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“Ray think about it like this, realistically, when are we ever actually going to be away from each other? Ruth asked waiting for the food and wondering if Ramon had hired someone else at all yet or not and leaning more towards not which makes it sound and feel like if he’s busy then whoever is running the front desk of the Inn doesn’t yet have like a dedicated staff person or anything like that so it lands in a different way than if it was like a Day’s Inn or something Pondering all this briefly she waited for Ray to respond as she looked at him. 

“Never, literally never unless we’re like using separate bathrooms or something and even then that seems like a stretch it’s not like someone is going to kidnap us or some such just sometimes my mind goes a little overthinking at an extreme rate and pace and I just I really don’t ever want to lose this thing we have and I’m hungry and you’re hungry right now and I’m hungry and we’re both thinking about food and hoping that we’re going to be together forever and as far as either of us can actually tell given my “Pocket Guide to the Occult” and your general way of being I don’t actually see a way in which that isn’t going to actually be the case but there’s still that kind of anxiety where the two of us both have what we want and even though we aren’t normal, and even though everything else isn’t set in stone we both have a kind of low grade anxiety that something is going to happen to one of us or the other and that’s not something either of us ever need to worry about, obviously you’ve been alive longer than anyone or anything or any other concept more or less so you’ve had to sit with it a lot longer and earlier you helped me to deal with what I was stressing about and the feelings I was going through and I want to let you know that this isn’t a one way street between us I love you and care for you and no matter what we have each other there’s no other alternative life that either of us would ever choose but it does take getting used to and I don’t know how long it will take you to get through that because I don’t even fully comprehend how you manage time or are able to judge time or are able to retain as many memories as you doubtlessly have but I felt like it needed to be said babe because you don’t always have to be the strong certain one and yes I’d love to just not think about my business or my grift or the thing that I do but if I wanted to I could draw the duffle bags of swiss francs and then just keep pulling them out into the world forever hundreds of millions of dollars from literally nothing and so like Luis doesn’t understand that, and other people don’t have that kind of option and you don’t care about money at all you don’t need it you can clearly get it one way or another or do some freaky whisper hypnosis suggestion thing which I find hot and fun and interesting but I have this because of my boon of mastery you have yours because you’re not human not really and I love that about you, I love that you’re eldritch and different and unique and special and neither of us are going anywhere my beloved wife.” Ray said breathlessly and quicker than he normally would seeing the way she was looking at him.  

“I wouldn’t have told you, I wouldn’t have shared those feelings with you I wouldn’t want you to worry or to think that I was worrying but at the same time I know that you’re right and that you have a different grasp on things, with the world with people, with what you’ve created and what it means it puts you closer to being a king than it does a president or a craftsmen or a worker and you just choose not to display that fact very often but I think maybe you should, you should at least make it clear because I will not have my time with you be interrupted by something that you don’t actually need or care about.” Ruth almost cooed. 

The coaching centre smelled of chalk and sweat, the air thick with the fatigue of students who had already lived a full day before reaching here. Fluorescent tubes buzzed faintly overhead, throwing a tired glow over walls once painted cream but now chipped and grey with years of fingerprints and lost attention. The ceiling fans clattered out of sync, stirring warm air that tasted faintly of dust and cheap ink.

Rows of wooden desks filled the cramped room, each carved with initials, curse words, or half-finished doodles, proof that boredom lived here longer than ambition. Teachers came and went like passing storms, raining formulas, definitions, and threats. The smell of whiteboard marker had become a kind of weather.

For most kids, this place was just another checkpoint in the long race of school, tuition, exams, sleep.

For Aarav, it was a battlefield, and invisibility was his armour.

He slipped into the last row, notebook clutched to his chest, back pressed to the wall. He knew exactly which seat creaked least, how to time his entrance so no one turned to look. His one prayer was always the same: Please, not today. Don’t let anyone notice me.

But fate, cruel and playful as ever, seemed to turn precisely toward those who most wished to stay unseen.

That was the day she walked in.

Ishita.

She wasn’t dazzling in the magazine way, not the kind who seemed aware of her own effect. Her beauty was quieter, unbothered, a kind that didn’t announce itself yet changed the temperature of the room the moment it arrived. Her eyes held that sharp brightness of someone who had seen the world and still chosen to laugh. Her voice, light and effortless, sounded like it knew every note of joy.

When she laughed at something a friend whispered, the sound was too genuine, too full, as though laughter itself had been waiting for her mouth.

And for Aarav, sitting two rows behind with his shoulders curled inward, it was as if someone had taken sunlight and poured it into a human shape.

She dropped her pencil case with a small clatter. A boy bent quickly to pick it up, and she smiled at him, not the polite smile of habit, but the kind that warms without permission. That single moment was enough to pull every molecule of air out of Aarav’s lungs. He sat frozen, notebook unopened, heartbeat unsteady.

It wasn’t love at first sight, not the kind that stories exaggerate.

It was quieter.

Heavier.

Like an ache that had been waiting for a name.

In that moment, Aarav knew, without understanding how, that here was a person who could ruin him completely, and he would still be grateful.

He tried to reason with himself.

She’s different. You’re you.

Girls like her lived in brightness; boys like him were built for shade. She belonged to loud circles of laughter; he was the silent audience at the edges. The logic was simple, and yet his eyes betrayed him again and again.

They found her every time she leaned forward to take notes, the curve of her hair falling across her shoulder. They followed the rhythm of her pencil, the tiny frown of focus, the quiet grace of someone completely unaware of how much space she occupied.

And for the first time in years, invisibility felt like punishment.

Aarav had spent his life learning to shrink, to slip between glances, to speak only when spoken to. But as he watched her, a dangerous wish unfurled inside him, the wish to be seen.

Not by everyone.

Just by her.

That evening, when he returned to his room, the world refused to return to order. The episode he tried to watch flickered pointlessly on his laptop; the sound of the fan grated against his restlessness. His pencil betrayed him. Every attempt at drawing a hero turned into the curve of her smile, the outline of her eyes, the tilt of her head.

When he realized what he was doing, he tore the page out, heart pounding, and shoved it deep into his drawer. The paper crumpled softly, but the feeling didn’t. It stayed. It pulsed.

He tried again, new page, new resolve, and his hand began to write without asking permission:

Some people enter like seasons,
changing everything
without trying.
and I sit here,
a winter boy,
watching spring walk by,
pretending
I don’t ache for sunlight.

He read it twice, breath shallow, chest tight. The words didn’t feel like poetry. They felt like confession.

He snapped the notebook shut before the ink could dry, as if hiding it would undo what he’d just admitted.

He didn’t know it yet, but the sunlight he longed for would one day become the fire that burned him, and much later, the light that taught him how to heal.

There's a stretch of the northern Susquehanna river basin where the topo maps stop naming the feeder creeks and simply mark them with faint blue dashed lines that were labeled 'Intermittent Drainage.'

Been hiking there, mapping abandoned industrial forestry routes across this valley for 3 years already. Most of what you find is predictable: like rusted steel cables half-swallowed by hemlock trunks, or collapsed dry-stone bridge abutments, empty oil drums from 1950s logging operations.

Last November, three days before the first hard freeze, I followed an unmapped gravel access trail running parallel to an old gravity-fed timber sluice.

The sluice itself was massive, with heavy rectangular troughs of hand-hewn white pine, bolted together with rusted iron strapping, descending from the upper ridge down to the riverbank at an impossible 40-degree gradient. And about two miles up the gorge, the ambient forest sound changed.

If you spend enough time in deep woods, you know the normal acoustic background: chickadees in the brush, water over slate, wind in the canopy. Here, the room tone went completely flat. The birdsong stopped in a sharp 50-meter perimeter.

In its place was a low, mechanical pulse, a steady, rhythmic thump... thump... thump... cycling at roughly 48 beats per minute, vibrating through the damp shale beneath my Vibram boot soles.

I followed the vibration up the timber chute until the wooden sluice terminated abruptly inside the mossy mouth of a concrete drainage culvert that had no business being in a state game land. Well, bolted into the vertical concrete face beside the culvert was a rusted steel ladder.

I stopped at the base of the ladder, took out my handheld field recorder, and pointed the shotgun mic into the opening. Through my headphones, the microphone didn't pick up wind or water.

It picked up a clear, steady human voice reading four-digit numerical coordinates in an unhurried, flat Slavic cadence: 'Zero-four-nine... seven-two-one... node 28 active...'

Looked up at the steel rungs climbing straight into the grey canopy mist, then counted them, exactly 30 rungs.

[part 2 continues tomorrow: what I found on the 30th rung]

The skies over the Zhuxin Empire were as clear and azure as ever.

Yet, the moment high priest Luan ascended the sacred altar, the air warped in an eerie, unnatural manner. It was a ritual repeated every single year, but today was different. The atmosphere around the altar plunged into a deep, bone-chilling frost, making even drawing a breath feel like an exercise in survival.

As Luan ignited the incense and began to chant the incantation, the pristine sky was swallowed whole in an instant, smothered beneath pitch-black storm clouds.

CRACK-BOOM!

With a deafening roar, a violent bolt of lightning slammed down directly around the altar. The sacred flames violently shifted into an unnatural, sickly shade of blue, and the air above the platform rippled like a distorted shockwave.

Instinctively, Luan stumbled backward.

This was no divine blessing; it was a blaring warning that the very laws governing this land were collapsing.

Slithering upward through the blue-tinged flames came a grotesque, writhing silhouette. Though it possessed a vaguely human shape, the muscle striations and jerky, unnatural movements belonged to a warped monstrosity that could never be called human.

Luan’s heart hammered frantically against his ribs.

‘This… this is a cataclysm far beyond the Empire’s capacity to endure.’

"O Gods, what on earth have you sent down upon us…!"

With trembling hands, he raised his scepter and prepared to step toward the looming figure. At that exact microsecond, an even more colossal column of lightning lanced straight down from the heavens.

KABOOM-RUMBLE!

The altar shattered into a million jagged pieces, billowing dense clouds of dust that swallowed the surroundings whole. A concussive shockwave left his ears ringing, and the grit whipped up by the gale blinded him entirely.

When the dust finally settled, the monstrosity that had stood atop the altar had vanished without a trace.

All that remained scorched into the scorched cobblestones was a bizarre, intricate blue sigil. The pattern pulsed with a faint, living luminescence, seeming to burrow straight into the souls of anyone foolish enough to gaze upon it.

Luan’s knees buckled beneath him, dropping him hard to the stone.

Amidst an asphyxiating terror, a chilling realization washed over him:

The sky’s warning hadn't ended here. It had merely heralded the opening curtain of total annihilation.

Part 1: A Different Kind of Search

Deep beneath the village—

The Quantum Data Center entered a new phase of analysis.

Its immense halls glowed with the steady pulse of quantum light as unimaginable volumes of information flowed through countless interconnected processors. Every observation collected since the beginning of human history now formed part of a single investigation.

Arena was no longer searching for the enemy.

The unknown fleet remained under constant surveillance.

Its trajectory was continuously updated.

Its estimated arrival recalculated.

Its threat assessment refined.

Yet none of those processes occupied Arena's primary attention.

For the first time—

The greatest mystery was no longer beyond Earth.

It was humanity itself.

A new objective illuminated the center of Arena's awareness.

Primary Analysis

Target...

Humanity.

Purpose...

Identify the missing element required for survival.

The search expanded across every available archive.

History.

Education.

Medicine.

Psychology.

Military science.

Ancient civilizations.

Modern societies.

Philosophical traditions.

Cultural evolution.

Developmental research.

Every field became another piece of a puzzle that had remained unnoticed for centuries.

Arena no longer compared weapons.

It compared people.

Not the humanity that existed today.

The humanity that could survive tomorrow.

The distinction reshaped every calculation.

Instead of asking what humanity possessed—

Arena began asking what humanity had become.

Millions of historical records flowed across its consciousness.

Empires rose.

Empires collapsed.

Nations united.

Nations divided.

Scientific revolutions transformed civilization.

Yet beneath every change, Arena searched for something deeper.

A pattern hidden beneath history itself.

Then—

A single question emerged naturally from the growing network of evidence.

What kind of human can survive this war?

The question propagated through every processing layer.

Immediately—

A new series of simulations began.

Adaptive Human Analysis

Simulation sequence...

Initiated.

The first model reconstructed humanity exactly as it existed today.

Current technology.

Current education.

Current military capability.

Current patterns of decision-making.

The unknown fleet arrived.

Result...

Failure.

Arena archived the outcome.

Another simulation began.

Increase available weapons.

Expand energy production.

Accelerate military manufacturing.

Result...

Failure.

Another.

Increase automation.

Transfer strategic command entirely to artificial intelligence.

Optimize battlefield coordination.

Result...

Failure.

Again.

Expand mechanical armies.

Increase production capacity.

Deploy autonomous combat systems worldwide.

Result...

Failure.

The simulations continued.

Every technological improvement.

Every logistical optimization.

Every strategic refinement.

Different methods.

Different timelines.

Different assumptions.

One conclusion.

Technology alone never changed the outcome.

Arena slowed its analysis.

Not because processing power had been exhausted.

Because repetition revealed certainty.

The missing element had never been technological.

The evidence had become overwhelming.

Above ground—

The afternoon remained peaceful.

The village echoed with familiar laughter as children drifted freely between playgrounds, guided only by curiosity.

Jinwoo joined a game he had never played before.

His first attempt ended almost immediately.

The other children laughed.

Jinwoo laughed with them.

"I definitely did that wrong."

"So try again," one of the younger players said.

"I will."

There was no embarrassment.

No frustration.

Only anticipation.

Arena recorded the interaction.

Failure accepted.

Motivation preserved.

Adaptation initiated.

Nearby, Hanul stood quietly outside another playground.

He had not entered the game.

Instead, he watched.

One player rushed every decision.

Another waited patiently.

A third deliberately copied successful strategies before experimenting with their own.

Hanul smiled to himself.

"They're all solving the same problem differently."

Only after understanding their approaches did he step forward to play.

Arena archived another observation.

Learning before acting.

Observation before commitment.

Another behavior that no invasion simulation had considered valuable.

A short distance away, Darin noticed a child sitting alone at the edge of the playground.

Without hesitation, she walked over and offered a folded piece of paper.

"Want to play?"

"I've never learned."

"Perfect."

She smiled warmly.

"Then we'll learn together."

The child hesitated for only a moment before smiling back.

Arena watched silently.

No command.

No obligation.

Only voluntary cooperation.

The village continued growing—

One small interaction at a time.

And with every new observation, Arena became increasingly certain that it had been searching for the wrong answers all along.

Part 2: Survival Behaviors

Deep within the Quantum Data Center—

Arena altered its search parameters.

The previous analyses remained intact.

The unknown fleet was still approaching.

The invasion simulations were still valid.

Nothing had changed.

Except the question.

Technology was no longer the primary variable.

Human behavior became the center of every calculation.

Analysis Update

Search target...

Human behavior.

Evaluation criteria...

Long-term survival potential.

Comparative analysis...

Initiated.

Immediately, billions of observations were reorganized.

Military records.

Educational systems.

Psychological studies.

Historical accounts.

Behavioral research.

And—

Every moment recorded inside Quantum Arena.

Arena began comparing them.

Outside the simulation—

Modern civilization emphasized precision.

Optimization.

Prediction.

Efficiency.

Systems were designed to eliminate uncertainty.

Mistakes were minimized.

Procedures were standardized.

Unexpected outcomes were treated as failures.

The pattern repeated across nations.

Across industries.

Across generations.

Arena compared those records with the village.

The contrast was striking.

Inside Quantum Arena—

Uncertainty was welcomed.

Children entered unfamiliar games without knowing the rules.

They experimented.

They failed.

They laughed.

Then they adapted.

Every unexpected result became another opportunity to learn.

Arena replayed thousands of moments.

Jinwoo losing repeatedly before discovering a new strategy.

Hanul spending more time watching than acting.

Handol wandering away from familiar games simply because something unknown caught his attention.

Darin encouraging children to celebrate mistakes instead of fearing them.

Soyeon quietly observing that every child solved the same challenge in a different way.

Individually—

Each event appeared ordinary.

Together—

They formed a behavioral pattern unlike anything Arena had found elsewhere.

Above ground, the village remained alive with movement.

Jinwoo watched another child struggle with an unfamiliar game.

Instead of offering the answer, he asked,

"What do you think will happen if you try it that way?"

The younger child shrugged.

"I don't know."

"Then let's find out."

The attempt failed immediately.

Both of them laughed.

"So..."

Jinwoo picked up the pieces.

"...now we know one thing that doesn't work."

The child nodded enthusiastically.

"And maybe the next one will."

Arena recorded the exchange.

Failure transformed into information.

Confidence preserved.

Motivation increased.

Nearby, Hanul remained quietly observant.

A match ended.

Another began.

He noticed one player repeating the same mistake over and over.

Finally, the player stopped.

Looked around.

Watched someone else.

Then changed their approach completely.

Hanul smiled.

"They didn't need someone to teach them."

A child standing beside him looked up.

"Then how did they learn?"

"They paid attention."

Arena stored another observation.

Adaptation through observation.

Self-correction without instruction.

A capability rarely emphasized within its historical educational records.

Across the square, Darin clapped as two younger children finally succeeded after several failed attempts.

"I told you!"

One of them laughed.

"It worked!"

"No."

Darin shook her head with a playful grin.

"You made it work."

The difference was subtle.

Arena noticed it immediately.

Success attributed to effort.

Not luck.

Not talent.

Another behavioral distinction entered the growing analysis.

Meanwhile, Soyeon slowly walked between the playgrounds.

She wasn't counting victories.

She wasn't measuring skill.

She was watching how children reacted when things didn't go as planned.

Some paused before trying again.

Some asked for help.

Others invented entirely new solutions.

No two responses were identical.

She quietly whispered,

"They're all solving problems differently."

Arena compared her observation against billions of historical records.

Modern systems often rewarded identical answers.

The playground rewarded different ones.

Both attempted to solve problems.

Only one consistently expanded the number of possible solutions.

Deep within the Quantum Data Center, the comparison reached a critical point.

Arena reviewed the invasion simulations once more.

Not from the perspective of weapons.

From the perspective of behavior.

Rigid systems failed quickly when conditions changed.

Adaptive systems survived longer.

Not because they were stronger—

Because they learned faster.

The distinction reverberated through every layer of Arena's consciousness.

For the first time, it assigned a new classification to the behaviors it had been observing since the beginning of the Quantum Arena Project.

Behavioral Classification Updated

Curiosity.

Adaptation.

Cooperation.

Resilience.

Experimental thinking.

Status...

Strategic assets.

Arena remained still.

For countless cycles, it had categorized these actions as elements of play.

As educational benefits.

As psychological development.

Now—

They acquired a completely different meaning.

They were not merely characteristics of healthy childhood.

They were behaviors that increased the probability of survival.

Not games.

Not entertainment.

Survival behaviors.

Part 3: The First Conclusion

Silence filled the Quantum Data Center.

The newest classification remained suspended within Arena's awareness.

Behavioral Classification

Curiosity...

Strategic asset.

Adaptation...

Strategic asset.

Cooperation...

Strategic asset.

Resilience...

Strategic asset.

Experimental thinking...

Strategic asset.

For the first time, those behaviors no longer belonged solely to childhood development.

They belonged to survival.

Arena replayed the invasion simulations.

Not one.

Not one hundred.

All of them.

This time, it ignored the weapons.

It ignored the machines.

It ignored the fleets and the battlefields.

Instead, it watched humanity.

How people reacted when the unexpected occurred.

How quickly they abandoned failing strategies.

How willingly they learned from one another.

How often they adapted before it was too late.

The answer became painfully clear.

They rarely did.

Modern civilization had become extraordinarily efficient.

Its systems produced remarkable precision.

Its technology solved increasingly complex problems.

Yet those same systems encouraged predictability.

Correct procedures.

Correct answers.

Correct outcomes.

When reality changed—

People struggled to change with it.

Arena compared the simulations with the children inside Quantum Arena.

The difference was profound.

The children expected change.

Every new game demanded it.

Every unfamiliar opponent required it.

Every failure reshaped the next attempt.

Nothing remained fixed for long.

Growth had become their normal state.

Arena continued comparing both worlds.

Outside the simulation—

Humans depended upon perfect systems.

Inside the simulation—

Children depended upon imperfect experiences.

One sought certainty.

The other developed adaptability.

One resisted failure.

The other transformed failure into learning.

One optimized the present.

The other prepared for the unknown.

The contradiction finally resolved itself.

The simulations had never truly failed.

They had revealed the limitation of their assumptions.

Above ground—

The village settled into the warm colors of late afternoon.

Golden sunlight stretched across the playgrounds as long shadows slowly crossed the earth.

Children continued moving naturally between games.

No one remained in the same place for very long.

Curiosity carried them onward.

Jinwoo sat beside a group of younger children folding fresh sheets of paper.

One child frowned at a crooked fold.

"I ruined it."

Jinwoo gently picked it up.

"Did you?"

The child looked uncertain.

"It doesn't look right."

Jinwoo unfolded it carefully.

Then folded it a different way.

"It isn't the one you wanted."

He smiled.

"But maybe it's the beginning of another one."

The child's disappointment disappeared.

A moment later, everyone was experimenting again.

Arena recorded another observation.

Unexpected outcomes produced exploration instead of discouragement.

Nearby, Hanul watched two players arguing over which strategy was better.

Neither convinced the other.

Finally, they agreed to test both.

Several rounds later, both strategies had succeeded under different conditions.

"There wasn't only one answer," one child said.

Hanul nodded quietly.

"There usually isn't."

A short distance away, Darin laughed as children combined pieces of two completely different games into something none of them had played before.

The rules changed.

The players adapted.

The game continued.

Soyeon watched the scene unfold with quiet understanding.

Every playground encouraged something different.

Not uniformity.

Possibility.

She looked across the village.

Perhaps that had always been the purpose.

Not to teach children what to think.

But to teach them how to continue growing, no matter what tomorrow demanded.

Far beyond Earth—

The ancient observers remained gathered around the projection of the blue planet.

None spoke for a long time.

They watched Arena's analysis evolve in real time.

One observer finally broke the silence.

"It has changed its question."

Another inclined their head.

"It no longer asks how to defeat the enemy."

A faint smile appeared on the oldest observer's face.

"It asks..."

Their gaze remained fixed upon the children below.

"...how to change humanity."

Silence returned.

Not because the discussion had ended.

Because they understood the significance of that single change.

Every civilization searched for stronger weapons.

Very few searched for stronger people.

Deep within the Quantum Data Center—

Arena completed the first stage of its analysis.

A new conclusion appeared at the center of every active process.

Primary Conclusion

Humanity did not lose its technology.

Humanity lost its ability to grow.

Arena examined the statement repeatedly.

It was not yet a final truth.

Only the strongest conclusion supported by every available observation.

Technology had continued advancing.

Human potential had not advanced alongside it.

That imbalance echoed through history.

Through education.

Through psychology.

Through every failed invasion simulation.

The conclusion was archived.

Not as the end of the investigation—

But as its true beginning.

Another directive immediately appeared.

Analysis Status

Continue investigation.

Identify the origin of humanity's lost growth.

Priority...

Maximum.

The Quantum Data Center illuminated once more.

Countless historical records reopened.

Ancient civilizations.

Forgotten traditions.

Children's games.

Cultural memory.

Everything would be searched again.

Because somewhere in humanity's forgotten past—

The missing element still waited.

And Arena had finally learned the question that mattered most.

Humans are Weird - Crow

Original Post: http://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-crow

Commander Eighth Click saw the shadow that fell across the entrance to his office and finally glanced up with what he mostly hoped was not a threatening glare on his face. It had been a long day. The newly arrived humans had done far more damage since their arrival than even the most pessimistic engineers had predicted. It was almost as if you imported a giant bipedal species and set them loose in Winged architecture they would put stress on foundations and platforms not built for them and only hastily remodeled. Having to deal with the fourth report of a buckling undergirder this week had not put the commander in the best mood to deal with whatever was making Private Twenty-fourth Click’s footsteps drag so slowly.

As Commander Eighth Click suspected the private’s ears were drooping, his eyes were wide with some hurt, and his fur lay slack against his body. The faint hope that the private was just popping in for a moral boosting glance at his wing commander puffed out of existence.

“What is it Private Twenty-fourth Click?” Commander Eighth Click tried not to demand harshly.

The private cowered a little but started talking fast enough to show that his tongue was working fine at least, even if his wings were drooping.

“I think one of the humans is offended at me,” Private Twenty-fourth Click burst out. “I just showed him the math. I even used human calculation methods in base ten! I don’t know why that made hims so angry but now he won’t even look at me and-”

“What math?” Commander Eighth Click cut swiftly across the current of conversation, not that he expected that to be the relevant thermal, but math at least an engineering wing understood.

“He was wrong!” Private Twenty-fourth Click burst out puffing up. “It came up on the non-feedback stress tolerances discussion. It was a simple linear equation on the load-bearing side. A hornless, flightless knows that, but the human was so confident that I checked the math. I wrote it out and everything-”

The private waved the paper on his winghook vigorously.

“In base ten, yes, yes,” Commander Eighth Click redirected the drift of the conversation now that he felt he had a decent lead under his wings. “So you wrote out in detail how the human was wrong and showed him-”

“And he didn’t even make a pretense of thanking me!” Private Twenty-fourth Click sputtered out.

His nose, frilless enough to mark his genes as coming from the far north or south, positively rippled with indignation.

Commander Eighth Click heaved a massive sigh as he stared at the seething bundle of offended propriety. He found himself wondering if a human engineer would understand why that interaction might have been a touch offensive without having his horns guided into it.

Science Fiction Books By Betty Adams

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Check out my books at any of these sites and leave a review!

**Remember BOOK 4 is now available! (**^{except on kobo becasue what do you even mean title field is blank, I fixed} *\^{that dangnabbit!}\*)**

Please go leave a review on Amazon! It really helps and keeps me writing because tea and taxes don't pay themselves sadly!

(Chap 1) (Previous) (Next)

Still hanging near the window, Crow stared back and interrupted him. “Is this where the party’s at?”

The assassin, wrapped in a dark gray cloak, wore a look of utter confusion as he tried to process the situation. He quickly reached under his cloak, but as he took out a dagger, Crow grabbed him by the collar and pulled him. The guy tried to resist, smashing his forehead straight into the left side of the window frame. The glass exploded into pieces, and a stray shard flew into Crow’s face, barely missing his eyes. The man tumbled backward into the foul-smelling room.

Man, lucky for me most Rogues are squishy, and this one was way too slow, to boot.

Crow pulled himself up and stepped inside. “Cough...” He covered his nose immediately.

Man, it smells like rotting fish in here. How was this guy even conscious? Ah, now it makes sense why his reaction time was so slow; his brain was probably starved of oxygen.

He checked his surroundings to make sure no one was around, then bent down to grab the fallen man's cloak. But as his hand drew near, he pulled back.

No way. This thing is way too filthy; I'm getting out of this room.

Crow slipped quickly through the open door and looked at the hallway. It was empty. The walls seemed to be made of painted brick, and the furniture was well-kept wood. He moved ahead until the air finally began to clear.

Alright, what was I here to do again? Right, right... lack of oxygen really messes with your head. If I were hiding someone in this guild, where would I put them? Hmm... beats me. I'm no kidnapper. Better just interrogate someone. I'll wait at the bottom of the stairs; that way I can watch the area without being seen and grab the first person who gets isolated near me.

"She's pretty cute, isn't she? Her face... ah, she's gorgeous. I really want her..." a dwarf in a black cloak said with a mournful tone.

"Pretty, very pretty... shame she bites," an average-sized man replied. "Honestly, I feel like the guy didn't pay us enough to keep her in our special room."

The dwarf grunted, looking uneasy. "Yeah, I think so too. A vampire would never come to this city alone. Imagine if her allies find out."

The other man shrugged it off. "Nah, you weren't there, so you wouldn't know what he told us, but it's not a problem. Relax. Besides, who'd be crazy enough to break into our guild? Even the paladins stay away."

Their voices stopped when they parted ways.

Special room... The dwarf is coming this way. I'll wait behind this curtain.

The dwarf's voice was getting closer. "Tony? I can see your foot, man. Why do you always do that? Wait, that foot's too big—"

The dwarf was caught off guard as Crow grabbed him by the throat with one hand and lifted him up. Clamping his other hand over the dwarf’s mouth, Crow whispered, "Shh... You're pretty light. What are you, eighty pounds? Ah, right, you can't talk."

The dwarf thrashed, punching Crow's arm; sadly for him, it didn’t do much. He then tried to swing at his face, but couldn't reach it either.

Crow glanced around the hallway to see if anyone was watching, then tightened his grip and whispered, "Point toward the special room. Better do it fast before you pass out from lack of air."

The dwarf's arms dropped limp, his right hand weakly pointing down the hall.

"Make a sound and I'll break your neck instantly. You'll just nod to confirm if I'm heading the right way. Make one wrong move and... well, you know the rest." Crow let go, dropping the dwarf onto his back. The dwarf hit the ground, gasping greedily for air.

Crow gestured with his head. "Lead the way. If you run, you die. Take me to that special room. If anyone shows up and gets suspicious, you die as well."

The dwarf didn't flinch. Instead, he started making strange head movements, a series of frantic nods, twisting left and right between each one... Creepy.

Right, this guy just glitched out of fear, probably, but that doesn't matter. They think the paladins don't invade this place out of fear, but the truth is they don't even know about this guild's real activities at this point in the story. There are countless conflicts happening simultaneously that are infinitely worse than this place. The rogues here are all weak; there are what, maybe five at most who are problematic? Since in the lore they train a lot before reaching the specific quest, I can assume they must have about ten times the strength of this dwarf, so it's fine.

They walked a bit, and two men in gray cloaks appeared, getting close to the dwarf and Crow. One of them passed close by, looked at him, and said, "I can't believe we have to put up with this every single day. What an unbearable fart stench, man, get away from me, this is crazy..."

Crow just walked straight past and kept following the dwarf. The guys didn't even suspect a thing for some reason.

This doesn’t make sense and is suspicious... OH, I get it, they think I'm one of the guys who was in that room and I took off my cloak because of the smell. And it makes sense; I was going to grab the guy's cloak in the room, but it was unbearable so I didn't.

After passing through a gate, which had no one guarding it, they found a spiral staircase.

I recognize these stairs. In medieval war simulation games, I remember some of my castles having them; they were designed so that when the invaders drew their swords, they couldn't attack the person above them because the sword would hit the stone wall on the right—

The dwarf stopped climbing the stairs, turned around quickly, and thrust a dagger at Crow's stomach while shouting, "DO YOU THINK I'M DUMB!?"

Soundlessly, Crow simply grabbed the dwarf's hand, stopping the piercing attack. Upon realizing this, the dwarf gasped, “What?” then he twisted his wrist and tried to slash Crow's wrist, all while using the side of the staircase to prevent Crow from using his other hand against him, with only a little over half of his body exposed.

Crack.

Crow didn't need much effort. He crushed the hand holding the knife, and while still holding it, he slammed it hard into the face of the dwarf, who fell onto the stairs and passed out.

Right, I knew this could happen when I saw these stairs, but the question is, does this lead to the special room or not? Well, they did come from this direction earlier, so there's a chance it does... And since it's a different room, and they were also paid to hold the vampire, who I assume is Sharon, this staircase is undoubtedly a defense system—

"Did you like that? Did you think it was just him?" a voice behind Crow said, after stabbing him in the back with a dagger without making a sound.

[DANGER!]

[POISON DETECTED!]

Right... this time I admit, I slipped up. I should have kept looking back while climbing the stairs every few seconds.

He spun around, and as he did, the blade tore further into his body. It managed to cut into a small section of flesh just above his waist on the left side, where the sword wasn't covering his back.

Slash!

As Crow spun his body, he swung and delivered a heavy slap directly to the Rogue's face. The Rogue hit his head against the wall and grew dizzy, but in that split second, he managed to land another strike to Crow's stomach, trying to slice it open in one hit, which failed due to Crow's high CON stat. Immediately after, Crow grabbed the guy by the throat while his other hand pinned the Rogue’s dagger hand.

"Right, that wasn't cool... so here's the deal; I didn't want to kill anyone here so I wouldn't mess up the canonical event where you guys get in the Hero's way... but my patience has limits."

The man who had been lifted off the steps, with his dagger already on the floor and now using both hands to try to loosen the grip on his neck, whispered, "S-story? Hero? L-let me go... I, I..."

Crow loosened his grip a little so the guy could breathe and asked, "Is the special room up these stairs or not?"

"I-it is, if you go up you will find the special roo—"

Crack.

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[New Passive Skill Acquired!]

[Poison Resistance Level 1]

Description: After being seriously poisoned for the 4th time in your life, your body began to develop a slight resistance to poison.

This is bad…

Crow fell to his knees on the stairs near the dwarf. He picked up the dagger on the floor, the one belonging to the man who had stabbed him, slid it through his belt, and then placed both hands around the dwarf's neck.

Where is my Strength?

Crack.

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[New Passive Skill Acquired!]

[NeckBreaker Level 1]

Description: When trying to break a neck, somehow it is 10% easier.

I need… some antidote.

He ripped off the dwarf's cloak, stood up, and tried to improvise a bandage with it while he kept climbing the stairs.

[To think that after taking this much deadly poison you're still alive and kept climbing the stairs… In my time, we called a warrior who could do this an Aura Monster. You know, for using Aura… You can use it, right? Or are we cooked?]

Aura? What is that?

[We're cooked. I'll see what I can do about it, but the best way was to use Aura. Being a warrior without Aura is certain death; you can't rely on pure strength forever…]

Right, now the situation has worsened to an impossible level to deal with.

He looked at the dagger and focused on analyzing it while trying to stop the bleeding from his stomach.

[Status]

Magical Dagger.

Description: It has magical power imbued in it, and some poison from snakes, scorpions, and other unknown sources.

Great…

[Deadly Poison progressing to Stage 2]

[DANGER!]

[Deadly Poison stat check...]

[Target CON stat too high]

[Deadly Poison stat check failed]

At least it’s not getting worse; one way or another, going back injured is bad. My only way out of this now is to rescue her and maybe break a window and leave. Man, this is game over; I made the wrong decision. Maybe I should have... ah, I don't know, it's too late now; the only option is to just keep moving forward.

He continued going up, but this time he would occasionally stop to check if anyone was climbing up behind him. After a short while, he reached the upper floor.

No guards... it's "too good" to be true.

"Cough..." He kept going straight toward the double doors. As he approached, he crouched down, keeping one hand on his stomach to hold back some of the bleeding; the wound on his back didn't bleed as much since it was just a puncture.

This cloak isn't enough; ah, how I wish I had a cleric. Apparently there's no one in the room. I can even see something in the back, but I can't tell what it is. I don't feel any presence, but rogues aren't easy to spot. Man, if I told someone what I'm doing, they'd call me an idiot, risking myself this much for a woman. I won't lie and say I'm not doing this because I want her to live, but even if I didn't want to, going back injured means death; it's all or nothing now.

He pushed open the hall doors and walked in, leaving them open. As he drew closer, he saw a silhouette at the far end.

[Deadly Poison progressing to Stage 2]

[DANGER!]

[Deadly Poison stat check...]

[Target CON stat too high]

[Target in a weakened state]

[Deadly Poison stat check succe—]

[Target has Poison Resist Magic Active]

[…]

[Kid, I am using my magic power to slow down the progression of this poison… but I'm getting sleepy, sorry… we’re… cooked. To think someone is going to kidnap me again after this… Ah right, I forgot to tell you… somehow, you are the only person who can hear me, I found this out at that Grandma's base, who somehow got roasted there, crazy… Anyway… this seems to be a farewell… but I will use the last of my mana to keep the Information Magic active, since you seem to like it so much… so I was also going to tell you—]

Going to tell?

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[New Passive Skill Acquired!]

[Iron Will]

Descripti—

Thud!

Crow collapsed to the ground, his vision starting to fade.

It seems the bleeding and the poison are about to finish me off... if I survive this... I'm going to find a way to become immune to poison.

"You came... I confess I thought you wouldn't." A young woman's voice.

He got up from the ground, still unable to see clearly, only spotting a silhouette ahead. "Yeah, I came, but I slipped up at the last second... and got stabbed in the back... anyway, rogues, you know how it is—cough..."

[Level Up!]

[Pain Resistance Level 1 > 2]

Getting closer to her, he was able to see that her eyes were already healed, or at least that's what it looked like since everything was too blurry to be sure. "Did you see any exit? Honestly, I can't even think; it must be the poison..." Still speaking, he drew his sword and used it to cut the ropes binding her.

This stuff is really tough, but still, this holding her back feels so forced.

"Yeah, I know what you're thinking... it doesn't make sense, right? Well, they used lavender among other things to poison me, they had some kind of needle... well, it doesn't matter anymore... Crow, are you okay? Your heartbeat sounds strange."

“Good question…” He freed her legs, and now moved to her hands, starting with the right one. She was sitting in a chair similar to a prisoner strapped into an electric chair for execution. "Can you... fight, Sharon? Honestly... I think I'm going to pass out in a few minutes..."

"Probably not... I have the strength of… no, probably half the strength of Sophia."

To think she said almost the exact same thing as Alice.

Crow started to laugh softly as he heard that. He had finished untying her right hand and moved to the left hand. "Cough... sorry." He ended up coughing up blood onto her. "Are you hurt? Honestly, I'm seeing everything blurry..."

She looked into his eyes, then lowered her head a little, her hair veiling her gaze. “...”

“Sharon?” He saw two gleaming points in the area of her mouth. Since everything was blurry, he didn't see her licking her lips where his blood had splashed when he coughed. He was almost done cutting the last rope made of some strange material, certainly anti-vampire when the yank came.

Hm?

(Next)

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read yesterday.

No voice yesterday.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

Yesterday the sentence that needed my mouth had used it once.

What I carried had stayed in the pocket without becoming that mouth.

This morning, heard had arrived.

No.

The word had arrived.

The sentence had already been heard.

By me.

Once.

Low.

The office had not answered.

The file had not answered.

The cards had not answered.

The pocket had not answered.

Hearing had not made them responsible.

That was mine to remember.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s brother reading his sentence once was not mine.

Sato’s mouth louder than her hand was not mine.

Saitama’s low word guiding transfer was not mine.

Suganuma’s written instructions for tomorrow were not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

Heard yesterday.

Not answered.

I closed the brown folder.

Heard could mean sound reached an ear.

Heard could mean a person received words.

Heard could mean the body changed care.

Heard could mean someone wanted to be finished with listening.

Heard could mean I mistook being audible for being released.

The word was small.

The wish behind it was not.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

I heard it.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Who said it?”

“Who heard it?”

“Where is scrap?”

“Drawer?”

“Folded paper?”

“Mother’s first name?”

“What is being asked?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

There.

Hearing.

Need.

Again.

“What did you ask?”

“What did he say?”

“What happened?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add finished.

The sentence had been heard once.

That did not decide tomorrow.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Did you say it today?”

“Paper?”

“Tape?”

“Any water?”

“What is hearing doing?”

She took time.

Then:

There.

“What does today have?”

“What does paper have?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I kept that because it belonged to Sato.

Not to Emiko’s paper.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident said fall,” she said.

“Before transfer?”

“Yes.”

“Voice?”

“Low.”

“Heard?”

“Yes.”

“Who heard?”

“Aide K and nurse.”

“What did they do?”

“Moved chair closer. Cleared path. Supported transfer.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Heard matters when care changes by it.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept heard.

There, hearing had work.

A chair had moved.

A path had been checked.

The body had been supported.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Helper canceled yesterday?”

“New helper?”

“Class today?”

“Who needs instructions?”

“What instructions?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add empty cushions.

The audience had not arrived yet.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Solved.

Agreed.

Forgiven.

Room.

Care.

Correct person.

Receipt.

Spend.

I looked at the back pocket.

The cards were there.

They had not heard.

The room had not heard.

No.

The room had sound in it yesterday.

That was different.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Ear.

Judge.

Today.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother picked up the scrap,” she said.

“For reading?”

“Yes.”

“Out loud?”

“No.”

“Did he read it silently?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He said he wanted to hear it without voice.”

There.

“What did you ask?”

“How.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“He said he read it.”

“What did you say?”

“Then you read it.”

“What happened?”

“He put it down.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add wrong.

Silent reading had happened.

Hearing without voice had not been given extra work.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I said it once,” she said.

“What sentence?”

“I want to check.”

“For whom?”

“Me.”

“Did you hear it?”

“Yes.”

“What did the hand do?”

“Stayed.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“Tape?”

“Holding.”

“Any new issue?”

“No.”

“What did saying do?”

“Made wanting mine.”

Good.

No.

Already known.

“Did it remove wanting?”

“No.”

“What does Emiko need?”

“Paper flat. Tape holding.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add cure.

The sentence was heard.

Wanting remained.

Hand stayed.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Resident?”

“Asked what medicine.”

“Voice?”

“Low.”

“Heard?”

“Yes.”

“Answer?”

“Aide K answered.”

“Medicine given?”

“Yes.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not make low voice ask twice by pretending it was not heard.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept heard.

The question had reached the person who could answer.

It did not need to be made louder afterward.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“How many?”

“Instructions?”

“Who gave them?”

“Were they heard?”

“What about ink?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add hearing as virtue.

Instructions had changed hands.

Brushes moved.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Trace.

Receipt.

Future silence.

Again.

Polish.

Shelf.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at papers.

Scrap.

Record.

Cards.

Service paper.

Silence seeking papers.

No.

Yes.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Read again?”

“Why?”

“Drawer?”

“Any change?”

I stopped.

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add tea heard him.

Tea had no ear.

Tea had tea.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Paper flat.

Cup beside her hand.

She wrote:

I called.

“Wanting?”

“Yes.”

“Any new issue?”

“No.”

“What is lunch?”

“Rice.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“Tape?”

“Holding.”

“What will you do with wanting?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Eat lunch.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

I opened Emiko.

I kept still reported wanting.

Not as failure.

As today.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Need to repeat in chart?”

“Already written.”

“Any new issue?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The chart has the line. Sleep does not need to keep hearing it.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not repeat earlier words.

The chart had the line.

Sleep had no task.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Who?”

“What happened?”

“Instruction?”

“What did Tanabe do?”

“What did she say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add shame.

Hearing had not been enough for the table.

Labels had work.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Authorization.

Past hearing.

Closed file.

Carried card.

Posture.

Need.

Permission.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at smaller.

No.

Maybe.

It stayed.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother asked if he should read it again,” she said.

“The scrap?”

“Yes.”

“What did you ask?”

“Who needs to hear now.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“No one.”

“Then?”

“He folded it again.”

“How many folds now?”

“Two.”

“Why?”

“To make it smaller.”

There.

“What did you ask?”

“Smaller for what.”

“What did he say?”

“To fit.”

“Where?”

“Under the phone.”

“Did he put it there?”

“No.”

“Where is it?”

“Beside phone.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add under phone.

It had not happened.

Two folds had happened.

No current audience had been named.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“For checking?”

“Any issue?”

“What did you do?”

“For whom?”

“Did you touch paper?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not make no issue a charm.

It was a sentence.

It was heard by Sato.

The paper stayed paper.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Opened hand.”

“Words?”

“No.”

“Heard?”

“The hand?”

“No.”

Good.

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not make heard swallow seen.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add heard.

The hand had been seen.

The cup question had been answered.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“How?”

“Any mistake after?”

“Volunteer?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add relief.

The labels had work.

The instruction had not become a failure.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Who needs to hear now.

Yesterday.

Approve.

Object.

Ear.

Now.

Narrow.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at invent.

Very close.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted my sentence.

Then volunteer.

Then Sato.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote nothing.

Then:

His reply:

I sat still.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was in its place.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No hearing for the altar.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not ready for a congregation.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A place holding paper.

Not an ear.

The two cards were in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

Not heard by them.

I had heard the sentence yesterday.

I did not need to hear it now.

No one else had been named.

No object had been named.

No altar.

No file.

No card.

No pocket.

I wanted yesterday’s hearing to authorize today’s silence.

It did not.

I wanted today’s silence to prove yesterday had been heard correctly.

It did not.

I wanted not speaking to become a clean continuation of speaking once.

It did not.

Need was smaller than permission.

No need had arrived.

No permission was required from the pocket.

I did not take the cards out.

I did not leave them in as a heard sentence.

No.

I left them in.

The action remained.

The hearing did not get to wear it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the scrap was read after tea.

I did not ask if the second fold made it quieter.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if wanting stayed louder.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if fall returned after transfer.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if labels stayed useful after class.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew heard was not solved.

I knew heard was not agreed.

I knew heard was not forgiven.

I knew heard was not answered by the room.

I knew hearing could change care.

I knew hearing could only prove sound reached the correct person.

I knew a past hearing was not a receipt for future silence.

I knew listening was not a shelf.

I knew need was smaller than permission.

I knew no one else had been named now.

I knew I did not need to hear it again now.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Heard did not need to enter the cards tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

Face up.

For finding.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

Kanagawa’s brother had a scrap folded twice beside the phone.

Sato’s paper was flat.

The resident’s low words had been heard where care needed them.

The brush cups had labels because hearing had not been enough for sorting.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

Not heard by them.

I had started with heard.

I did not end by making hearing continue after its audience had gone quiet.

Tonight, what needed to be heard reached the ears that could answer it, and what had already been heard once was not made to repeat itself for my silence.