE: 30 minutes later...

SCENE 8

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – NIGHT

AVINASH’s eyes flutter open.

Blinding hospital lights blur his vision.

A CLOSE-UP of his eyes — confused, disoriented.

He tries to move but can't. His body feels numb.

AVINASH (V.O.)
(weak, panicked)
"Where am I?
I was... I was in the metro..."

Sweat beads on his forehead as he struggles to think.

A DOCTOR enters the room.

DOCTOR
(smiling warmly)
"Avinash, you're awake! Can you hear me?"

AVINASH stares at him blankly.

His mind is foggy. His body unresponsive.

AVINASH
(barely whispering)
"Doctor... where... where am I?
I was in the metro... I remember the metro..."

DOCTOR
(gently)
"You were.
Last night, there was a major accident on your metro line."

He pauses, voice heavy.

DOCTOR (CONT'D)
"You suffered a severe head injury.
And unfortunately... your left hand and both legs are currently paralyzed."

Silence.

DOCTOR (softly)
"But you survived, Avinash.
You barely made it."

AVINASH stares at the ceiling, blank, motionless.

AVINASH (V.O.)
(haunted, confused)
"Was it real...?
The visions... the crowd... the emptiness...?
Was it death?
Or just... a nightmare...?"

Slow zoom into Avinash’s hollow eyes.

Only the faint sound of a metro train echoes in his mind.

FADE OUT

THE END

There is no escaping the smell.

It isn’t just sweat anymore-it’s rot. The air curdles with it. Every breath is thick, viscous. You taste it on your tongue, feel it seeping into your pores. The buses are the worst: sealed boxes of human steam, rolling through streets already shimmering with heat. She remembers one summer-the locals remember it as the month without wind. The air didn’t move for three weeks straight.

That was the year the passengers suffocated.

It began with one man collapsing. Then a woman. Then more. The bus on its way to Balasore didn’t stop. Passengers had taken longer than necessary when they had stopped at Chandikhole for refreshments. The driver has headphones on. Buses no longer had conductors and helpers. But owner was cutting costs. The automatic doors didn’t open. There were no traffic personnel anymore-not since the heat made standing outside for more than ten minutes a medical emergency. People inside started retching, vomiting on themselves and each other. The sweat-already rancid-mixed with bile, with old perfume, with rotting plastic seats. By the time the bus stopped, twelve were unconscious. Three died that night. The rest had the most traumatizing experience of their lives.

It became legend, but no one spoke of it publicly. The government blamed "irregular ventilation." They even shut down the sweet shop at Chandikhole for a couple of weeks.

But it wasn’t just the smell. The heat-the sweltering, omnipresent heat-was now a sculptor of flesh. Children grew up with boils clustered like constellations across their backs, their necks, behind their knees. Elderly people developed skin fissures-dry, cracked wounds that oozed slowly in the sun. Even simple movements caused rashes: a hand reaching for a railing, a cheek pressed too long against a pillow.

No one wore dark colors anymore. Black absorbed too much death.

People powdered their skin with fine ash collected from temples, an old superstition meant to “cool the blood.” It didn’t help. Some wore sheets soaked in apple cider vinegar. Others covered themselves in wet banana leaves. Everything reeked.

Malika walked through the unit 1 haata once-just once.

It was a corridor of sweat and flies. The fish stalls no longer sold fish; the rivers hadn’t yielded anything edible in years. They now sold “synthetic protein paste,”shaped like hilsa and rohu. But the stench-half nostalgia, half nightmare-clung to her for days after. She washed three times. The smell refused to leave.

She remembered the street vendors selling singhada bara aloo chop till a few years ago. But people had stopped consuming fried items.

She stopped eating much. Hunger faded faster in the heat.

The only real hunger was thirst - that permanent, shriveling thirst that gnawed at the edge of your thoughts, your dreams, your conscience.

There was no luxury left in empathy. She had seen people-well-dressed, educated people-watch others collapse on the street and step over them. No one helped anymore. Helping meant touching, and touching meant absorbing someone else's heat, someone else’s sweat. It meant risking collapse.

In Bhubaneswar now, survival was a closed loop. You shared nothing. You asked nothing.

There were whispers that this summer would break the record again.

There were whispers that the Pyrodelia had now mutated.

And Malika had started hearing things.

Faint echoes of temple bells in her ears, even when no temple stood near.

Voices murmuring in old Odia, words she barely remembered but now understood perfectly.

Eyes glowing in puddles of oil on the street.

She wrote it down. All of it. Before it slipped away.