HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALLAN PIE!

  “I’ve had another one of those strange dreams, Grandma,” mumbled Aln as she stirred from her sleep. She lived with Grandma Samantha and Grandpa Sam in one of the oldest houses in Calvert Govein. With an ivory-white ceiling and beige wallpaper adorned with delicate daisy patterns…

  “…had one of those strange dreams…’ came the voice from the second floor of their fortress-like home — a house solidly built back in 1935. Could such a faint voice really reach Samantha on the ground floor?

  Unlikely…

  “A stroll up the creaky wooden staircase would take you directly to her room. The sign above the door already gave away the kind of girl Aln Pie was:‘Authorised Aln Pie Only Beyond This Point.’

  Each morning, Aln woke with a sense of renewed purpose—as if the day ahead might just hold the answers to the countless questions swirling in her mind about life on Dunya and its perplexing mysteries. She never spoke much about it, but deep down, her curiosity burned like a quiet fire.

  If you followed the faint echo slipping through the narrow gap beneath her door, you'd find thick bck curtains cascading from ceiling to floor, pulled tightly shut. Aln had described them; Samantha had them sewn. Not a single shard of light dared to enter.

  "Just as a pnt needs light for a time to grow, so too does the human soul sometimes need a quiet spell in the dark to truly bloom."

  She’d picked up that wise tone from the countless books she devoured and the documentaries she loved to watch. Grandma Samantha herself often reminded her of the importance of a good night’s sleep to make the most of the day ahead.

  Every object in Aln’s sleep sanctuary was handpicked with care. She had thoughtfully weighed every detail, crafting an atmosphere where peace could nestle beside her dreams. Nothing was accidental…

  Aln slowly opened one eye, reaching out with her right hand through the thick darkness towards the tablet on the bedside table near the door. She groped for the power button and gently tapped it. Gncing sideways at the screen, she caught sight of the time and date. Of course, she knew what day it was—she just wanted to see it with her own eyes. And when she did, a strange sense of comfort washed over her, and she quickly let her head drop back onto the pillow.

  The soft light of the tablet lingered for a while, casting faint shadows across the room. For a moment, Aln felt as though she’d grown—mature enough to carry the whole world on her back. After all, once the clock passed midnight, she would officially be thirteen. No longer a child—she’d be entering adolescence.

  She gathered her long bck hair with both hands and pushed it upwards onto the pillow. The thick strands, like a horse’s mane, were making the back of her neck uncomfortably warm. She wanted to catch a glimpse of blue sky, maybe take in a breath of fresh air. Slipping out of bed, she walked quietly towards the window. With both hands, she drew back the heavy curtains, thick and weighty as they were.

  Sunlight burst into the room all at once, casting a golden glow that brought out the warm amber in her hazel eyes. She looked out over 326 Elderwood Brave Road.

  It was 8:00 a.m. The sun painting pale gold streaks across Aln's bedroom wall.

  326 Elderwood Brave Road was still wrapped in morning silence—broken only by the low rustle of wind brushing against the pine trees, and the occasional stretch of Cornelius' cat, Archie, making his usual prowl down the empty sidewalk like he owned the street.

  It was the final day of the Ravenwood Friends College Creative Arts Camp. And it was the poetry performance day. Aln had spent the previous day pulling words out of thin air, turning silence into metaphor. She wrote, erased, rewrote, and stayed up until she felt she had found something right. She had spent the whole summer taking csses in music, dance, poetry and performing arts. She was just standing in front of the window and going through these in her mind like a film strip...

  Aln returned to bed, curling herself back into her firm, orthopaedic mattress. She snuggled into the pine-scented white bedclothes, stretching out her limbs with a satisfied sigh. Her face sank into the soft pillows, covered in vibrant floral patterns on crisp white fabric.

  * * *

  Grandmother Samantha had already been up for hours that morning. She had watered the colourful flowers in the back garden—an oasis of blossoms so vibrant, it resembled a miniature botanical garden. She had fed Sam’s dog, Goth, and baked a fresh batch of soft, buttery biscuits.

  Afterwards, she turned her attention to a chore she’d been putting off for quite some time: emptying the kitchen cupboard where food long past its prime had begun to rot in silence.

  For a fleeting moment, a strange thought popped into her mind:

  “Should I start a social media account? Something like: ‘Watch me clean my fridge!’ or ‘Look at the lovely meals I make!’ Who knows, maybe I’d go viral and become famous!”

  For the briefest second, Samantha seemed to genuinely believe she could become one of those cheerful internet personalities.

  Samantha usually had a bright sparkle in her eyes, a kind of infectious energy that could lift anyone’s mood instantly. But today, there was a flicker of concern in her expression—a quiet unease that lingered around her.

  Her petite height meant she often struggled to reach the higher shelves in the kitchen. She relied on a small step stool with a few sturdy rungs to help her access the upper cupboards. Truth be told, she hadn’t been enjoying her time in the kitchen tely. While she still prepared delicious meals and delightful sweets regurly, the habit had gradually turned her into a slightly plump woman.It bothered her more than she admitted, and she longed for change. Recently, she’d begun pnning to reevaluate her routines and dietary habits.

  That morning, once her chores were out of the way, she rolled up her sleeves with resolve. Today, they would share a proper breakfast—something they hadn’t done in quite a while.Aln had only one day left before saying goodbye to childhood and stepping into adolescence. Samantha was determined to make this day unforgettable. She set the rge garden table for breakfast, surrounded by the fragrant blooms of the backyard.

  She gnced at her phone. The battery was low. Too tired to go upstairs to fetch her main charger, she dug into the handbag hanging in the hallway and pulled out a spare one. Plugging it in, she began charging the phone—she wanted to take a few photos, perhaps a short video or two.

  But most of all, she knew—deep in her bones—that after midnight, life as they knew it would change.They had been through something simir on Susan’s thirteenth birthday.

  Samantha had prepared a surprise for Aln’s birthday: she was going to show her photos and video recordings of her mother—Susan—images Aln had never seen before.

  For years, Aln had wondered if her mother had ever had a social media presence. Time and again, she had searched for her name online. But there wasn’t a single account under the name “Susan Pie.”

  * * *

  It was usually Grandpa Sam who sat in the back garden. Some mornings, the moment he awoke, he would step outside and drift into memories of the past—especially on days when he had paused his psychiatric medication. On the days he stayed on them, he spent most of his time in a half-conscious haze.

  Grandpa Sam was a tall man with kind brown eyes and greying hair—still quite handsome in a quietly dignified way. His strong, commanding frame hinted at a past life in the military.Of course, being a Luxian, his role in the army had never been an ordinary one.

  Sam had once worked as a cryptologist, assigned to uncover the encrypted communications and hidden codes of Gravian and Tenebris factions attempting to incite war and chaos.Like Aln’s mother, Susan, he had studied Mathematics at university. He ter specialised in Cryptology and Philology.

  But now, he was an Ex-Luxian.

  He had witnessed too many devastating losses—friends who had either lost their bodies or, perhaps even worse, their ability to think clearly. According to the ws of The Universe of Celestia Vertex and the Aurelian Codes, Luxians whose neurons and cerebral transmission centres were permanently damaged were forced into early retirement.

  Now in this calm and reflective stage of life, Sam had plenty of time to ponder over the past.After long periods of introspection, he would take a deep breath and remind himself that it was all behind him. He would stare up at the clear blue sky, as if trying to drink in the moment.Sometimes, he walked down to the seaside, chatted with old friends, or took Goth for a long stroll.

  * * *

  After finishing her housework, Samantha would devote herself to cooking hot meals, cakes and biscuits for Aln and Sam.

  Seeing them happy meant everything to her.

  She knew exactly what kind of infancy and childhood Aln had endured.

  Although Aln sometimes saw the absence of memories with her parents as a cruel twist of fate, she still considered herself incredibly lucky to be raised by Sam and Samantha.And yet, every now and then, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of people her parents had been.

  Despite Sam’s wisdom, he had always remained emotionally distant—especially with Aln.Their bond, while present, was never as strong or as natural as the one she shared with her grandmother.

  Still, she loved him dearly.

  Aln hadn’t been born into a wful marriage. Her parents hadn’t pnned for her. She was a consequence of fate, born at a time when neither of them was ready. After her birth, a series of tragedies and misfortunes overwhelmed them—leaving them unable to care for their daughter.

  But Aln never knew the truth.

  One warm summer’s day, Susan had left Aln in the care of her own parents—and never came back.And truthfully, Sam and Samantha never tried to uncover what had happened either. At the time, Aln was just a month old, and Sam was still reeling from the emotional wreckage of war.

  Samantha had no idea that Aln’s father was a wealthy, aristocratic Tenebris by the name of Mike Steiny. Mike’s father, Theodore Steiny, owned a vast multinational corporation and was deeply involved in international trade. He had investments and partnerships all across Europe and America. Ruthless, insatiably ambitious, and obsessed with power at every stage of life—Theodore was supported by a network of highly influential Tenebris elites around the world.

  * * *

  After waking from yet another one of those strange, inexplicable dreams, Aln called out in a cheeky, sing-song voice:

  “Had one of those weird dreams again, graaand-motherrrr!”

  She climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom. As she did every morning, she stood in front of the mirror and gazed deeply into her own pupils.

  But her reflection wasn't a quest to understand who she was or what she looked like. It wasn’t the gaze of a narcissist or someone obsessed with their appearance.

  Aln examined herself intently because of the dreams—those strange sensations, the instincts that surfaced uninvited. Each day, countless questions were building up in her mind, and she was desperately searching for answers.

  But it wasn't just that she couldn't find any reasonable expnations—what troubled her even more was the belief that there wasn’t a single person in the entire universe to whom she could even direct those questions.

  Who could possibly find such odd, abstract thoughts meaningful? And even if someone could, who might have the depth to answer them?

  Was Aln, in fact, the true alchemist of our tale? A girl blessed with rare, hidden powers?

  And if so…

  Where would the source of her alchemy truly lie?

  The questions stretched on—endlessly, helplessly...

  * * *

  Grandmother Samantha hadn’t heard her. Aln’s bedroom was upstairs, and the kitchen was on the ground floor.In truth, Aln never really spoke to Samantha about her dreams. She simply repeated the same phrase, over and over again, like a soothing murmur—as though trying to comfort herself.And in doing so, she tried to dissolve the eerie feeling of being alone with something she couldn’t quite comprehend.

  After finishing up in the bathroom, she returned to her room to pack her schoolbag. She pced her books and notebooks neatly inside, then made her way down for breakfast.

  But that morning was unlike any other.

  Grandmother Samantha had set a magnificent breakfast table in the back garden.There were warm savoury pastries, honey-drizzled pancakes, chocote-gzed buns, colourful jams—and of course, Aln’s favourite—green olives.

  Samantha called out brightly:“Come along now, Sam! We’re waiting for you!”

  Grandfather Sam, still groggy from his medication, managed to prepare himself and shuffle downstairs with great effort.

  A short while ter, the doorbell rang.

  Standing at the door was a stranger dressed in peculiar clothing, carrying a brown wooden box in his hands.

  They moved into the dining room on the ground floor, sat facing one another, and began to talk.It didn’t seem like this was the first time Sam had seen the oddly dressed man.Yet, as he listened, his face took on a quiet sorrow, a subtle air of disappointment.

  Grandmother Samantha chose not to leave Aln alone at the breakfast table to join them. Perhaps she too knew who the visitor was.

  Every now and then, Aln peeked curiously out the window.At one point, she saw the man hand Grandfather Sam the wooden box—weathered, old.

  Later, Sam shook the man’s hand, walked him out to the front garden, and saw him off.

  He then took the box and headed straight down to the basement—to the locked storage room he rarely opened.Most likely, there was a safe down there, and he intended to store the box securely inside.

  Aln was burning with curiosity—who was that man, and what had he given to Sam?

  But when they saw how weary and distant Sam looked as he quietly shut himself away in his room again, they chose not to disturb him.

  Aln, eager not to be te for school, left the house—carrying yet another unanswered question in her mind:What was inside the mysterious box Sam had hidden in the basement?

  * * *

  As soon as she arrived at school, Aln ran into her cssmate, Mathew, in the schoolyard.

  Mathew was a slightly chubby, sweet boy with blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. He had a soft spot for Aln and didn’t hesitate for a moment: “Hey Aln! Did you manage to finish Mrs. Watson’s poetry assignment? I scribbled something down, but I don’t think it turned out too well. What about yours?” Aln had indeed completed her assignment. “Yes, I’ve written it,” she replied, but quickly added that she wouldn’t be reading it aloud. She didn’t think it was necessary. To her, it seemed almost ridiculous—poetry wasn’t something to be shared carelessly or read at any time, in any pce, without reverence. It wasn’t meant for randomness. For the very first time in her life, she felt she had written something true—something real.

  A poem crafted with presence and purpose. And now, she was beginning to understand something vital: Poetry carried a sacred essence. It couldn’t just be read in any mood or moment. It demanded alignment. Intuition. Crity. In fact, Aln had recently begun researching different poetic styles and poets from around the world. A quiet obsession was forming in the background of her life. It was as though the poetries held deep meanings, codes that could unlock her subconscious, liberate her instincts, and answer the questions that kept piling up in her head. At times, she lived with a kind of restless curiosity, as if the entire universe were nothing more than a riddle, cradled gently in her palms… waiting to be solved. Aln felt both entirely at ease and deeply uneasy.

  Both incredibly brave and incredibly fragile…

  ***

  At Ravenwood Friends Middle School, the Literature teacher, Mrs Enor Watson, stood tall despite the silvery strands beginning to peek through her shoulder-length blonde hair and the fine lines gently etched around her deep blue eyes.Her voice had a sweet, energetic warmth to it.

  Though the years had brought with them a few extra pounds, her posture remained firm and solid—likely a result of having pyed volleyball in her younger days.She was one of the most beloved teachers at the school.And truly, who could dislike the calm, soul-soothing energy of literature?

  Mrs Watson gently pced a hand on Aln’s shoulder, who was staring absentmindedly at the board, her thoughts adrift.

  “Your turn, Aln!” she said with a bright tone.

  But Aln didn’t hear her—not at first.

  She was still lost in thought, wrapped in the fog of her emotions and reflections.Only as her mind began to lift from its focused depth did the sounds of the world around her start to return—slowly sharpening into crity.

  Mrs Watson repeated herself, this time a little louder:“It’s your turn now, Aln!”

  Aln was to read out the poem she had written for her homework.Mrs Watson had left the topic completely open.

  But for Aln—writing a poem for the very first time—it hadn’t taken long to decide what she wanted to write about.

  * * *

  The weekend before Mrs Watson’s literature css, Aln had gone to see a wonderful py with her grandmother, Samantha, at one of the city’s oldest theatres—The Imperial Picture House, built in 1939.

  On the way back, they unexpectedly ran into Samantha’s old friend, Margaret, who had been living in Europe for many years. And the meeting happened right on Greenfield Cemetery Road…

  “Margaret! I can’t believe my eyes—you’re back!”

  Margaret: “Yes, Samantha, I’ve returned. How are you? What have you been up to? Oh, and is this lovely young girl Aln?”

  Samantha: “Yes, this is Aln! She’s grown into a fine young dy. And in just a few days, she’ll be turning thirteen!”

  Margaret: “Hello, Aln! My, how you’ve grown! Such a sweet girl! So, which school do you go to?”

  Before Aln could reply, Samantha answered brightly:

  “She goes to Ravenwood Friends! She’s starting Year Eight this term! So come on—tell me everything! What have you been doing all these years in London?”

  Suddenly, right there on the roadside, the two women fell into a deep conversation. The weather was beautiful—early evening with a gentle breeze. It was clear that Margaret and Samantha were eager to make up for all the years they hadn’t seen one another.

  Soon enough, it was as if they had forgotten Aln was even there.

  Struggling to bear the growing volume of their conversation, Aln began to tune them out. She focused instead on the other sounds around her. The most prominent came from just across the street—from the Soni Surge Music Academy.

  Aln had heard of the school before. People often spoke highly of its brilliant music teacher—Mr Calein Virelium. She had long felt that one of the greatest missing pieces in her life was learning to py a musical instrument. She didn’t want to remain just a listener; she wanted to explore, to discover new notes and rhythms.

  Unfortunately, however, the academy stood right beside a Gravian cemetery—Greenfield City Cemetery.

  Even on her way to Ravenwood Friends Middle School, Aln would usually go out of her way to avoid that particur road. But things were different when she was with Samantha. She tried her best not to show that she felt uneasy around cemeteries.

  She feared that Samantha might treat it as a psychological problem requiring therapy.

  To Samantha, having failed to help her daughter Susan was something she deeply regretted—and she was determined not to repeat the same mistakes with Aln. She wanted to correct in Aln what she believed she had left undone in Susan.

  But to Aln, this was a great misfortune. She cherished her freedom—the ability to act and decide for herself.

  Standing just behind Samantha, Aln quietly waited, not changing her position once throughout the entire conversation.

  What she didn’t know was that this would be the st weekend she would ever experience that irrational fear of cemeteries. Samantha wouldn’t normally stand and chat by the roadside for so long. But Margaret returning to Calvert Govein after all these years, it all stretched the conversation far beyond what was usual. When the topic of Susan came up, their voices softened. Still, Aln didn’t like it. She didn’t like the idea of her mother—a woman who remained a complete mystery to her—being discussed so casually, in such a public pce. She wanted Samantha to wrap up this—in her eyes—pointless conversation and take her home. Or at least accompany her to the street corner, so she could continue the rest of the way alone. As if the situation weren’t overwhelming enough, the shrill sound of a funeral vehicle’s siren echoed from the far end of the road. It was heading straight for the cemetery entrance. The sense of helplessness became unbearable. Aln stared intently at the vehicle as it manoeuvred through the gates. The siren was so loud, it was almost deafening. She pressed her hands firmly over her ears, but it did little to help.

  Behind the vehicle was a coffin—so luxurious that its price could be guessed from a mile away. Clearly, the deceased had been someone rich and important.

  Aln had only ever seen coffins like that in films, series, or random videos while scrolling online. Perhaps on the news… or in a fleeting moment on social media…

  She couldn’t help herself. Her mind refused to stay still.

  In mere minutes, a human body would be buried in the Dunya.

  Her imagination leapt forward without permission, conjuring images she wished she could block out.

  She desperately wanted to break through the heavy, suffocating gloom that had descended on her thoughts.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she began to recall and repeat the biology topics Mr Tonny Piere had covered in css that week:

  “Photosynthesis, Cell Structure, Lipids, Mitochondria, Respiratory System, Digestive System…”

  And then—quite suddenly—she made a decision.

  Without saying another word, Aln turned away from Samantha and Margaret and walked briskly towards the Soni Surge Music Academy.

  Without so much as a gnce back, she called out:

  “Pick me up when you’re done talking, Grandma!”

  The moment she stepped inside, she surrendered herself to the soothing embrace of music.

  The gentle rhythms produced by the instruments washed over her, dissolving all the weight and darkness that had filled her just moments earlier.

  A thought passed through her mind:

  “The human mind… what a strange and mysterious machine. The way it shifts depending on its surroundings—what a miracle. It’s either an illusion… or true alchemy.”

  And in that moment, a new idea sparked within her.

  That day, she decided she would write a poem about overcoming her fear of cemeteries.

  She had come to realise that her deepest fears were not shaped by logic or reality—but by sensory impressions gone out of control.

  * * *

  There were a few more cssmates who knew Aln and were curious about the kind of poem she might write. One of them was the handsome Jonah. He was one of Aln’s cssmates—calm, logical, and mature.

  Another cssmate was Emily, a girl with remarkably developed emotional intelligence and razor-sharp observational skills. She was deeply moved by Aln’s insights during literature lessons. When Aln spoke—or interpreted a literary theme—Emily believed that every word she uttered carried profound meanings.

  Emily had the potential to help Aln make sense of her dreams, to touch the hidden corners of her inner world. She felt, over time, she could become a kind of spiritual guide to her…

  Ravenwood Friends Middle School - Creative Arts Camp

  The Sound of the Abyss – Aln Pie

  Aln moved—

  and fell into the abyss.

  The world itself

  was a boundless chasm.

  Her deeds, her dreams, her restless fme,

  even her hair—once bold, untamed—

  shivered as the wind flew past,

  its breath a ghost, so cold, so fast.

  High and low,

  deep and hollow—

  the silence sang

  its dreadful sorrow.

  It was the finger of god

  Scratching the nightmares

  It carved the dark, into my fears

  I dread frost caves

  the endless night of death

  Through shadowed on my gaze

  no sight sound, it is the fact

  My mind awakens with a spinning dizziness—

  am I becoming numb to nothingness?

  Ah! Those lovely numbers—beings of form,

  I fear not your friendship anymore.

  After Aln finished reading her poem, a moment of silence settled over the cssroom.

  Mrs Watson could hardly believe her ears. She turned to Aln and asked, “Aln… did you really write that poem yourself?”

  “Yes, Mrs Watson,” Aln replied.

  Mathew’s admiration for Aln grew even more. Emily, already enchanted by Aln’s expressive thoughts and feelings, stared with wide eyes in amazement. Jonah, however, wanted to believe that Aln had copied the poem from somewhere or had help writing it.

  The rest of the css became noticeably reluctant to read their own poems aloud. Aln had raised the bar so high, it was as if she had walked to the centre of the room and pnted a fg that said, “This is how you write a truly moving poem.”

  But how had Aln managed to write something so intense and profound?

  Mrs Watson was already preparing to publish a copy of Aln’s poem—not just within the school, but throughout the entire literary community of Calvert Govein. In truth, it seemed to reflect not only Aln’s talent but also Mrs Watson’s pride in her own teaching.

  After a few more students had read their poems, Mrs Watson called for a short break. Just before everyone left the room, she turned to Aln:

  “Aln Pie, I’d like you to come and see me before you go out for recess. There’s something important I need to tell you.”

  Aln, curious, walked over to Mrs Watson’s desk, with Mathew tagging along—keen to get a quiet moment with Aln and ask how she had managed to write such a beautiful poem.

  “Yes, Mrs Watson? I’m listening.”

  Mrs Watson:

  “Aln, I absolutely loved your poem. If you truly wrote this yourself, I’d like to submit a copy to the Calvert Govein Literary and Poetry Society. They publish poems in their monthly print magazine and on their website—as long as you’re happy with that.

  I know you’ll want to research them on your own, but let me tell you a little. The Society was founded in the early 1900s. At first, they only had a printed monthly edition, but as technology evolved, they now run both the print version and an online ptform.

  I follow both closely and would love to see your name featured there as one of the young emerging voices in poetry.

  It might even inspire you to keep writing more beautiful poems. So, what do you think, Aln?”

  Aln:

  “Of course, Mrs Watson. Why not?”

  But truthfully, Aln wasn’t thrilled. She didn’t enjoy being the centre of attention.

  When Emily, Jonah, and Mathew heard the offer, they came over to congratute her. Jonah, however, was secretly jealous. Though he tried to hide it, his next words would give him away.

  He leaned towards Aln and whispered:

  “Aln Pie! Let’s see if you really wrote that marvellous poem yourself.”

  With a smug little smirk, Jonah walked out of the cssroom.

  Emily turned to Aln and said kindly:

  “Don’t let it get to you, Aln. That’s just Jonah being Jonah—you know what he’s like. He always has to be the best at everything. It’s honestly quite sad.

  But when I listened to your poem, I felt something deep in my soul. I felt peace, Aln. Thank you for that.

  Come on, let’s go out into the garden. We need some fresh air—maths is next! Ugh!”

  At the mention of “maths,” Aln instinctively pced a hand on her chest.

  She felt deeply connected to that word. Hearing it used negatively made her uncomfortable. She only knew her mother, Susan Pie, as a stunning and brilliant mathematics prodigy through photographs and stories.

  ***

  (Nova Lumera University, Calvert Govein Campus, thirteen years ago...)

  That year, autumn at Nova Lumera University seemed almost ordinary. But Susan Pie was anything but ordinary. She hadn’t been accepted into the Mathematics Department solely for her intellect. Her admission had been approved by the Marynd Aurelia Quadrant Regional Office of Celestia Vertex. Because she was a Luxian.

  That day, leaves drifted slowly to the ground. A soft murmur echoed through the stone-pilred halls of Nova Lumera. As the autumn winds swept through Calvert Govein, the books read in the warm houses and libraries transformed them into sanctuaries. Every building filled with knowledge felt like a temple.

  Susan had been assigned to attend a specific programme that day… A specialised symposium on Behavioural Neuroscience. The conference was titled: “Beyond Consciousness: Mapping the New Mind” The breakout sessions were as follows: 10:00 am — Cognitive Boundaries Speaker: Dr Michael Steiny 2:00 pm — Cognitive Sovereignty Speaker: Professor Aravelle

  Susan hadn’t chosen to attend by personal interest.She had been given a covert observation assignment.She carried a sleek, understated notebook engraved with “Selected Observer Logbook.”

  Susan had arrived early.While waiting for Professor Aravelle’s session, she decided to attend the earlier Cognitive Boundaries lecture.

  He couldn't expin it—but something unseen had drawn him there. Perhaps his love of mathematics—his desire to understand the nguage of the universe—had awakened his longing to grasp the nguage of the soul. He sat near the front. And there he was, standing at the head of the lectern:

  Dr. Michael Steiny.

  And then, in the middle of his lecture, he uttered a line that struck him like an arrow: "Emotion is not the opposite of reason. It is merely votile—unstable, unpredictable, but programmable."He stood in a beige shirt, brown-toned trousers, and a dark pinstripe waistcoat.He had an authoritarian air, an innate charm and a charismatic presence. A Harvard-MIT graduate. An expert in behavioural cognition. He was an academic from the pnet of Dunya. But behind the scenes, he was working for organizations that Acheronys was affiliated with. His choice of words was sharp unpredictable and fwless. The audience listened in reverent silence. But Susan… felt something else about him

  “Emotional reactivity becomes irrelevant once prefrontal dominance takes over.True agency lies in inhibition—not in reaction.”

  At this, a few murmurs of discomfort rippled through the hall. And then— From the front corner, dressed in a white long-sleeved sweatshirt, bck linen trousers, and tall winter-ced boots… With her soft hazel hair and clear, contemptive gaze behind thin gsses— Susan raised her voice, calm and clear:

  “Dr Steiny… If I may, I have a question for you.”

  Mike paused. He nodded for her to proceed.

  Susan:“If emotion is merely a variable beyond control, Then why can some emotions be suppressed while others intensify when denied? Suppressed love often fades… But suppressed anger grows. So, I ask— Is what you call control truly control? Or is it merely a dey?”

  Mike narrowed his eyes and inhaled, subtly.

  But Susan— in her white sweatshirt, the maroon scarf (knitted by her grandmother Samantha), with her quietly radiant hair and dreamy gaze— had caught him off guard.

  Dr Michael Steiny: “That’s... a rather intriguing approach. Miss…?”

  Susan: “Susan Pie.”

  Dr Steiny:

  “Miss Pie. Theoretically, however, the regutory function of the prefrontal cortex—”

  Susan didn’t continue the debate.

  But her gaze said what her words didn’t…

  From that moment on, his lecture was effectively over. His words continued—But his authority was silently shattered.

  Then Mrs. Aravelle's lecture began, and it too ended at 3:00 p.m. Later, at the book stand, their paths crossed again. Mike approached Susan, calm but clearly impressed. He looked down at the book in her hand, then raised his head and looked into Susan's eyes. Only these words came out of his mouth: "This book... leaves more questions than answers." Susan did not answer, could not answer...

  But her eyes seemed to say: "I am not here for answers.

  I am here for questions."

  And so it was—the first spark had been ignited between consciousness and feeling within the stone walls of Nova Lumera University...

  Soon after, they were drawn to one another in a way neither could resist.

  They would take long walks, have deep conversations about literature and poetry.

  Susan's family lived in Calvert Govein, while Mike had come from North Carolina—

  Mike's time as a visiting academic came to an end—and with it, he began to remember who he truly was.

  While carrying Aln in her womb, Susan had already begun introducing her to numbers and theories. Her habit of talking aloud while solving mathematical problems became the sweetest melody Aln had ever known.

  Sometimes, Samantha would show Aln her mother’s photo albums. But Aln never felt any connection—no emotion stirred within her.

  Her entire history of love and belonging was made up of pictures with Sam and Samantha. And in those photographs, the absence of her mother always struck Aln as… strange. Each time she looked at Susan, she struggled to accept the idea that her mother had simply left—abandoning a child without a known father…

  * * *

  Aln was heading home from school, her head spinning with the whirlwind of questions left unanswered, still carrying the weight of her breathtaking poem. Lost in thought, she hadn’t realised she was walking past Greenfield Cemetery—the very one she always tried to avoid by taking different routes each day.“Oh no! How did I end up here again?” she thought to herself.But this time, she didn’t speed up her pace. She didn’t try to rush past. In fact, she stopped—and in a moment of courage and quiet confrontation, even a thought crossed her mind: “What if my father—the one I never knew—is buried somewhere around here? Or under a gravestone just likethose?”Even though the idea was about a man she had never met, the thought hit her hard, and sadness swelled in her chest. Just then, as her emotions fred and she picked up her pace in frustration, Mr. Sis Evermore was coming from the opposite direction on his bicycle. Aln hadn’t noticed him. And in the blink of an eye, they collided.Aln was thrown to the ground and was dazed. The emotional intensity of the day had dulled her senses; she couldn’t even feel the pain from the fall. Her bag and books scattered across the pavement. She y on her back, slowly resting her head against the warm asphalt. She stared up at the bright blue sky. Pale white clouds floated above her.

  A few tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks.

  It was one of those strange moments—when she couldn’t quite tell what hurt more: her heart, her thoughts,or her scraped right knee.

  Mr. Evermore rose from where he had fallen and hurried over to Aln.“Are you alright, Aln? I tried to warn you, but you were miles away!”He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her, but Aln didn’t want to move. She didn't even want to talk.Not until the softest ray of sunlight brushed across her face—and a cool breeze swept gently against her cheek.

  And then, without warning, the wind whispered in her ear:

  “Aln! Happy birthday. Your father!”

  Startled, Aln shot upright and looked around. She needed to know where that voice had come from.

  Mr Evermore, satisfied that she was okay, hopped back on his bike and called over his shoulder:“Go home, Aln. And have a proper sleep tonight! I promise, when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll feel a whole lot better!”

  Aln couldn’t make sense of his words. But within seconds, the sun's rays, the evening breeze, Mr. Evermore and his strange bicycle had long since vanished.

  All she could feel now was the pain in her right knee. She tried to walk home, staggering slightly. As she turned the corner, she saw 326 Elderwood Brave Road, which stretched out among ancient trees like the entrance to a botanical garden.

  At the far end of the street stood perhaps Calvert Govein’s most mysterious residents—the Bckwoods: Victor, Lillian, and their unnervingly quiet son, Dorian.

  Next door to the Pie family’s blue-shuttered home lived the Thornfields—Nancy, Timothy, and their daughter Elsa, who always seemed to be listening to something no one else could hear.

  Across the street were the Corneliuses, long-time neighbors and reliable weather predictors—according to Mrs. Cornelius, her knees could sense rain better than the forecast. Their mischievous cat, Archie, ruled the pavement like it was his kingdom.

  On the other side of the Pies lived Mr. Sis Evermore, a reclusive writer rarely seen before sunset and widely rumored to be working on a novel that no one would ever read… or survive.

  Aln was limping towards home. Just then, Mrs. Cornelius was getting out of the car, having returned from shopping, carrying bags in her hand. When she saw that Aln was limping, she called out:

  “Are you alright, Aln?”

  Mr Cornelius, a retired Nobel-winning physicist, hardly ever spoke to the neighbours. He spent his days in the vast library of their home, scribbling away or posting countless letters.Postman Mr. Harwey often collected dozens of envelopes each week from their mailbox. Even in the digital age, Mr Cornelius didn’t trust the internet. He insisted that physical post was the only reliable way to send important documents. This behaviour alone was enough to suggest his mind might not be as sound as it once was.Aln had overheard Samantha talking about how Mr. Cornelius had suffered a breakdown while working on a high-stakes project at the Mindstone Independent Science Authority in North Carolina. After a long period of therapy, Mrs Cornelius had brought him here to live a quieter life. Yet, rumours were swirling that tely, he had begun to long for the past once more…Avoiding eye contact, Aln replied softly:

  "Thank you, Mrs. Cornelius. I'm fine, I just bumped my leg against a street mp."

  Mrs. Cornelius nodded:

  "Okay, Aln. Take care. A good night's sleep will make you feel much better tomorrow. Say hello to Sam and Samantha for me. Feel better, honey!"

  She carried her shopping bags up the garden steps and took out her keys.

  Mrs. Cornelius seemed to know that Aln would watch her until she walked through the door. And it happened just as she had expected. Aln had watched Mrs. Cornelius open the door and walk in. She had smmed the door in Aln's face. Then Aln saw Mr. Cornelius part the curtains and watch them silently from the window. And then he closed the curtains in Aln's face. Still, Aln was mature enough not to be bothered by the strange behavior of his neighbors.

  She straightened up and walked slowly, steadily toward the house...

  * * *