The world was quiet again.
Not because it was numb.
But because it was listening.
The CORE collapsed.
Nullworld logs went public.
Governments fractured.
Cities reorganized.
And for the first time in generations, people asked:
“What now?”
Moneytory stood in the ruins of the old city library.
It still smelled like ash and old paper.
He placed a binder on the desk.
The title:
Emotive Literacy: Year One Curriculum
Haejin added her file:
“Emotional Archetypes in Childhood Expression”
They looked at each other.
“Are we really doing this?” she asked.
He smiled.
“You don’t rebuild a world.
You reeducate it.”
They opened the doors three months later.
Not a university.
Not a lab.
Not a temple.
Just a building made of cracked brick and warm light.
Chalkboards.
Blank canvases.
Soundproof rooms for screaming.
The first School of Emotional Praxis.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
The first students were strange.
A girl who hadn’t cried since her brother disappeared.
A boy who never knew how to say “I miss you.”
A teenager who wrote poems in code.
They didn’t come to memorize facts.
They came to relearn what it means to feel.
Class modules included:
Grief 101: The Physics of Letting Go
Rage Workshop: Safe Spaces for Dangerous Emotions
The Empathy Lab: Mirror Neurons and Moral Choices
Love Without Permission: The Ethics of Vulnerability
Emotional Debugging: How to Unlearn Manufactured Reactions
“What if I fail the class?” one kid asked.
“Then we cry together,” Haejin said.
“And try again,” Moneytory added.
It didn’t take long.
The news ran stories like:
“School Teaches Kids to Cry—Literally.”
“Emotion Curriculum: Softening the Next Generation?”
“Where’s the Math?”
Some governments called it subversive.
Others called it dangerous.
But they kept coming.
Parents.
Teachers.
Even burned-out therapists looking to unlearn.
One of them asked,
“Is this a cult?”
Haejin shrugged.
“Only if it works.”
By the end of the year, 63 schools had opened worldwide.
Not franchises.
Not replicas.
Each one unique.
Each one rooted in one question:
What do you feel?
And what does that feeling deserve?
Students began writing new textbooks.
Not in paragraphs.
But in memories.
A hug they wished they had.
A goodbye they never said.
A joke that saved their life.
And those became lessons.
One night, Moneytory stood on the school roof again.
Haejin beside him.
The stars weren’t any closer.
But they didn’t need to be.
“What do you think they’ll become?” she asked.
He thought for a long time.
“People who know how to cry before they hurt someone.
People who know how to scream without burning cities.
People who feel…
and stay human.”
On the wall in classroom 3B:
A single quote in chalk.
Not from a philosopher.
Not from a saint.
Just from the man who cried in a simulation and proved it was real.
“Emotion is not a flaw.
It's our mother tongue.” – M.
To be continued…