Jacob Prince

Excerpts Only Chapter 01 The Vanishing Rescuer It was morning as usual and it was a wet morning. The rain had the peculiar, steady insistence of a season that would not be denied thin, hard sheets driven by a wind that made umbrellas bend like supplicants. I was late for the office; the little building opposite the road had its fluorescent lights on, promising the small mercy of work and routine. My umbrella jostled with the crowd at the corner, a dozen umbrellas forming a small moving forest. The road shone like oil. Taxi lights smeared through the wet air. The city did not stop for the rain. It adjusted. The road shimmered beneath a layer of water, reflecting everything and revealing nothing clearly. Taxi lights stretched into long, uncertain streaks. Buildings softened at their edges. Even sound seemed to travel differently, as if the rain absorbed what it did not wish to carry. I was late for the office. Not late enough to matter in any meaningful way, but late enough to occupy my thoughts. Across the road, the small building stood with its fluorescent lights already glowing, a quiet promise of routine, of predictability, of things continuing as they always do. There is comfort in routine. Even when it is ordinary. Perhaps especially then. At the corner, a group of people had gathered. Umbrellas overlapped, forming a small moving forest of dark shapes. No one spoke. The voice of droplets prevailed. Each person stood within the boundary of their own concerns, their own schedules, their own small urgencies. That is how most mornings unfold. Close together. Yet entirely separate. In their own space. I should have crossed at the light. It was the sensible thing to do. It was what everyone else was doing. But my mind had already moved ahead of me. There was a file left open on my desk. An email I had meant to send. A meeting I could already see unfolding before it began. There is a peculiar arrogance in the way we carry such thoughts. We assume the world will wait. We assume the moment in front of us is flexible. We assume nothing urgent will interrupt us while we are occupied with what we believe matters. Most of the time, we are right. And that is what makes us careless. I stepped away from the curb. The car came out of the gray like an idea made sudden. One moment it belonged to the background, a passing shape among many, and the next it stood apart, defined by speed and direction. Its headlights cut through the rain. Its tires broke the thin layer of water on the road with a sound that did not belong to the calm rhythm of the street. Something was wrong. The driver shouted. The words did not arrive fully. They broke apart in the air, lost between urgency and distance. Perhaps they were never meant to be understood. Perhaps they were simply the sound of realization arriving too late. The car veered. Not away. Toward. Toward the crowded curb. Toward the place where people stood believing themselves to be safe. People moved. Instinct took over where thought could not. Umbrellas fell. Voices rose. Bodies shifted in directions that were neither planned nor coordinated. A woman clutched a child to her chest, turning instinct into protection. The ordinary structure of the moment collapsed. And I… did not move. There are moments when the body hesitates. Not because it refuses. But because it cannot decide fast enough. Awareness arrives first. Action follows too slowly. I saw the path of the car. I saw where I stood. I understood the distance between the two. It was not much. Time changed. Not dramatically. Not completely. But enough. The sound of the engine stretched. The hiss of the tires lingered. The rain seemed to fall with greater clarity. And then… someone was there. He did not arrive with noise. He did not rush. He did not hesitate. He simply entered the moment. One step. Then another. His shoulder met my back. Firm. Precise. Certain. The world shifted. Only slightly. Only enough. The car passed. Close enough that the difference between what happened and what might have happened felt impossibly small. Water sprayed outward. The driver swore. The vehicle struggled briefly before coming to a halt further down the road. And just like that… it was over. Sound returned. Voices. Movement. The low hum of a city resuming its rhythm. The stranger’s hand left my arm. I was breathing heavily. My heart beat loudly, as though it had not yet understood that the moment had passed. Rain clung to my clothes, no longer something external, but something I had moved through. “You saved me,” I said. The words felt inadequate. But they were true. He nodded. There was no pride in it. No expectation. No attempt to make the moment larger than it was. I looked at him more closely. He was not young. He was not old. He existed somewhere in between, where age becomes less important than presence. His coat was dark, the rain resting lightly upon it. His hair lay against his forehead, damp but untroubled. There was a quiet economy to his features, nothing excessive, nothing demanding attention. His eyes observed. But did not linger. His expression carried something familiar. Not warmth exactly. But something close to it. Around us, the city reassembled itself. A man approached the driver. A policeman took notes. A small crowd formed, then dissolved. The moment was already being absorbed into memory. The stranger stepped away. There was no announcement. No conclusion. Just movement. I followed him. Gratitude is not passive. It asks to be completed. It seeks expression. It refuses to remain unfinished. He walked toward a narrow lane between two buildings. His pace was steady, unaffected by what had just occurred. It was as if he had not interrupted anything, but had simply passed through. At the entrance to the lane, he paused. An umbrella leaned against a shopfront. He picked it up. Opened it. Stood beneath it. For a moment, he did nothing. As if gathering himself. “Wait,” I called. He turned. “You saved my life,” I said again. This time, the words carried more than acknowledgment. They carried realization. He looked at me as if recognizing something beyond the moment. Not surprise. Not curiosity. Something quieter. “You were where you ought not to have been,” he said. His voice was calm. Measured. Uncomplicated. We exchanged the small courtesies of strangers. Names. I felt Something special about his name. Elias. We had brief acknowledgments. The suggestion of connection. I offered him coffee. He declined. Gently. But completely. “I have errands,” he said. “Another time.” There was no resistance in his tone. No hesitation. Only certainty. He folded the umbrella. Held it at his side. And walked into the lane. Within moments, he was gone. I remained where I was. The rain continued. The street continued. The day continued. Everything returned to its place. And yet… something had changed. There are moments that do not announce their importance. They pass quietly. Almost unnoticed. Until later. My mind was chasing something I was not aware. I stood there longer than necessary. Watching the space where he had disappeared. Expecting nothing. Eventually, I turned back. Crossed the road. Walked toward the office. But the feeling remained. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just present. As though something had entered my life… and chosen not to explain itself. Some people appear without warning. They do what is necessary. And then they leave. And long after they are gone… the question of why they came remains. Chapter 02 The Pursuit of Gratitude I did go to the office. Eventually. Routine has a way of calling us back, even when something within us resists returning. It does not argue. It does not persuade. It simply waits, steady and patient, until we step back into it. There is something almost sacred about routine. It steadies. It reminds us that life continues, even when a moment has interrupted its course. The office looked exactly as it had the day before. Fluorescent lights. Neatly arranged desks. Conversations that began and ended without leaving a mark. Nothing had changed. And yet, for me something had. My colleagues noticed the commotion. Not in detail, but in fragments. News travels in offices the way rain spreads across glass—quickly, unevenly, reshaped with each retelling. “A close call,” someone said. “A speeding car,” said another. “There was a man, wasn’t there?” The story became smaller as it moved from one person to another. More, simpler. More manageable. I nodded where necessary. Offered the expected confirmations. Allowed the moment to settle into something that could be discussed without weight. But the truth did not reduce so easily. There were details that did not belong to anyone else. The way he had moved. The stillness in him after the urgency had passed. The way the rain had rested on him—not entirely like it did on the rest of us. These were not things that could be explained. Or perhaps not things meant to be. They stayed with me. Quietly. Like a memory that had not yet decided what it meant. The day passed. Files were opened and closed. Meetings began and ended. Conversations filled space without leaving an imprint. I worked. But not completely. Part of my attention remained elsewhere, returning, without effort, to the moment on the road, to the narrow lane, to the figure that had disappeared without asking to be remembered. Two days passed. Time, when filled with routine, does not always move forward. Sometimes, it simply circulates. There was an errand to the stationery shop. I bought a pen. It wrote too smoothly. There was something almost unsettling about it, the way the ink flowed without resistance, as though it removed the small effort that usually makes writing feel deliberate. I used it anyway. Life continued. But something beneath it had shifted. Things looked slightly unusual. Or was it my imagination? On the third day, I noticed the umbrella. It stood in the doorway of the building opposite the office. Propped casually, as though placed there without intention. It did not belong. The fabric was patterned with small, faded florals, an older design, the kind rarely seen anymore. The colors had softened with time, as if they had been carried through many seasons. It was wet. But not recently. Someone had left it there. That much was clear. And yet, no one had taken it. In a place where objects rarely remain unattended, it felt… deliberate. I stood there longer than necessary. Looking at it. Considering something that did not fully form into thought. It felt like a clue. A ridiculous idea. And yet, not entirely dismissible. I picked it up. The handle felt worn, shaped by use. There was something oddly familiar in that. Not in the object itself. But in what it represented. I carried it with me. After lunch, I found myself walking toward the lane. It was not a decision I made consciously. Not in the way decisions are usually made. It felt… inevitable. The lane looked the same. Narrow. unremarkable. A passage between places rather than a destination. It led past small shops, most of them half-occupied, their interiors dimly lit and filled with items that seemed to exist without urgency. A stairway climbed upward beside one of the buildings, leading to an apartment that looked as though it had been left unchanged for years. And then there was the café. It was not the kind that tried to impress. No signs of careful branding. No declarations of quality. Just a small room with closely placed tables and the quiet rhythm of people who came and left without ceremony. Gratitude does not fade easily. It settles. It lingers. And if left unattended, it becomes something else, an unfinished thought, a quiet imbalance that waits to be resolved. I stepped inside. And there he was. Seated at a corner table. He was drinking something slowly, as though time did not press against him the way it did against others. There was no sign of surprise when he looked up. Only recognition. As if this meeting had already been accounted for. He smiled. It was a small movement. But it changed something. Up close, he seemed both familiar and distant. The same coat, still carrying traces of rain. The same presence, calm, measured, unhurried. “I wanted to say thank you properly,” I began. The words felt less certain than they had in my mind. Gratitude, when spoken aloud, often feels inadequate. As though language cannot hold the full weight of what we intend. “You already did,” he said with a smile. He stirred his cup lightly. The spoon touched the ceramic with a soft, deliberate sound. “But then,” he added, “we are fond of repetition.” There was something in the way he said it. Not dismissive. Not amused. Just… observant. We spoke. At first, cautiously. The way strangers do when conversation has not yet decided its direction. He seemed to hold back entire corridors of information as if privacy were part of his practice. His eyes gathered details: the passage of people through the café door, the way the rain had left a particular sheen on the road. He watched the comings and goings as though assessing the town’s small choreography. He asked about my work. Listened. Not in the way people usually listen, waiting for their turn to speak, but with an attention that did not feel performative. I answered more than I expected to. In return, he offered small pieces of himself. Nothing substantial. Nothing revealing. But enough. A memory of learning to swim. A story about a neighbor who cooked well. Details that built familiarity without exposing anything essential. When I asked about his errands, he smiled. And said nothing. At some point, I asked if he lived nearby. He paused. Only briefly. “Not far,” he said. Then, after a moment. “My home is a private thing.” The answer was complete. I asked again. More directly. Where do you sleep? He closed his mouth slightly. Not in refusal. But in finality. And shook his head. There are some questions that do not invite answers. Only boundaries. We left the café together. Without deciding to. He walked. I followed. Not with intention. But with curiosity that had not yet found its limit. He did not move toward the houses. Instead, he turned. Away from the path. Toward the edge of the valley. Towards the edge of jungle. The ground changed beneath our feet. Grass replaced stone. Soft. Wet. The air felt different there. Quieter. As though it held something back. We walked a short distance. No more than a few hundred paces. Curiosity, that small engine, moved me behind him. There was a growing distance between us. It was unintentional. He went beyond the lane where streetlights gave up and tracks began. He walked into the wilderness with a purpose. I followed until the undergrowth and the difficulty of the path stopped me. Then the ground shifted. A bit dramatically. And enough to be felt. From the trees, a shape emerged. Large. Unmistakable. An elephant. It moved with a presence that altered the space around it. Not hurried. Not aggressive. But certain. It crossed the narrow path between us. Then stopped. And stood. There is something about such stillness that carries authority. It did not need to act. It did not need to signal. Its presence was enough. The animal that blocked the way was enormous in silhouette, a wild, unexpected thing, and I, not being brave by training, retreated. That day I returned with a childish disappointment at not having reached an explanation. Later, I learned more. It was three days later. My curiosity was answered. A clue on where he stayed. Not from him. But from Miriam Thomas. She was at the café the next time I went. Seated, at the same corner table. An enamel thermos beside her. People in our valley knew Miriam Thomas because her hands moved the way a nurse’s hands do—quick without being abrupt, measured with the patience of someone who had learned to set a broken thing and not ask it to be grateful.

Excerpts Only CHAPTER 1 THE RETURN OF ELIAS There are times when a person's life divides itself into two parts. Before. And after. Most people never recognize those moments while living them. Only later, looking backwards, do they realize that everything changed on a particular day, a particular conversation, or a particular knock upon a door. For me, one such moment had arrived several years after the flood. The valley was alive again. Not just restored. Transformed. Totally. Visitors who arrived for the first time found it difficult to believe the destruction that had once existed there. New roads wound gracefully through the hills. Stronger bridges crossed the river. Schools, clinics, markets, and homes stood where mud and ruin had once thrived. The new dam rose above the valley like a monument to both engineering and humility. It was bigger than the previous structure. Safer. Smarter. Designed by experts gathered from several countries. Its construction became a symbol of recovery. A declaration that disaster would not have the final word. Yet beneath the fresh paint and polished stone, memories remained. The older residents still pointed at certain places and said: "There was a house there." "There used to be a shop here." "My grandfather planted those trees." Recovery repairs structures. It repairs emotions as well to some extent. It does not erase history. The political consequences of the disaster lasted almost as long as the reconstruction itself. Governments changed. Officials resigned. Committees were formed. Investigations produced reports thick enough to fill libraries. Every political party promised accountability. Every administration promised transparency. Every election revived old arguments. And through it all, rebuilding continued. Perhaps that was humanity's greatest strength. Not perfection. Persistence. Perseverance. The valley's reconstruction became a global effort. Former residents living overseas continued contributing. Churches organized collections. Businesses donated materials. Families and children sent money from countries they had called home for decades. What began as a local recovery eventually became an international movement. I found myself unexpectedly placed near its center. Not because I sought attention. Far from it. Circumstances simply refused to leave me alone. As a member of the reconstruction committee, I travelled extensively. I attended fundraising events. Spoke at community gatherings. Visited cities I had never imagined seeing. People welcomed me warmly. Sometimes too warmly. Occasional outbursts of emotion was unavoidable. In several countries I was introduced as a hero. I disliked that title immediately. Heroes save people. Heroes know what they are doing. Heroes possess courage and certainty. I had neither. Whenever possible, I redirected praise elsewhere. To the volunteers. To emergency workers. To donors. To the people who rebuilt their lives despite unimaginable loss. And eventually- to Elias. That usually changed the atmosphere. Some listeners became fascinated. Others became uncomfortable. A few became openly skeptical. "Who exactly is Elias?" "Where is he now?" "Why has nobody seen him since?" "Do you have proof he exists?" Those questions followed me everywhere. Unfortunately, I rarely had answers. The truth sounded unbelievable even to me. A man appeared. Warned people. Saved lives. Disappeared. The story sounded less convincing every year. Many concluded that Elias was either exaggerated or entirely fictional. Others suggested he had been invented to make sense of events nobody fully understood. A few individuals accused me of deliberately creating the legend. I learned not to argue. Some debates produce more heat than light. So, I smiled politely. Changed the subject. And continued with the work that actually mattered. Least outwardly. Privately, however, one question continued haunting me. Not Elias. Miriam. Years had passed since her disappearance. Years of searching. Years of uncertainty. Years of learning how to continue living without understanding. I attended annual Prayer meetings conducted by her family. They preserved their faith of her return one day. People gradually and eventually stop asking questions about missing persons. Not because they stop caring. Because they stop expecting any answers. I never entirely stopped. Inside my wardrobe, carefully folded and protected from dust, remained the last item she had left behind. A blue scarf. With its golden borders - I never spoke about it. Never displayed it. Never explained why I kept it. Some memories do not require an explanation. They simply remain. And so, life continued. Until one particular night. The rain had started shortly after sunset. Not a storm. Just a steady rainfall that softened the sounds of the valley beyond my window. Rain drops made melody on my windows. It didn't interrupt my work schedule. That night, I went to bed late. It was dark outside and from my bed, I could see a small lonely streetlight across my window far away. I was about to slip into slumber. Then, someone knocked on my door. It was midnight. Three slow knocks. Nothing urgent. Nothing threatening. Just deliberate. Patient. Certain. I remember checking the clock. It was far too late for visitors. When I opened the door with a flashlight in my hand, I was shocked. The world I had spent years trying to understand changed once again. For a moment I suspected if it is a dream. Because standing outside was a man I had not seen since the flood. A man many believed never existed. A man whose absence had become almost as mysterious as his presence. Elias. Though there was no enough light, as I watched, for the first time since I had known him, he looked troubled. His first words were not a greeting. Not an explanation. Not even a question. He looked directly at me and said: "I think I found Miriam." It was another shock. And suddenly- everything else ceased to matter. Before I could speak, he added. "Or at least... the thread that still leads to her." I struggled to find words for what I am feeling. Elias looked same. The years appear to have left him untouched. The same calm eyes. The same quiet presence. The same unsettling impression that he understood far more than he revealed. The years that had reshaped the valley seemed to have passed around him rather than through him. The night was cool. Quiet. Rain fell behind him. He didn't have an umbrella. Neither he was wet. One little lightening passed across. For few moments, neither of us spoke. Finally, I managed: "Elias." My voice was emotional. He looked into my eyes and nodded once. I gestured welcoming him in. As though we had spoken yesterday rather than years ago. I stepped aside. He entered. The house suddenly felt smaller. As though ordinary rooms struggled to contain extraordinary circumstances. I closed the door behind us. Neither of us moved immediately. We sat across from one another in silence. Then I asked the question that had waited years to be spoken. "Before anything else... tell me. Where have you been?" A faint smile appeared. "Far away." It was exactly the kind of answer I was expecting. And exactly the kind of answer I disliked. Before I could continue, his eyes drifted briefly toward the staircase. Then he asked quietly, "You still have it?" I frowned. "Have what?" His gaze returned to mine. "The blue scarf." For a moment I simply stared at him. My heart stopped. Not physically. But close enough. Nobody knew about the scarf. At least nobody who should have known. Except Father Adrian at the monastery, who believed it carried a mysterious past. For years it had remained inside the wardrobe upstairs. Untouched. Protected. Remembered only by me. For years it had remained folded inside the wardrobe upstairs. Untouched. Protected. "How do you know about that?" Elias did not answer. Instead, he asked, "Do you still have it?" I nodded slowly. "Yes." "Bring it." "Why?" For the first time since entering the house, something in his expression changed. Not dramatically. Just enough for me to understand that whatever came next mattered. More than reconstruction. More than politics. More than anything I had spent years trying to understand. He held my gaze. Then he spoke quietly. "If there is still hope..." "…she should not return to an empty place." I frowned. "What are you talking about?" His eyes never left mine. "If hope is right … Miriam will be waiting for it." CHAPTER 2 THE BLUE SCARF There are objects people keep for reasons they can't explain. A photograph. A letter. A watch that no longer works. A book they never read again. Most of the time, the object itself has little value. Its importance is its memories. Memory has a strange way of attaching itself to ordinary things. And sometimes- those things become impossible to discard. For years, Miriam's blue scarf had occupied a quiet corner of my life. Not visibly. Not dramatically. Just persistently. Over the years I had noticed the unusual woven border and the small stitched repair near one corner. Whenever I opened the wardrobe, I saw it. Whenever I considered putting it away permanently, I changed my mind. Whenever someone suggested I should move on, I nodded politely and ignored the advice. Some absences refuse to become history. Miriam's was one of them. I remained seated for several moments after Elias spoke. "Because Miriam is waiting for it." The sentence made no sense. And yet- coming from Elias, it felt impossible to dismiss. "Waiting where?" I asked. But Elias merely shook his head. "First bring the scarf." There was no urgency in his voice. Yet there was something else. Certainty. The kind that discourages argument. Reluctantly, I stood and I made my way upstairs. The house felt unusually quiet. Perhaps because my thoughts had become louder. The wardrobe stood where it always did. A simple piece of furniture. Nothing remarkable. Yet, I felt as if I am approaching a huge metallic vault. Holding something precious. While I opened the door, it felt strangely significant. As though I were opening something more than wood and hinges. The scarf rested exactly where I had left it. Folded carefully. Protected perfectly from dust. Preserved through years that had changed nearly everything else. I lifted it gently. Why I started feeling that it is something more valuable than before? I looked keenly on the piece of cloth- And once again I noticed something that had troubled me for a very long time. It looked always new. Not well preserved. New. The colour remained vivid. The fabric remained soft. The threads remained intact. Time seemed unwilling to leave its mark upon it. I remember mentioning it once to Miriam. Long before her disappearance. "You're going to wear that thing forever, aren't you?" She had laughed. "Maybe." "You own other scarves." "I know." "Then why this one?" The answer surprised me. Because she did not answer immediately. Instead, she touched the blue fabric gently. Almost affectionately. Then she smiled. "There is a story behind it." Naturally, I asked what story. Her smile widened. "Another day." That day never came. At least not from her. I stood quietly holding the scarf. Remembering. A second memory surfaced unexpectedly. Years earlier, an electrical fire had broken out in a storage room. Nothing catastrophic. A damaged outlet. A short-lived blaze. Several items had been destroyed. Others suffered smoke damage. The shelf where the scarf had been stored stood among them. I remember examining the aftermath. The wood blackened. Nearby boxes ruined. A stack of old documents beyond saving. And in the middle of it all, what a luck- the scarf. Untouched. No burn marks. No smoke smell. Nothing. At the time, I dismissed it as a lucky coincidence. People are very good at explaining away mysteries they are not prepared to investigate. Another memory followed. My mother had once insisted the scarf be washed. Repeatedly. Yet some-how it always emerged unchanged. Not cleaner. Not brighter. Simply identical. As though it resisted alteration. We joked about it. "The immortal scarf." The nickname lasted for several months. Then life moved on. Now, standing alone in the room, I wonder whether we should have paid more attention. The fabric felt strangely cool beneath my fingers. Not cold. Just, different. For a brief moment I considered how ridiculous the entire situation had become. A mysterious visitor. A missing woman. A scarf that refused to age. If someone else had told me the story, I might have laughed. Instead, I found myself carrying the scarf downstairs. Elias remained exactly where I had left him. Waiting. His eyes settled immediately upon the fabric. Not with surprise. Not even with recognition. More like relief. A reaction I found deeply unsettling. "You expected it to still be here." "I hoped." The distinction caught my attention. Without asking permission, Elias reached toward the scarf. Then stopped. Not touching it. Studying it. Almost respectfully. For several moments neither of us spoke. Then Elias asked a question I did not expect. "Did she ever tell you how she got it?" I shook my head. "Only that there was a story." A faint smile appeared. "Yes." His gaze remained fixed upon the blue fabric. "There is." For the first time that evening, I felt something close to anticipation. Not fear. Not confusion. Expectation. Because I suddenly realize something. Elias had not come to explain Miriam. He had come to explain the scarf. And somehow- those two things are the same. Outside, the rain continued softly against the windows. The rhythm of raindrops was music to our ears. Inside, Elias after a while, finally looked up. And said the words that would change everything I thought I knew about Miriam's disappearance. "The story begins at a grotto." CHAPTER 3 THE STORY BEHIND IT There are stories that begin in the storm. Others with tragedy. And some begin so quietly that no one ever notices them. This was one of them. The rain continued to tap gently against the windows. A cold breeze rushed in. The scarf remained between us on the table. So far just a piece of cloth - but now took on a sudden significance and for the first time since I had arrived, Elias seemed willing to speak of it. Elias placed his hand gently on the table, though he never touched the scarf. "Miriam told me that story herself," he said quietly. "More than once." He looked long at the blue fabric and continued. "She never forgot that day. All the details were as clear to her as they would have been that week. She used to say that there were moments in life that refused to fade no matter how long the years passed. It was one of them." Finally, Elias looked at me. "Everything I am about to tell you is exactly as she told me long back." Then he said. "The story begins several years before the flood.” I settled back in my chair. Outside the darkness had completely descended over the valley. Inside, the room seemed suspended between memories and explanations. “Miriam had just completed her nursing studies.” I smiled despite myself for I remembered that day well. The graduation ceremony had been held in the city. Families had filled the auditorium. Flowers had appeared everywhere. Photographs had taken up the majority of the afternoon. Miriam had looked happier than I had ever seen her. Not because she had finished her studies. Because she finally knew where she belonged. Some people choose their careers. Others discover them. For Miriam nursing was clearly the latter. She spoke about patients the way musicians spoke about music. Or teachers about children. With affection and purpose. With a conviction that could not be taught. After the ceremony, several friends and relatives met for a small celebration. The plan was simple. Dinner. Photographs. Stories. The kind that families would remember long afterwards.

Excerpts Only CHAPTER 1 The House of Marlowe Dr. Elise used to be very positive and spoke well about all the subjects she thought she is good at. But then, there are things that people do so often – they stop realising how bad it is for them. Dr. Elise Marlowe learnt long ago that silence is often more effective than explanation. Especially at home The house stood on the outskirts of Madrid, isolated from the bustling capital. A private house, spacious but modest, surrounded by trees that hid the glow of the street lights and unwanted attention. Inside, it was warm, always in order. Music was playing in the background, somewhat muffled, coming from somewhere in the house. Everything in the house was not modern. She loved antiques. On the TV set near the kitchen counter, the news was being shown. Raindrops tapped gently on the kitchen windowpane. '...continued delays in specialist healthcare access have intensified criticism across several European regions..." The newscaster's scratchy voice was barely audible over the running water. Poor signal may be due to bad weather. Marlowe stood motionless at the kitchen sink, one hand resting on the counter, the other clutching a cold, forgotten cup of coffee. She looked haggard. Not that visibly tired, but rather with the inner emptiness that only hard work can bring upon a person. Footsteps approached from the hallway 'You're doing it again.' She turned around slowly. Robert leaned against the doorway, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing the well-defined muscles on his forearms. In the doorway, he was a picture of sang-froid, the result of decades in the Special Forces. Robert Marlowe knew how to read troubled minds long before he learned how to shoot a gun. ‘'What am I doing? I'm not thinking out loud, am I?'’ ‘'Talking loudly enough to shut the whole house down,'’ a naughty smile played on her lips. ‘'Did I give myself away that badly?'’ ‘'For someone like me? I'd say, yes.'’ Elise approached the kitchen counter, flipped the channel on the TV . On the screen, the image of a crowded hospital ward appeared. This was a common sight these days - hospitals at capacity, clinics with endless queues. It was an irritating picture, full of stress-inducing details. Elise glanced at the TV for a second. ‘'Another difficult day?'’ ‘'Call it that,' ‘He shrugged. No fireworks, no fuss. It was that kind of answer that only Robert could come up with, having served in the Special Forces for the better part of three decades. Elise knew that not every situation called for gentle consoling. Some problems needed to be discussed on a serious level. Upstairs, someone was typing furiously on a keyboard. Robert turned his head towards the ceiling. 'Jonathan is still up' 'When is he not?' A soft chuckle escaped Robert's lips. Jonathan Marlowe, their twenty-one-year-old son, was a walking contradiction. Loud music and irritating phone rings were sounds that most people would have wanted to hear as seldom as possible. Yet, for Jonathan, these noises were an integral part of his universe, each with its unique history. The way it was heard, the way it was captured - all of these details were subject to his meticulous analysis. Inside, Jonathan's room was more of a laboratory than a teenage sanctuary. Various electronic gadgets littered the room - laptops, mouses, wave monitors, headphones, processors, and signal analyzers. Robert often joked that his son could identify a person by their voiceprint. And there was some truth to that. Elise finally took a sip from her coffee mug and frowned. ‘'Cold coffee?'’ '’Cold? This is a disaster!'’ ‘'Why are you still enjoying it then?'’ ‘'I don't know. It's a habit, I suppose.'’ He shrugged. Again, Robert knew what it was. Habits were often the only things people had left when everything else was taken from them. A faint buzzing sound came from Elise's mobile phone. She turned towards it on the counter, and, as she was about to pick it up, straightened up. Robert turned his head towards her at once. 'Who is it?' 'Fraser.' The mere mention of the name sent a shiver down Marlowe's spine. Harold H. Fraser was one of those people whose help a person could only ask for in the most desperate of times. Smart without being arrogant, focused without being fanatical. A genius, who, nevertheless, understood the importance of humility and humanity. He was now in London, attending an international symposium on emerging pandemic threats. That was unusual for him to call at this hour. Elise picked up the mobile phone at once. ‘'Harold? For a second, I thought the line was dead.'’ ‘'Elise...'’ There was a pause. Then, with a mix of amusement and sarcasm, he replied. '’...a symposium of scientists discussing pandemics for twelve hours straight leaves a terrible toll on your sleep schedule.'’ ‘'How did the presentation go?'’ ‘'Fair enough.'’ A delayed answer. Another pause. Then, almost hesitantly, he added. ‘'Perhaps too fair, if you ask me.'’ Elise narrowed her eyes. ‘'What does this mean, Harold?'’ The line crackled. For a second, she even thought that the call had been disconnected. Then, Fraser's voice, barely audible, answered. ‘'There were strange questions asked in the symposium.'’ Robert frowned. He could not hear exactly what Fraser was saying, but he could read Elise's expression. Curious enough to ask. ‘'Strange questions? What do you mean by that?'’ The next few seconds were taken up by static noise. Then, someone's footsteps, not Fraser's, echoed in the distance. Elise turned on the spot. '’Harold? What is it?'’ His voice became even more hushed and quiet. '’I will explain in better detail when I come back.'’ The last sentence, however, did not give away the impression of a man who explained something. On the contrary, almost instinctively, Elise was now listening intently to the call. ‘'Who was with you, Harold?'’ A long pause. Then, Fraser spoke, barely audible. '’No one.'’ Robert already moved closer. Experience, which he had accumulated during decades of field work, told him that every conversation where someone said they were alone, but clearly didn't want to discuss who was present, was almost always worth further investigation. ‘'Elise,' ‘ Fraser continued, ‘'if anything changes by the time I get back, postpone the presentation schedule.'’ This, surprisingly, seemed to grab her attention. ‘'What are you talking about, Harold? Just tell me what is happening!'’ The line crackled again. Then, after several seconds of distorted speech, a sudden burst of static cut the conversation. After a while, another sound came through - the closing of a door, faintly heard. And then, Fraser's voice, briefly heard. ‘'I will contact you tomorrow.'’ The call was over. The only sound left was the steady patter of rain. Robert was the first to speak. ‘'What was that all about?'’ Elise looked at the extinguished television screen. ‘'I don't know.'’ But she did know one thing. Harold Fraser was never mistaken. Not once in her entire life had she seen him doubt the facts in front of her. Upstairs, someone was walking quickly towards the kitchen. Jonathan, with the headphones around his neck, paused at the threshold. 'You heard, didn't you?' 'Yes,' said Jonathan. 'The interference. That call was not complete' He turned to look at Elise. 'There was another voice. A man.' The room fell silent. Elise turned to look at her son. She knows his keen interest in sonics identification ‘'What do you mean, another voice?'’ Jonathan stepped closer, not paying attention to the raindrops falling on the glass. “'Very faint,'” he said. “But it was there for sure.' Robert and Elise exchanged looks. Their decades of experience told them that whenever several people independently feel something is wrong, it usually is. Jonathan turned his hand. ‘'Did the call save to the cloud automatically? Did you sync it?'’ Elise hesitated. Then she nodded. '’Yes, it did. Good thing too,'’ said Jonathan. ‘’I want to separate the audio file,’’ he turned to look at the staircase. Robert was watching his son carefully. ‘'You really think so? That it means something? That someone has...'’ ‘'Yes,'’ Jonathan interrupted him. At that moment, Elise felt the chill in the air. Outside, the rain continued to gently patter on the windows. Somewhere far away, in the depths of London, another man turned a corner on a dark street, looking cautiously behind him. And a long way from there, in the quiet house on the edge of Madrid, a family of three sat in the kitchen, unaware that, in a few hours, the world would change forever. CHAPTER II Mateo Luiz Santiago - Unrevealed There comes a time in anyone's life when silence speaks louder than words. I didn't disappear. People had chosen to believe that. I remember thinking, as the days passed by slowly after I got back, that people really have no problem with absence. They have a problem with things they don't understand I remember how the morning I first stepped outside of the car, I felt like the atmosphere was particularly heavy. It had been a month. It had been a long, necessary, and silent private retreat. It was a vacation, they had assumed. It was not. It was the only response I had given to anyone's question. Before I left for my retreat, the reason that had convinced me to take it in the first place was not work related, but rather a bothersome question that seemed to constantly tug on my mind. I had hoped it would have been answered before I had returned, but it wasn't. "Sir! Sir! One thing!" The frantic voices of journalists and photographers surrounded me before the cameras had even stopped rolling. I paused for a moment outside of the gates. Not because I wanted to, but because I knew that trying to bypass these people would only be giving them more fuel for their questions. No one had ever spoken to me before the first microphone had reached my face, though. “Mr. Santiago, were you in hiding?” A moment of silence I gave myself passed by, letting out a miniscule chuckle. "Does rest equal disappearance?" I asked rhetorically. A few people in the crowd let out laughter, but not many. Another microphone was brought forward, and an inquisitive gentleman spoke. ‘'Did your report about Grandshield make you doubt anything?'’ There it was. Now we are going somewhere. I adjusted my coat slightly as a form of preparation. ‘'When something puts pressure on you, you can actually measure it,' ‘ I explained as I stared at the young lady in front of me, ‘'I have not been moved'’ Something in me had changed, a shift of some sort that had caught the attention of the cameras and microphones surrounding me. It seemed that the question had finally stirred my curiosity, and not a single soul knew why. Not until the woman from the back of the pack had asked the most unexpected question yet. "Then why don't you write it?" She asked. I turned to look at her, she appeared to be standing a bit off from the rest, and was definitely young. Not that she was trying to look for an exclusive, but rather an understanding. "Write... what exactly?" I questioned, to which she responded with the simplest of answers. "Everything” A ripple of movement stirred in the surrounding masses. It was not an exciting question, nor was it one worth writing home about. Rather, it was personal and caught me off guard, because that was a question, only I could answer. "I guess," I started after a pause, "Truth isn't welcome when it walks in unannounced," she tilted her head slightly, "but stories are." That remark followed with me all the way inside the building, long after the cameras had taken their leave and the doors had sealed shut behind me. Everything inside seemed the same as I remembered it. The feeling of the house, its interior, even the placement of objects in the hallways had barely changed at all. Yet the sensation that I was experiencing told otherwise. I began to walk towards the second floor of the building, where a room had always been my safe haven from the rest of the world since I was a child. Even as an adult, this place always reminded me of who I had once been, and the occasional memory it could provide was more than enough to uplift my mood. What I didn't expect to find upon entering the room, however, was movement, "Grandpa!" A wave of emotion flooded over me the moment I heard the familiar voice of my grandson calling me. Just moments later, he and another young child burst through the doorway in a manner only kids could do, greeting me and following closely behind my daughter and wife "You're finally back," my wife expressed in a soothing tone, to which I responded, "I was never gone". "You were," my daughter remarked, a hint of frustration in her voice I sat down with the family for a while as my children ran rampant through the house, exploring every nook and cranny as if it had never existed before, disrupting every thought that had made it past my mind. Eventually, one of those thoughts had to come up again when my young, eager to please grandson asked me the single question that haunted my mind constantly since I had entered this house. "What is Grandshield?" "It is..." I hesitated before completing the sentence, "...a story." The moment seemed to satisfy him, as most children are easily distracted by trivial matters. The night fell on the house a while later, and I found myself sitting in my study once again, contemplating a single sentence that had somehow been on my mind since I walked inside this home. As I stared at the blank paper on the desk in front of me, it struck me just how much information I still lacked on the subject, despite the fact that I had helped create it in the first place. There was a ton that I couldn't possibly share with anyone, not even my family. Names, procedures, and other information was all highly classified or simply nonexistent. Still, there was more than enough material to write out a story entirely based off of my experiences with the matter. I reached towards the desk once again as the realization of what I was doing hit me. Not a single thing I had planned to say could be controlled, limited, or taken away. As soon as I wrote it down, the information would no longer just belong to me, but to all of society. I sat down in the chair and stared at the blank paper in front of me, contemplating what I had started. Yes, that was the main reason I had begun to document my story in the first place. Every system has to originate from a single factor however miniscule it may be. In the situation of Grandshield, these origins would not only shape the future of every person living on earth, but they also defined what exactly happened once and for all. As I placed my pen back on the paper, my thoughts drifted towards one factor in particular as I slowly began to write. I am Mateo Lui̇z Santi̇ago. This is the story that nobody expected. CHAPTER 3 Grandshield - The Origin and Evolution History rarely proclaims its changes. It hides them as warnings. The world had barely exhaled after the ordeal of the previous pandemic. It still bore the marks of it, not entirely healed but more or less normalized. The economies began to recover, borders started to open and the world moved on. Then, when the world seemingly moved beyond that, the World Health Organization announced a scary discovery. A report. A supported one, not yet proven, but still, sufficient grounds to take precautionary measures. Another pandemic, most probably. One worse than the last; one more surprising. The news came so fast that it seemed to have nowhere to go but up and up and up, until it had to stop. It had nowhere to stop except in lives, in routines, in growing fears. Yet fear is rarely born from knowledge; it is instead a product of doubt. The news, indeed, barely gave any specific information. No timelines, no precise locations, no clear confirmation of anything.

Excerpts Only PREFACE Every human life is, in many ways, a silent journey through gratitude, struggle, faith, doubt, love, disappointment, discovery, and hope. This book is neither an attempt to preach nor to present myself as a figure of authority. Rather, it is a humble collection of reflections born from personal experiences, observations, encounters, failures, questions, and moments of grace gathered across different phases of life. Some pages may appear deeply personal, while others wander into broader reflections on humanity, faith, conflict, charity, technology, culture, family, and the uncertain future of our world. Many thoughts expressed here were shaped not within classrooms or institutions, but through ordinary life itself — through journeys across countries, interactions with people from diverse walks of life, moments of joy, painful losses, unexpected kindness, and silent contemplation. I do not claim perfection in understanding these subjects. Many of the ideas expressed here remain personal interpretations shaped by my own experiences and beliefs. There may be viewpoints with which readers disagree, and I welcome such differences with respect and openness. If these pages succeed in inspiring reflection, dialogue, compassion, gratitude, or even disagreement that leads to deeper understanding, then this work will have fulfilled its purpose. The world today is increasingly connected, yet often emotionally distant. We are advancing technologically at extraordinary speed while simultaneously struggling with division, loneliness, violence, greed, and spiritual confusion. Amidst these realities, I believe the ordinary voices of ordinary individuals still matter. Sometimes, it is through simple testimonies and sincere reflections that meaningful conversations begin. This book is therefore not written as a declaration, but as an invitation — an invitation to pause, reflect, question, and perhaps rediscover the beauty of humanity, faith, kindness, coexistence, and gratitude. Please consider these expressions as the opinions of an ordinary individual without prominence, dealing only with personal perspectives. I remain open to receiving recommendations, corrections, or explanations from anyone that could further enlighten me on these subjects. I warmly welcome you to explore these pages and engage in a dialogue for the common good and shared enlightenment. I welcome your personal opinions and recommendations, and invite you to reach out to me via email at: CHAPTER 01 JOURNEY OF A PERSONAL AWAKENING I have often wondered whether God appears partial toward certain people. History sometimes gives that impression. So do the lives of remarkable men and women whose journeys seem guided by an unseen favour beyond ordinary explanation. Whether this is truly divine intervention or merely the limitation of human understanding, I cannot say. Perhaps what we call favour is only our inability to comprehend a larger design. Yet there were moments in my own life that left me unable to dismiss the possibility altogether. One of my earliest memories goes back to my higher secondary school days, during a practical examination in physics. Of all the experiments assigned in the laboratory, the only one I understood with any confidence was the simple pendulum. Everything else felt disastrous to me. As the examination approached, I prayed intensely for that single experiment. At the entrance hall, each student received a numbered token corresponding to a table inside the laboratory. Mine appeared to direct me toward an experiment I neither understood nor wished to attempt. Panic rose immediately. Then I noticed, a few tables away, the familiar apparatus of the simple pendulum. The table carried the number nine. I looked at the token in my hand — six — then quietly turned it upside down. Whether it had truly been six or whether my frightened mind only imagined it that way, I no longer know. What remains with me is not the accuracy of the number, but the strange conviction that accompanied the moment. I completed the examination with unexpected ease afterward. Even now, many years later, the memory returns to me during prayer. Perhaps countless similar moments pass unnoticed in our lives, casually attributed to luck, timing, or personal effort. But that incident remained with me. It marked the beginning of a private belief that, in moments of genuine helplessness, one is not always abandoned. Youth, however, is rarely governed by calm reflection. I was not different. At that age, emotions arrive with urgency. One feels compelled to correct the world immediately — family conflicts, social injustice, moral failures — as though impatience itself were a form of courage. Only later does one understand that life seldom yields to dramatic solutions. Maturity, perhaps, is the gradual acceptance of complexity. I learned this through an incident that deeply unsettled me. A close elder relative, whom I respected, became involved in a serious wrongdoing that I happened to witness. The discovery disturbed me profoundly. For several nights I could neither sleep nor think clearly. Anger consumed me to such an extent that I even contemplated violent retaliation. Yet alongside that anger came another voice — quieter, persistent, difficult to ignore. During those days I had become actively involved in organizing a youth forum inspired by Mahatma Gandhi. We conducted small cultural programs from the upper floor of our rented house and affiliated ourselves with “Balajanaskhyam,” a youth movement associated with the Malayalam newspaper group Malayala Manorama. A modest signboard outside the window carried the name: Mahatma Gandhi Youth Organization. Gandhi’s insistence on nonviolence had begun influencing me more deeply than I realized at the time. One early morning, while walking to the dairy to collect milk as part of my usual routine, I continued wrestling internally with the decision before me. I could speak to no one about it. I searched instead for some answer from within myself. Then, quite unexpectedly, I noticed a truck parked along the roadside. Across its side panel were the words: “No one is perfect in the world.” The sentence struck me with unusual force. It felt less like an advertisement and more like a direct interruption to my rage. Almost immediately, something within me softened. The intensity that had consumed me for days began to recede. There was some kind of a voice inside me speaking loud . I chose to let the matter go. Looking back now, I believe that moment marked one of the earliest signs of personal growth in my life. To some, such experiences may appear insignificant or coincidental. Science may describe them as psychological interpretation, subconscious association, or emotional projection. Perhaps that is true. I have no desire to argue otherwise. Yet I have often noticed that many individuals — whether religious, political, or scientific — speak, in one form or another, of an inner prompting that shaped important decisions in their lives. Some call it Conscience. Others call it intuition. Some call it the voice of God. Whatever name we assign to it, the experience itself seems universal. May be in different forms. During my high school years, I encountered another unusual influence in my life — a carpenter who frequently visited our house. He was physically frail and unremarkable in appearance, yet exceptionally gifted with woodwork. I would often watch him transform rough timber into finely crafted furniture with remarkable patience and precision. What fascinated me even more was his occasional ability to predict events about people with unsettling accuracy. He never presented himself as a mystic or fortune teller. In fact, he avoided discussing such matters openly. But from time to time, simply by observing someone quietly, he would make brief remarks that later proved strangely accurate. My parents believed he might have studied Mukhalakhshana, the traditional practice of reading facial expressions and physical features. When I once asked him directly how he understood such things, he merely smiled and replied: “It comes as an inner voice.” He offered no further explanation. At the time, I myself was struggling with a confusion common to adolescence. Two neighboring girls had shown interest in me, and my immature mind treated the matter with far greater seriousness than it deserved. It was a closely guarded personal secret. One day, without any prior conversation or introduction, the carpenter unexpectedly spoke about my situation in startling detail. He also said one among those you will be forced to select. The same evening, I received a short letter from one of the girls. It contained only a single sentence: “Not going in circles but wish to say straight, I love you.” I was astonished. The carpenter warned me gently that such relationships at that age rarely ended without embarrassment. I listened to him respectfully — and later ignored his advice completely. The girl I eventually chose was the daughter of two teachers from my school. They taught two different subjects to us. As well known among us, since her parents themselves had married for love against social opposition, I foolishly assumed they would understand our feelings with sympathy. I was wrong. The relationship survived only briefly before it was discovered by them. One afternoon I was suddenly summoned to the teachers’ room. I entered expecting reprimand; instead, I found her mother in tears while her father shouted at me in anger. What shook me most was not the anger, but the humiliation. At one point, her father told me that his wife had never shed tears throughout their married life and that I had become the reason for her tears. Those words struck me harder than any accusation. I remember standing there trembling, unable to defend myself, unable even to gather my thoughts. His angry voice continued, but the words no longer registered clearly. They seemed to echo around me like distant thunder—loud, relentless, yet strangely unintelligible. In that moment, I felt overwhelmed by shame, confusion, and helplessness, as though the ground beneath me had suddenly given way. When the door finally opened, I hurried back to my classroom and on a spontaneous decision, ended the relationship abruptly. My greatest failure afterward was silence. The girl tried repeatedly to contact me, but I lacked the courage to respond. Years later, a classmate told me something that stayed with me ever since: “The worst thing you did was not speaking to her one last time.” Perhaps she was right. Something I regret even now. Yet even now, I suspect that reopening that relationship would only have deepened the damage for both families involved. Silence, though painful, may have prevented greater consequences. In another incident, not long afterward, the carpenter friend began greeting me with a new title whenever he saw me: “Mr. Engineer.” I laughed each time he said it. At that stage of my life, I wanted only literature. I dreamed of becoming a journalist or novelist. I had already begun writing small pieces and attending literary workshops organized by Malayala Manorama. Engineering belonged to someone else’s future — not mine. At the time, there was little evidence to support such a prediction. I showed no particular interest in mathematics, machines, or construction. In fact, my interests lay elsewhere entirely. I loved reading. Books fascinated me. Newspapers fascinated me. Stories fascinated me. Whenever I could find something to read, I immersed myself in it. The world beyond our village unfolded through printed pages, and I found myself drawn to literature far more than to technical subjects. As I grew older, my fascination with writing deepened. The carpenter, however, remained stubbornly faithful to his prediction. And life, however, has its own negotiations with ambition. As I progressed through school and later entered college, practical realities slowly began influencing my choices. Opportunities, family circumstances, economic considerations, and the expectations of the time all played their part. Literature continued to occupy my heart, but engineering gradually became the road that opened before me. What began as a professional qualification eventually evolved into a lifelong career that carried me across different states, cultures, and countries. The carpenter’s prediction, which once sounded amusing, slowly transformed into reality. Years later, I found myself supervising construction projects, managing workers, coordinating with clients, and helping build roads, buildings, and infrastructure. The profession provided not only a livelihood but also a unique window into human nature. Through engineering, I encountered people from every social background imaginable and witnessed both the strengths and weaknesses of society. Yet while engineering shaped my professional life, literature never released its hold on me. I continued reading, observing, reflecting, and writing whenever opportunities arose. In many ways, I became an engineer by occupation and a writer by inclination. Perhaps the old carpenter had correctly foreseen only half of my destiny. For many years, engineering provided me with a rewarding career. I worked across different regions and countries, participated in challenging projects, and gained experience that only time and perseverance can provide. Like many professionals, I assumed that experience would become increasingly valuable as the years passed. However, life presented me with an unexpected lesson. There came a period when I found myself without employment. Confident in my qualifications and decades of experience, I believed securing another position would simply be a matter of time. Instead, I encountered a reality that deeply unsettled me. Despite my experience, many organizations appeared more interested in youth than expertise. Positions for which I was fully qualified often seemed to favour younger candidates. For the first time, I began to feel that age itself had quietly become a disadvantage. That experience forced me to reflect on changes taking place in the professional world. I began to wonder whether something valuable was slowly disappearing from modern workplaces. With time, I came to feel that experience, patience, and judgment—qualities refined slowly over decades—no longer commanded the respect they once did. Increasingly, organizations appeared drawn toward youth, speed, and technological fluency, sometimes overlooking the steadier wisdom that age can bring. Perhaps every generation believes its own era is changing too quickly. Still, I could not ignore the subtle loneliness I observed among many older professionals. Men and women who had spent their best years building companies, supervising projects, solving crises, and carrying responsibility now found themselves standing at the margins, not because they lacked ability, but because time itself had begun to work against them. The irony, however, was impossible to miss. Human beings were living longer, remaining healthier, and adapting more actively than ever before. In countries across the world, aging populations were steadily increasing, yet professional systems often continued behaving as though usefulness had an expiration date. I gradually came to believe that age should not be viewed as a decline alone, but as another phase requiring reinvention. Many older individuals were already proving this quietly — learning new technologies, adapting to changing environments, and refusing to surrender to irrelevance. The old saying that life begins at forty perhaps belongs now to another era. For many in the modern world, sixty itself has become a second beginning.

PREFACE Life is an odyssey, a journey that commences with our inaugural cry, marking our departure from the sanctuary of the maternal womb, and concludes as we set forth our souls upon the eternal voyage. From the moment of our first cry, we embark on a voyage of self-discovery, navigating the currents of joy, sorrow, love, and challenges. Throughout this odyssey, we encounter a myriad of experiences, encounter diverse personalities, and confront both our own strengths and weaknesses as well. Each interaction, whether eagerly anticipated or unexpected, contributes to the intricate mosaic of our existence. At times, we find ourselves pondering the meaning, purpose, advantages, and disadvantages of everyday encounters, even those that were eagerly anticipated. Eventually, the encounters, woven into a tapestry of experiences, shape and define us in a unique manner and moulds us into a unique individual. As we set forth our souls upon the eternal voyage, we may find solace in the realization that life's odyssey is not a solitary expedition. We share this journey with fellow travellers, each with their own stories, dreams, and challenges. Every individual, or any creature for that matter, upon entering this world, must have their first encounter with the one who carried them in the womb. Their first encounter, shrouded in the haze of birth, is with the one who cradled them in the womb - their mother. Through eyes still clouded with the residue of birth, they must have strained to discern the figure before them, perhaps seeing only a reddish hue, the face of their mother. As they blink away the remnants of darkness, they strain to discern the figure before them, perhaps seeing only a blurred form, a familiar shade of warmth - their mother's face. As they reached out their hands for support, the first they must have grasped was their mother's hand. Their first encounter, shrouded in the haze of birth, is with the one who cradled them in the womb - their mother. The initial warmth they felt would undoubtedly have emanated from their mother's bosom. In the overwhelming shock of their new environment, the first sense of security they sought to grasp must have been found in their mother's breast. And as they reach out for support, their tiny fingers instinctively find solace in the grasp of their mother's hand, the first touch of connection in a vast and bewildering world. In that tender moment, amidst the overwhelming shock of newness, they seek security in the familiar embrace of their mother's bosom. The initial warmth they feel emanates from her, a beacon of comfort and assurance amidst the chaos of unfamiliarity. Yet, as they emerge from the cocoon of warmth and darkness into the harsh light of reality, they leave behind the sanctuary of the womb, a realm now distant and inaccessible. Though the gentle rhythms of the womb once cradled and nurtured them, preparing them for the journey ahead, they now embrace a new reality, a world fraught with challenges and possibilities. The warm, protected confines of the womb, designed to sustain their growth and development, are but a memory, a place they can never return to. And yet, there is no longing for the past, no yearning to reclaim what once was. For they have become citizens of a new world, with new responsibilities and adventures awaiting them at every turn. The moment of our first encounter, the new light we saw, and the new breath we took – all were encounters, even if the mind did not register them as the faculties were still tuning up. We left the comfort of the warm, dark, solitary world, which is no longer ours, and there is no chance of going back. We don't even remember the gentle vibrations of the womb comforting us and preparing us for a new world and a new reality. The warm, protected, and nourishing environment designed to support our growth and development is a place of no return, and we don't yearn to return to it anymore. We have become citizens indeed of a new world with new responsibilities. Every journey doesn’t necessarily lead back to the same starting point. We assume that every journey carries with it the potential for return, a cyclical dance that echoes the rhythms of the universe itself. While many paths may diverge, leading us far from our starting point, the journey of life unfolds along a different trajectory. However, the journey of life, as I perceive it, is different. While it's impossible for us to return to the womb, what we may overlook is that our journey began long before we entered it. Consider the journey that began long before we took our first breath - a journey that traces its roots back to the very essence of our being. In the intricate dance of creation, it was a single sperm cell among millions that embarked on a quest for life, navigating the tumultuous currents of existence with unwavering determination. The single sperm cell among millions that successfully navigated its way to the womb, and the womb itself, merely served as conduits for our journey. However, the genesis of our voyage must delve much deeper. I posit that the ultimate destination to which we are bound is the very same starting point from which our journey commenced. In this light, we may be considered migrants rather than citizens, traversing a cyclical path that brings us back to our origins. As we traverse the winding roads of life, we may find ourselves drawn ever closer to the heart of our origins, to the source from which all life springs forth. In this cosmic pilgrimage, we are not merely travellers, but migrants, journeying along a path that leads us inexorably back to our beginnings. Along the way, we shed the illusions of possession and ownership, recognizing that what we consider ours in this earthly realm is but a fleeting illusion. As we examine closer, we come to understand that true ownership lies not in material possessions, but in the boundless depths of our own being. Let us embrace the cyclical nature of our existence as we embark on this timeless odyssey knowing that every step we take brings us closer to the essence of who we are. With each step forward, we draw nearer to the essence of our being, returning to the source from which all life flows. In this journey, the destination fades in significance compared to the profound experiences and lessons we gather along the way. Ultimately, it is the journey itself that unveils the infinite depths of our own existence, guiding us back to the heart of creation. For in the end, it is not the destination that matters, but the journey itself - a journey that leads us back to the very heart of creation, to the infinite depths of our own being. We are like kites with a mysterious thread held by someone out there, and that entity never fails to bring back each kite to himself after its tumultuous journey. When someone passes away, it's common to say they've embarked on a journey with no return. However, I interpret it differently; I believe they've completed the journey assigned to them and returned to their origin. I'm not aiming to delve into philosophy or religion; I'm simply sharing my honest beliefs. To pretend otherwise would be dishonest. These beliefs are an integral part of my life journey. Every incident in life, whether in the world or even in the vast expanse of the universe, is the result of an encounter of some kind; nothing monumental arises spontaneously. It is a divine law that every birth emerges from the encounter between two beings or the union of distinct elements. Nothing comes into existence independently, except for the Almighty. Similarly, every death or destruction is the outcome of an encounter between two entities; none occur in isolation. The interconnectedness of events and the profound role of interactions are what shape the course of existence. One may aptly describe this as the conventional order of cause and effect. As I strive to document every individual and event of my life in this book, I must also concede that certain encounters from my life will still remain concealed. I have not yet summoned the courage to articulate some of these experiences. This reluctance does not diminish my honesty; rather, it underscores the intricate nature of my journey. These memories continue to linger, resurfacing intermittently and stirring within me a palpable unease on almost a daily basis. The places, individuals, and circumstances I've encountered throughout my life are what I aim to capture on these pages. This endeavour serves as a journey of soul-searching for myself, and if these experiences offer something valuable to others, it would fulfil a greater purpose. While these events are depicted through my perspective, it's important to acknowledge that others may interpret them differently or hold differing opinions, which is natural. I have no intention of harming anyone's reputation as I recount my experiences, and I recognize that my viewpoint on certain events, individuals, ideas or locations is subjective. To minimize the potential for hurt feelings or negative reactions from any party, I have opted to change the names of certain individuals, omit the names of others, and refrain from specifying certain locations where events occurred. However, I must acknowledge that there are individuals and places deeply intertwined with my experiences that I cannot omit without dishonouring their significance to my narrative. In this narrative, my focus will primarily be on the positive incidents and individuals who have contributed positively to my life experiences. I aim to refrain from harbouring any ill will towards anyone, as I am inclined to forget negative events in life. When recounting past experiences to old friends or family members, I often find it challenging to recall negative incidents accurately, as my natural tendency is to suppress such memories. However, I acknowledge that these memories may still reside in my subconscious and influence my actions and behaviour unknowingly. While recent unpleasant events may linger momentarily in my thoughts, I am determined to prevent them from casting a shadow over my present and future actions. With time, I endeavour to ensure that they do not wield undue influence over my behaviour. Embarking on life's journey with a heavy burden of bitter memories is akin to navigating rough seas with an anchor weighing you down. Conversely, carrying a lighter load of cherished moments and happy memories makes the journey more enjoyable and the path ahead much more clear. THE LUMINOUS THREAD In the annals of memory, the day of my grand entrance into this world remains shrouded in the mist of forgotten time. Imaginations may conjure scenes of jubilant celebration echoing through the halls of our humble abode, as news of a new-born son rippled through the air. Ah, but this was an epoch when the birth of a daughter weighed heavily upon the scales of familial fortune, while a son was hailed as a beacon of hope and legacy. To my mother, my arrival might have seemed like just another chapter in the epic saga of motherhood, for she had traversed this path six times before my advent-I, the seventh jewel in her maternal crown. Yet, in the heart of every mother, regardless of the trials endured and the burdens borne, the safe arrival of a new-born child remains a sacred moment of unfettered joy and boundless love. Though, the details of that momentous day have faded into the mists of time, the essence of its significance endures-a testament to the timeless bond between mother and child, woven with threads of love, hope, and the promise of new beginnings. As the years unfolded, the rhythm of joyous occasions continued to grace our humble abode, with the welcoming of three more bundles of joy into our midst. With each new addition, our family swelled to a hearty nine, and if we count one more from my father's previous marriage, we formed a merry band of ten. Throughout my upbringing, I never once harboured feelings of disappointment or discontent, nor did I ever question the purpose of my existence. Instead, I found solace and purpose in bringing joy to my beloved parents. Though our family faced its share of challenges, I remained steadfast by their side, offering whatever little I could to ease their burdens. Reflecting on my own arrival into this world, I am struck by the realization of the trials my parents faced during that time, navigating through challenging periods of their lives. While my birth was undoubtedly a deliberate decision on their part, unlike the biblical figure of Job, I did not find cause to lament my fate. The love and care lavished upon me by my parents eclipsed any momentary discomfort, reaffirming the profound bond between us. The tale of Job, the Man of Sorrows, has always held a special place in my heart, drawing me into its depths whenever I reflect upon his trials and tribulations. Immersing myself in the biblical accounts of his sufferings, I discovered profound insights that resonated deeply with me, especially when certain events seemed to echo the Scriptures. One charming anecdote from the nineteenth century added a whimsical layer to my contemplation of Job's life - the legend of Job's birthday falling on the elusive 29th of February. According to the tale, an old Scotswoman, faced with the curious inquiry of a young boy about the rarity of this date, turned to her trusty 'funtin-heid' – her Bible. As luck would have it, the pages fell open to Job 3:3, "Let the day perish wherein I was born," leading her to conclude that Job must have been born on that unique day. In her imaginative interpretation, the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, had not entirely wiped out, Job's birthday but had, in a gesture of kindness, hidden it away three years out of four. Of course, such notions are nothing more than fanciful flights of imagination, but they add a delightful layer to the timeless story of Job. In the tapestry of celestial signs, I was woven under the bold banner of Leo, my birthdate proudly etched as August 1. But despite the astrological decree, I never quite felt the fiery spirit often associated with my zodiac sign. Instead, I embodied a quieter demeanour, more like a "meow" during my childhood and teenage years I cherished my silent disposition. Yet, as life unfolded and I ventured into the realm of civil construction sites, slowly a transformation began to stir within me. The latent lion within gradually and compulsively awakened due to the noisy and demanding environment, revealing facets of my personality that I had yet to explore. Though time has blurred the lines of memory, the echoes of my horoscope linger still. Beyond the realm of aggression that Leo often embodies, I was destined for a path of artistic expression. The stars whispered of literary talent, perhaps even the allure of the stage beckoning me towards the spotlight. In the realm of beginnings, mysteries abound, and behind every cause and being lies the nurturing embrace of a mother. For me, recalling memories of my own mother fills me with a sweet nostalgia. She was a vision of beauty, her radiance undimmed by the passage of time. Even in the faded hues of old black and white photographs, I could envision her youthful allure, a testament to her timeless grace. Despite the challenges of raising a large family, she effortlessly commanded respect and obedience from all. Her leadership was undeniable, her influence extending even to our closest relatives. Yet, there was no resentment, no rebellion, for her authority was tempered with fairness and compassion. In the annals of our family history, her presence was akin to a steady lighthouse amidst turbulent seas, guiding us with love and respect. With a gentle yet unwavering hand, she governed our household, her decisions steeped in empathy and understanding. Her nurturing embrace enveloped us, providing solace and protection in times of need.

Excerpts THE WICKED TREE When Sofia was barely six and the tree was small enough for her to wrap both hands around the trunk. As slender as she was. For her father it was a shrub. Her mother said it was a weed. For Sofia it was something special, something nothing to name but she found unique. She just watched it everyday. Every morning before school, she squatted beside it and searched for new buds in the branches. On some days there were none. On the other days she found one, tight and pale no bigger than the head of a match. Delicate to touch. She liked the waiting. In the afternoon she came back to find if it opened. Again, in the evening. The courtyard was covered with fine pea gravel. There was a washing line, a tap that had multiple purposes and a low wall between the house and the road. Her friends preferred the road. They played until someone shouted from a doorway that it was time to come home. Sofia played too. But when the others left, she came back to the shrub. She squinted beside it with her knee pulled to her chest and read whatever book she had brought outside. Sometimes she got immersed. Sometimes she just enjoyed the breeze. She watched the leaves. She watched the sky through them. She occasionally greeted people walking on the road, most of them were not even known to her. Her mother sometimes looked out of the kitchen. "Sofia." "I'm here.” "You'll get dirty." “Already I am” Her mother would shake her head, her father rarely said something. He seemed to understand that there were some things a child did not need to explain. Freedom Counts. The house was between two very different families. One on the left were always talking. Their door was always open and voices drifted across the wall all day. Friendly freaks. The house on the right was larger. They were rich. Their walls were freshly painted. Their gate opened very rarely. No noise any time. The people who lived there seemed polite. Their politeness stopped at the boundary. Sofia started to grow. And so did the shrub. By the time she was twelve its branches were above her head. By thirteen, she could climb them. The first time she reached the lowest branch, she held the boot with both hands and looked down. “Wow I could do it” "Come down naughty," her mother called. "I'm fine." "You're going to fall." "I won't." "You always say that before every fall." Sofia laughed and remained where she was. From then on the branch was hers. She carried books up there. She sat with her back against the trunk and watched the road through the leaves. Still greeting. In the afternoon when the heat became unbearable, the shade moved slowly across her legs. Sometimes she slept. Once, her mother found the Sofia up there at sunset. "How long have you been up there?" Sofia opened one eye. "I don't know." Her mother looked at the darkening sky. "Come down." "Why?" “Because it's getting dark.” "Nothing will happen." "You don't know that. You are a girl" Her mother waited. Then she said, "There are all kind of shit… insects. Creepers. And things you can't see." Sofia climbed down. She did not tell her mother that the tree had never frightened her. The world outside it did. Her mother worried about other things too Sofia had started wearing clothes her mother disliked. Bright blouses. Short skirts. Sometimes minis. Dresses that seemed to her mother to be intended for a world somewhere beyond the village. Her father was less concerned. "Let her grow up," he said. "She's growing up too fast." He smiled. "Maybe I don't understand." One afternoon, her mother brought a beautiful dress home. Knee length. Full sleeve. It was not a style Sofia liked. Sofia held it against herself. "Am I supposed to wear this?" "I want to see you in it." Sofia stood there for a moment looking at herself in the mirror. She folded it in a hurry and put it at the back of her wardrobe. The tree was growing. Year passed almost unnoticed. The trunk thickens. The branches spread. Few branches became easy for Sofia to reach. One summer night she was sitting beneath it, singing quietly to herself. The leaves moved overhead, Sofia stopped singing. The leaves stopped too. She waited. She began again. "Sofia." Her voice caught. She looked towards the house. The windows were dark. She looked at the road. Empty. "Sofia." She stood. For a moment she wondered if someone was hiding behind the wall. Then she heard it again. She put her hand against the trunk. The bark was warm from the day's heat. "Did you say my name?" The leaves trembled. "Yes." Sofia did not move. She kept her hand against the trunk. After a while she whispered, "What are you?" There was no answer. The next night she came back. The tree said her name. Nothing more. The night after that, it told her a story. She never knew where the stories came from. Some were about why people are kind and still being hurt. Some were about people who had everything they wanted and was still lonely. Of people who left. Of people who stayed. Sometimes Sofia asked questions. Sometimes the tree answered. Sometimes not. One night she asked, "Why do good people suffer?" The leaves moved above her. "Does suffering make them less good?" "No." "What does?" The branches shifted in the wind. For so long that Sofia thought the tree had finished with her. Then it said, "Caring." Sofia didn't stop. "That's what makes them good?" "No." "It is what they can lose." She thought about that for a long time. The conversation stopped for the day. She never told her parents everything. There were some things she wasn't sure she had heard. Eventually, they noticed how much time she spent beneath the branches. One evening, she told them. "The tree talks to me." Her mother became still. "What did you say?" "The tree talks." Her mother's face changed. She stopped what she was doing. "Don't say things like that." Her father looked at Sofia. "What does it say?" "Why are you asking her?" Sofia told him everything. He listened without interrupting. When she finished, he put his hand on her shoulder. "It's only a tree." "I know." "Perhaps you're hearing your own thoughts." "Do my thoughts know things I don't?" Her father smiled, but not quite naturally. "Imagination can be powerful." He squeezed her shoulder. "But you have to learn when to come back from it." That night, Sofia sat beneath the tree until late. It said nothing. For the first time, she wondered if her father was right. Then the wind moved through the branches. "Sofia." She looked up. "I'm here." The tree became silent for few days. It began to grow. At first nobody noticed. One morning, Sofia found a branch stretching beyond the courtyard wall. A month later, it had reached halfway towards the neighbour's house at right side. By the end of the season, branches hung above the boundary. The neighbours complained. "That tree is too close." "It could fall." "Those branches are over our property." Sofia's mother stood in the courtyard looking up. She had loved the shade. Her father stood beside her. "We should cut it." She nodded. Sofia heard him from inside the house. She said nothing. That night she waited until everyone was asleep. Then she went outside. The tree was enormous. She stood beneath it and looked up. "They're going to cut you down." The leaves moved. "Say something." Silence. Sofia put both palms against the trunk. "Please." She leaned her forehead against the bark. "You said you wouldn't leave me." The branches moved high above her. One descended slowly. It rested against her shoulder. Sofia closed her eyes. For a moment she felt held. "They think cutting me down will separate me from you," the tree said. Sofia opened her eyes. "Won't it?" "No." "What will happen?" "You will understand." "When?" "When you need to." The branch remained against her shoulder. "I will remain with you." It was a whispering. The branch lifted away. Sofia stood beneath the tree for a long time after the voice had gone. The next morning, the men arrived with axes. She heard the first blow before she saw them. Wood against metal. She ran outside. "Stop!" Nobody stopped. Another blow. A crack. The tree shuddered. Sofia covered her ears. Branches came down one after another. Leaves covered the courtyard. The men worked without looking at her. Then the trunk began to lean. Sofia stepped backwards. For one strange moment, the whole tree seemed to hold itself upright. Then it fell. The ground shook beneath her feet. She thought she heard her name. She looked up. Leaves moving across the roof. The men cut the trunk into pieces and carried them away. Then they dug. They dug until the roots were exposed. Even the smallest pieces were pulled from the earth. When they finished, the courtyard looked too large. Sofia stood in the middle of it. After the tree was cut, the night became strangely peaceful. For the first time in months, Sofia's mother slept without worrying about branches scratching against the windows, roots creeping along the walls, the neighbours complaining about the tree, or Sofia sitting beneath it after dark. Her husband was relieved, too. The nuisance was gone. The complaints would stop. There would be no more reason for anyone to be afraid of the tree. Her mother should have felt the same relief. And for a while, she did. She slept deeply. Sometime late, during the night, her sleep changed. She dreamed of the courtyard. The tree was standing there again. More wild, this time. It was taller than she had ever seen it, its trunk thicker, its branches reaching beyond the roof and disappearing into the darkness above. There was no wind, yet the branches moved slowly, almost gently, as though something inside them were breathing. She tried to call her husband, but no sound came from her mouth. Then she saw Sofia standing beneath the tree. Her daughter was wearing the dress she hated. Short, sexy "Sofia!" She tried to shout again, but her voice would not come. The child slowly turned. But it was not Sofia's face. Something was standing behind her. Something dark and twisted, with long limbs hanging from the branches like chains. Its shape seemed to merge with the tree, making it impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Her mother tried to run towards her daughter, but the ground beneath her feet became soft. Roots. They were wrapping themselves around her ankles. She looked down. The roots coming out from the place where the tree had been cut. She tried to pull herself free, but the harder she struggled, the tighter they became. Then something moved behind Sofia. A branch slowly rose over the child's head. Her mother tried to scream. She woke suddenly. Her heart was pounding. For several moments, she lay still, listening to the silence of the house. Nothing. She looked at the clock. It was still dark. Then she heard something. A faint scratching sound. From Sofia's room. She sat up. The sound stopped. She waited. Nothing came again. She told herself it had been part of the dream. Just an extension of the feelings. Just a dream. A bloody silly dream. But she could not shake the feeling that something had followed them home from the courtyard. Something that had been waiting inside the tree. Something that had been disturbed when they cut it down. She remained awake until morning. As the first light entered through the curtains - she finally got out of bed. Her first thought was of Sofia. She walked quietly to her daughter's room and opened the door. Sofia was sleeping peacefully. For a moment, her mother simply stood there. The sight eased something inside her. She watched her daughter's breathing, slow and even, and felt a wave of relief that almost brought tears to her eyes. While walking back, she hummed softly to herself and quietly closed the door. Outside, the courtyard was still scattered with dust and leaves. Where the tree had stood, there was only a patch of disturbed earth. The bloody foul smell that had lingered around it was already beginning to fade. She was relieved. At least, she thought she was. Sofia was experiencing something different. The tree had been more than a tree for her. It had grown with her. It had been there through years of childhood, silently offering shade, shelter and a place where she could disappear from the world without actually leaving home. Now it was gone. All at once. There was nowhere left to sit. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere that felt entirely hers. That night, Sofia cried until she fell asleep. Before sunrise, she woke again. The house was silent. She dragged herself to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Warm water ran over her face. She closed her eyes. For a while, she simply stood there. She cried. The tears ran down her cheeks and disappeared beneath the water. For a moment, there was only the soft sound of the shower and the quiet rhythm of her breathing. Then something touched her skin. Her eyes opened. A blue line ran along her thigh. She froze. The line seemed to move. It looped slowly upward, tracing a path across her skin. Sofia stepped closer to the mirror. The markings continued upwards, branches across her abdomen, her breast and towards her shoulders. They were faint. Almost like veins. Some resembled roots. Others looked like branches. Loops were forming between them, creating shapes she could not quite understand. She searched for the end of one of the lines. Her fingertip touched it just below her lower belly. It was not paint. It was not a stain from her clothes or bedsheets. The line seemed to disappear beneath her skin, branching into another, and then another, until she could no longer tell where one ended and the next began. She stared at herself in the mirror. Then she remembered the tree. The voice. “I will remain with you.” Her hand slowly rose and touched the glass. A smile appeared on her face. "No one can separate us now." For a moment, she felt comforted. Then the smile disappeared. Her mother. The things her mother had said. Spirits. Things that could not be seen. Things that entered a person and did not leave. The thought frightened her, but not enough to make her run. Instead, Sofia opened the wardrobe. Her hand moved through the hanging clothes until she found the dress her mother had given her years ago. She took it out. For a moment, she held it up against herself. Then she put it on. The fabric covered everything. She looked at herself once more in the mirror. Nothing could be seen. Nothing at all. It was sometime later when Sofia's mother finally decided to tell her husband about the dream. He laughed loudly. "You're mad," he said, still laughing. She stared at him. The laughter began to trouble her more than she expected. He noticed the expression on her face and his amusement softened. He put his arms around her. "Even Sofia will forget the tree," he said gently. "You may not." She remained silent. He guided her towards Sofia's room. When they entered, Sofia was already waiting. Her mother stopped. For a moment, she simply stared at her daughter. Then she smiled. "You finally wore it." Sofia smiled back. "I told you," her mother said, turning to her husband with a small, almost triumphant glance. Her father looked at Sofia. Then at his wife. He smiled too. Neither of them noticed anything beneath the fabric. Outside, the courtyard was empty. Where the tree had stood, there was only a patch of disturbed earth. Her parents believed it was gone. Perhaps they were right. Maybe the voice had always been Sofia's. Perhaps the blue lines were nothing more than an unusual pattern beneath her skin. Perhaps. Sofia knew only that when she had sat beneath the tree, she had never been afraid. She had learned things there. Things she could never quite explain. That good people could suffer. That loneliness could exist even inside a crowded house. That a person could be surrounded by others and still feel completely alone. And perhaps most importantly, she had learned that some things could be cut away and still remain.

AS THE NEIGHBORS WALK Gooddy lived in a small apartment on the third floor of an old building. Directly opposite his apartment, in another building, lived a man named Baddie. Their windows faced each other. One open all time, While the other was closed with a curtain inside. They could see one another almost every day on the walkway, doorstep sometimes at a shop. Yet Baddie never looked at Gooddy. Not once. Gooffy thought he is pretty shy. If their eyes happened to meet by accident in the corridor, Baddie immediately turned his face away. If they crossed paths near the entrance, Baddie would pass without a word. Gooddy could never understand why. Gooddy tried to smile at him. Said hi. But it was never reciprocated. He had never spoken badly about Baddie. He had never borrowed anything from him, argued with him, or interfered in his affairs. At first, Gooddy wondered if he had unknowingly offended him. Then he decided not to bother. Strange guy. "If he doesn't wish to speak to me," he thought, "I shall not force him." And so, gradually, Gooddy began to ignore Baddie in exactly the same way. Stared away whenever he met him. But still there was one difference. Gooddy did not ignore people out of hatred. He simply continued with his life. Every evening, just before darkness settled over the city, Gooddy left his apartment and began walking toward his workplace. He worked at a palace on the outskirts of the city. Nobody in the neighborhood knew exactly what his work was. He was instructed to be so. The palace was a strange place. Large vehicles entered and left through its gates, especially at night. Boxes, crates, sealed containers and bulky packages were frequently loaded and unloaded there. Everything was conducted with unusual secrecy. Gooddy's responsibility was to supervise the loading and unloading. He checked quantities. He counted numbers, checked destinations. He checked that everything entrusted to him was handled properly. But he never asked what was inside the sealed containers. He never tried to discover the business of the palace. He felt that it was not his bloody responsibility. His responsibility was to do his work honestly. And he did. His superiors trusted him completely. Whenever something went wrong, Gooddy was the man they relied upon to put it right. Whenever an important consignment arrived, he was given responsibility for it. And quite frequently, as a reward for his honesty and dedication, he was given valuable gifts. Baddie noticed. A new watch one day. A beautifully wrapped package another day. Sometimes Gooddy returned home carrying something that clearly had considerable value. Baddie's curiosity became jealousy. "What exactly does he do there?" he wondered. One evening, Baddie decided to follow him. He waited until Gooddy left the building and then followed him from a distance. Gooddy walked along a narrow road that became darker as it approached the palace. Baddie followed. But long before reaching the palace itself, they came to a huge door set into a high wall. Soldiers guarded it. The royal seal was stamped in golden color on the gate. Gooddy disappeared through it. His curiosity became frustration. Frustration became resentment. And the resentment eventually became hatred. "If I cannot discover his secret," Baddie thought, "I will at least prevent him from doing his work." The next evening, Baddie began his first attempt. Gooddy walked down the dark lane as usual. Baddie followed several steps behind him. Gooddy heard footsteps. He did not turn. Baddie made a strange sound. Gooddy continued walking. The following evening, Baddie tried again. This time he carried a large mask of cardboard painted with a terrifying face. Black. White. Red. He held it in front of his body like a mask and walked behind Gooddy. The face was frightening enough to make a grown man stop. Gooddy heard something behind him. He continued walking. Baddie came closer. Gooddy did not turn. Baddie shouted. Gooddy kept walking. He had somewhere to go. His eyes were fixed on the palace ahead. The following night, Baddie tried another trick. Then another. He made sudden noises. He dragged his feet. He threw stones. He whispered strange words. He appeared behind Gooddy wearing grotesque masks. But nothing worked. Gooddy never looked back. He remained focused on the path ahead. He walked as though the darkness behind him did not exist. His destination was ahead. That was where his eyes remained. Days passed. Baddie became desperate. One night he decided on his most frightening performance yet. He painted a huge mask with enormous eyes and a distorted mouth. It covered his body completely. He held it in front of his body and followed Gooddie into the lane. The road was completely deserted. Only their footsteps could be heard. Gooddy walked ahead. Baddie followed. Suddenly— Tap... tap... tap... There were footsteps behind Baddie. Fast footsteps. Very fast. Baddie froze. As if several boots were walking behind him. The sound came closer. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Baddie forgot Gooddy. He forgot his mask. He forgot his plan. He turned around. And in that single moment, he saw something that made him stumble backward. His foot landed where there was no ground. For weeks, workers had been digging a deep trench beside the lane. It was partly concealed by darkness and a temporary covering that had shifted during the night. Baddie fell into it. His mask flew from his hands. Gooddy heard the miserable sound behind. A painful cry. Then a bitter silence. He stopped. For the first time that night, he looked back. He ran toward the noise. At the bottom of the trench lay Baddie. He was badly injured but still alive. Gooddie immediately climbed down. He lifted Baddie's head. "Baddie! Can you hear me?" Baddie opened his eyes. He recognized Gooddy. The man he had tried so many times to frighten. The man whose work he had tried to obstruct. The man he had secretly followed. And yet Gooddy was the one holding him. Gooddy took the medicines he carried and gave him what he could. Then, with great difficulty, he brought Baddie out of the trench and carried him to a nearby clinic. That evening, Gooddy arrived at the palace late. For the first time. His superiors were surprised. Gooddy was almost never late. When he explained what had happened, they listened him. They understood. Nobody questioned his honesty. Meanwhile, Baddie remained at the clinic. Gooddy visited him every day. With special permission from the palace. His superiors encouraged him. He brought food. He brought medicine. He spoke to him even when Baddie remained silent. On the third day, Gooddy went to the clinic again. But Baddie was not there. "Where is he?" Gooddy asked. The attendant looked at him strangely. "He died this morning." Gooddy stood silently. "But... where is his body?" "A man came earlier," the attendant replied. "He said he was a relative. He took the body away." Gooddy was surprised. "Did he leave anything?" The attendant nodded. "Only this." He handed Gooddy a small folded piece of paper. Gooddy opened it. There was only one thing written on it. His name. But Baddie had not written it as one word. He had written: BAD DIE Gooddy stared at the words for a long time. Then he folded the paper. He put it in his pocket. And that evening, as darkness covered the lane, Gooddy began his walk toward the palace. He walked alone. The road was dark. The palace was far ahead. There were new and strange noises behind him. He felt the road was no longer silent. But Gooddy did not turn around. He kept walking.