Cael led me deeper into Haven, the city of children. Every step echoed across glass streets that hummed faintly, as if the planet itself were breathing beneath us. I kept glancing at the adults who shuffled by — their faces pale, their movements slow and hollow. None made eye contact. They moved as if guided by invisible strings, their heads bowed, tending to the whims of their youthful masters.I tried to speak to one — a woman with greying hair who carried a tray of bright fruits. “Ma’am,” I whispered, “can you hear me?”
She froze mid-step. For a moment, I thought she’d ignore me like the others. Then her eyes shifted toward mine, trembling. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
Suddenly, she dropped the tray and collapsed, clutching her throat. The children nearby laughed. One of them — a little girl with curls of red light floating above her head — snapped her fingers, and the woman went still, lying motionless.
Cael didn’t even turn to look. “You mustn’t speak to them,” he said. “They are what happens when we try to grow.”
“Grow?” I repeated, my voice shaking.
He glanced at me, and I saw something strange flicker behind his calm expression — fear, maybe, or memory. “When we turn sixteen, the Voice leaves us. The gifts fade, and the world begins to sound wrong. Those who fight it… end like her.”
I swallowed hard. “What is the Voice?”
Cael smiled faintly. “The planet speaks to us. It tells us what to build, what to feel, who to be. It gives us the power to shape, to change, to dream in light.”
He stopped walking, eyes narrowing slightly. “But adults lose it. They forget how to listen. The planet grows silent to them, and so we silence them in return.”
We reached an open square surrounded by crystalline towers. In the centre stood something that looked like a playground — swings, slides, and climbing frames — all sculpted from shimmering glass. But the air around it pulsed with energy, waves of colour rippling like oil on water.
Children played there, laughing in dissonant harmony. I saw one jump from a slide and remain suspended mid-air, her body glowing as she drifted upward like a balloon. Another conjured a sphere of light that hummed with a heartbeat. Every laugh, every shout, seemed to vibrate in my bones.
Cael motioned for me to follow him toward a raised platform. “This is where you will wait. The Council meets at sunset. They will decide if you are to remain as one of us, or be unspoken.”
“Unspoken?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
When he left, I sat on the edge of the platform, staring out across the playground. The children moved like a single organism, their games oddly synchronized, as though rehearsed. Yet now and then, one would stop — freeze mid-motion — and stare at the sky.
The glass above shimmered, and for a second, I thought I saw faces in it — distorted, adult faces, pressing against the translucent barrier, mouthing words I couldn’t hear. Then the vision faded, leaving only the fractured light.
I was still staring when a soft voice spoke behind me.
“You’re not from here, are you?”
I turned to see a girl — maybe my age, maybe younger — with dark eyes that didn’t shine like the others’. She wore the same white garments, but hers were torn, streaked with dust.
“No,” I said. “My ship crashed.”
She nodded. “That’s how they come. That’s how we came.”
“What do you mean?”
She sat beside me, watching the others. “There were once thousands of us, all from different worlds. Solara calls to children through dreams — promises us paradise. It lets us shape reality, makes us feel like gods. But it’s a trap. The planet feeds on imagination. The moment you stop believing in it — the moment you doubt — it drains you. You fade. You grow old overnight.”
Her hands trembled as she spoke. “I’ve seen it happen. My brother turned seventeen last cycle. Now he tends the gardens, eyes empty.”
I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that none of this made sense. But the wind picked up again, carrying laughter that twisted midway into screams.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Lira,” she said. “And you need to leave before the Council sees you. They won’t let you keep your mind. They’ll give you the Voice — and once you have it, you’ll never want to stop listening.”
She grabbed my hand suddenly. “When the sun breaks the glass sky — that’s when you run.”
Before I could respond, Cael’s voice echoed across the square. “Lira!”
The air shimmered, and her grip vanished. I turned — she was gone, dissolved into a swirl of light. Only her voice remained, faint and urgent.
“Don’t let them teach you to hear.”
The sun dipped lower, its fractured rays cutting across the playground.
And for the first time, I thought I heard something whispering back.
Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model
No comments:
Post a Comment