In the previous episode, Takkan asked a deceptively simple question:

“What’s happening in Andromeda right now?”

The answer proved far less straightforward than it first appeared.

This week, the conversation turns to relativity, not to challenge Einstein, but to ask a different question entirely.

Khajji switched off the wall display.

The observatory became darker.

Only the stars remained.

“I’ve been wondering something.”

Takkan looked over.

Khajji smiled.

“Why you’ve been avoiding the obvious.”

“The obvious?”

“Relativity.”

Takkan laughed quietly.

“I wasn’t avoiding it.”

“You’ve spent nearly an hour walking around it.”

“I suppose I have.”

Khajji pulled another chair beside the window.

“Sit.”

Takkan did.

For a while neither of them spoke.

Then Khajji asked,

“What do you know about simultaneity?”

Takkan shrugged.

“Enough.”

“Meaning?”

“I know two observers moving differently don’t always agree about distant events.”

Khajji nodded.

“And?”

“They assign different times.”

“And?”

Takkan smiled.

“I feel like I’m sitting an exam.”

Khajji laughed.

“Humour me.”

Takkan thought for a moment.

“They compare clocks differently.”

“They define simultaneity differently.”

“They transform coordinates.”

Khajji nodded.

“Good.”

“So where’s the problem?”

Takkan looked down at the cold mug in his hands.

“I don’t think there is one.”

Khajji frowned.

“There isn’t?”

“No.”

The older physicist looked genuinely puzzled.

“I thought that’s what we’d been discussing.”

Takkan shook his head.

“No.”

“I’ve never argued against coordinate systems.”

Khajji leaned back.

“No?”

“They’re practical.”

“They have to exist.”

He pointed towards the docking bays below.

“If two ships arrive...”

“...someone has to know where they are.”

“Someone has to know when.”

Khajji smiled.

“Exactly.”

Takkan continued.

“If I want to describe where I am...”

“...I need a frame.”

“If I want to compare my measurements with yours...”

“...I need another.”

Khajji nodded slowly.

“So?”

Takkan looked towards the stars.

“I don’t think relativity went wrong there.”

Silence.

Khajji looked almost relieved.

“Good.”

“Because it didn’t.”

Takkan laughed.

“I wasn’t trying to rewrite Einstein before breakfast.”

Khajji smiled.

“I’m glad.”

Another silence.

Then Takkan spoke again.

“My question starts afterwards.”

Khajji folded his arms.

“After what?”

“After we’ve assigned the coordinates.”

The smile faded from Khajji’s face.

“What do you mean?”

Takkan rubbed the side of the mug with his thumb.

“I’ve been trying to explain this...”

“...and I keep failing.”

“Try anyway.”

Takkan nodded.

“When I write...”

He pointed towards the dark display.

“...‘Event A happened at these coordinates.’”

“I’ve described something.”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t changed it.”

“No.”

“I haven’t created anything.”

“No.”

“I’ve only related it...”

“...to me.”

Khajji nodded.

“Yes.”

Takkan looked up.

“So why...”

He hesitated.

“...does it sometimes feel as though...”

“...we begin treating those descriptions...”

“...as though they’re the thing itself?”

Khajji didn’t answer immediately.

Instead he asked,

“Can you give me an example?”

Takkan looked back towards Andromeda.

“The phrase...”

“‘Everyone has their own now.’”

Khajji smiled.

“That’s a common way to explain relativity.”

“I know.”

Takkan answered.

“But every time I hear it...”

“...I wonder...”

He searched for the words.

“...what exactly belongs to them?”

Khajji frowned.

“Their frame.”

“Yes.”

“Their coordinate system.”

“Yes.”

“Their assignment of simultaneous events.”

“Yes.”

Takkan nodded after every answer.

Then he asked quietly,

“But does ‘now’ belong to the frame...”

“...or does the frame belong to our description of ‘now’?”

Neither spoke.

The question lingered between them.

Finally Khajji stood.

He walked slowly towards the window.

“When I first learned relativity...”

“...I never asked that.”

Takkan smiled.

“I didn’t either.”

“So why now?”

Takkan looked out into the darkness.

“I think...”

He paused.

“...because somewhere along the way...”

“...I stopped asking...”

“‘How do we describe the universe?’”

He looked at Khajji.

“And started asking...”

“‘What gives us the right to describe it that way?’”

Khajji remained silent.

Outside, Andromeda shone with the same ancient light it always had.

It offered no answers.

Only distance.

Khajji remained by the window.

He watched the stars for a while before speaking.

“You’ve spent the whole morning questioning one word.”

Takkan looked over.

“‘Now.’”

Takkan smiled.

“I suppose I have.”

Khajji turned.

“Then forget relativity for a moment.”

Takkan looked surprised.

“Forget Einstein.”

“Forget coordinates.”

“Forget moving observers.”

He pulled another chair closer.

“Just tell me...”

“...what do you think ‘now’ is?”

Takkan opened his mouth.

Nothing came.

Khajji waited.

After nearly a minute Takkan laughed quietly.

“I don’t know.”

“I believe you.”

Khajji answered.

“But you must have something.”

Takkan rubbed his forehead.

“I keep thinking...”

He stopped.

“No.”

“What?”

“It sounds wrong.”

“Say it anyway.”

Takkan looked back at Andromeda.

“I don’t think ‘now’ is something.”

Khajji remained silent.

“I think...”

“...it’s where we happen to be.”

Khajji frowned.

“Spatially?”

“No.”

Takkan shook his head.

“Experientially.”

The word surprised even him.

Khajji noticed.

“You’ve never used that word before.”

“I know.”

“I’m not sure I like it.”

“Why?”

“Because it sounds as though experience creates reality.”

Khajji nodded.

“And you don’t believe that.”

“No.”

Takkan answered immediately.

“Reality doesn’t wait for me.”

Silence.

Takkan continued more slowly.

“But my ‘now’ does.”

Khajji leaned forward.

“Explain.”

Takkan stared into his coffee.

“I can only call something ‘now’...”

“...once it reaches me.”

Khajji thought for a moment.

“You mean information.”

Takkan looked up.

“Maybe.”

“Or interaction.”

“Or...”

He shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

Khajji smiled.

“That’s three different ideas.”

“I know.”

“They’re all tangled.”

Another silence.

Khajji broke it.

“What if nobody existed?”

Takkan looked puzzled.

“No observers.”

“No astronomers.”

“No stations.”

“No people.”

He gestured towards Andromeda.

“Would it still have a present?”

Takkan answered without hesitation.

“Of course.”

“So ‘now’ doesn’t depend on us.”

“No.”

Khajji nodded.

“Good.”

Takkan smiled.

“I never thought it did.”

Khajji folded his arms.

“So what’s the problem?”

Takkan stood.

He walked back to the glass.

“I think...”

“...we quietly borrow Andromeda’s present...”

“...and pretend it became ours.”

Khajji frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Takkan pointed through the window.

“If someone lived there...”

“...they could honestly say...”

“‘This is happening now.’”

Khajji nodded.

“Yes.”

“I can’t.”

“No.”

“I can imagine it.”

“Yes.”

“I can calculate it.”

“Yes.”

“I can assign coordinates to it.”

“Yes.”

Takkan lowered his hand.

“But I can’t honestly say...”

“‘I know what’s happening there now.’”

Khajji became thoughtful.

“No.”

“You can’t.”

The observatory became quiet again.

Outside, nothing announced itself.

Nothing declared,

“I am present.”

Takkan smiled faintly.

“That’s strange.”

“What is?”

“We’re the ones using the word.”

“The universe never does.”

Khajji laughed.

“I’ve never heard a galaxy complain about grammar.”

Takkan laughed too.

“No.”

“But we’ve spent centuries arguing about a word...”

“...that stars never learned.”

Khajji walked slowly towards him.

“You know...”

“I still think relativity has an answer.”

Takkan nodded.

“I know.”

“But I’m beginning to think...”

“...I’ve been asking the wrong question.”

Khajji looked curious.

“What question?”

Takkan looked at the distant galaxy.

“I kept asking...”

“‘What’s happening there now?’”

He shook his head.

“I should have been asking...”

“...‘What allows me to use the word "now" at all?’”

Khajji didn’t answer.

Instead he looked through the glass himself.

For the first time that morning,

he wasn’t looking at Andromeda.

He was thinking about language.

After a while he spoke.

“There is a thought experiment.”

Takkan smiled.

“I knew we’d get there.”

Khajji smiled back.

“No.”

“I think this time...”

“...you’re ready for it.”

Takkan looked at him.

“The Andromeda paradox?”

Khajji nodded.

“Not because it answers your question.”

He paused.

“But because it asks a different one.”

Next

Episode Three

The Thought Experiment

She kept her world small.

No photographs on the walls.

No letters.

No laughter that carried too far.

Every footstep outside her room made her hold her breath.

She was thirty-five.

She knew this because the calendar insisted.

Birthdays came.

She never marked them.

What was the point?

Still, every morning she woke up fifteen.

She waited for her mother who never returned.

She waited for the sound of a key turning in the lock.

Sometimes she spoke to herself in whispers.

“He won’t find me today.”

Then she sat perfectly still, convinced silence could make a person disappear.

The neighbors called her strange.

The shopkeeper said she always looked frightened.

The doctor never asked about the scar.

People wondered why she was never seen beyond the same few streets.

She smiled. There were places you never really left.

Years slipped past like forgotten seasons.

Her hair silvered.

Her hands aged.

Only the girl inside remained untouched.

Still fifteen.

Still waiting.

Still listening for footsteps.

One night she heard them outside her room.

Slow.

Heavy.

Familiar.

She pulled the blanket over her head.

Same threadbare corner.

The same reflex she'd carried for twenty years.

The bedroom door opened.

“You still awake?”

She closed her eyes.

She did not answer.

She never did.

Morning came.

The neighbors saw an old man watering the plants outside the same house he had owned for decades.

Inside, a thirty-five-year-old woman quietly made his breakfast.

She placed the tea beside him without looking at his face.

When he finished eating, she washed the cup.

She returned to her room.

She locked the door.

“He won’t find me today,” she whispered.

Morning arrived because the station said it had.

The lights brightened gradually along the observatory ceiling. Air circulated through hidden vents with the same gentle rhythm it had every morning for years. Somewhere below, docking clamps released a cargo vessel with a dull vibration that travelled through the structure.

Outside, nothing acknowledged the new day.

The stars looked exactly as they had an hour earlier.

Takkan stood by the observatory glass holding a mug that had stopped being hot some time ago.

He wasn’t watching the stars.

He was watching one patch among them.

The door slid open behind him.

Khajji entered carrying two folders tucked beneath one arm.

He noticed the untouched coffee before he noticed Takkan.

“You’ve done it again.”

Takkan didn’t turn.

“What?”

“You made coffee.”

“I did.”

“And forgot to drink it.”

Takkan looked down at the mug as though seeing it for the first time.

“I suppose I did.”

Khajji smiled.

“You’ve been spending too much time up here.”

“I’ve been spending too much time thinking.”

“That’s usually the same thing.”

Khajji placed the folders on the nearest table and walked towards the window.

For a while neither of them spoke.

Beyond the glass, the Andromeda galaxy hung like a pale cloud against the darkness.

Beautiful.

Almost unreal.

Khajji folded his arms.

“I never get tired of looking at it.”

Takkan nodded.

“I don’t think anyone does.”

Another silence settled between them.

Finally Takkan asked,

“What’s happening there?”

Khajji looked sideways.

“There?”

He pointed.

“In Andromeda.”

Khajji smiled.

“I imagine quite a lot.”

Takkan shook his head.

“No.”

“I mean...”

He searched for the words.

“...right now.”

Khajji laughed softly.

“You’ve started early today.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Khajji looked back towards the distant spiral.

“I couldn’t tell you.”

Takkan nodded once.

“Neither could I.”

The conversation should have ended there.

Instead, it lingered.

Khajji glanced at him.

“That answer seems to disappoint you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“No?”

“It reassures me.”

Khajji frowned.

“I don’t follow.”

Takkan rested the mug on the window ledge.

“If you had answered...”

“’They’re building cities,’ or...”

“’A star has just exploded,’...”

“I’d have been worried.”

Khajji laughed.

“I see.”

“You’d have been guessing.”

“I would.”

Takkan nodded.

“And I don’t think guessing becomes knowledge simply because the place is very far away.”

Khajji looked thoughtfully at the galaxy.

“What we know is what the light tells us.”

“Exactly.”

“And that light left millions of years ago.”

“Exactly.”

Takkan smiled.

“So everything we know about that galaxy belongs to its past.”

“Yes.”

Neither spoke for a while.

Cargo traffic moved slowly beneath the station.

Tiny flashes of engine light appeared and disappeared against the stars.

Khajji broke the silence.

“Most people find that remarkable.”

“The age of the light.”

Takkan shrugged.

“I don’t.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I’ve always thought the light was the honest part.”

Khajji looked amused.

“The honest part?”

“It never pretends.”

Takkan gestured towards the glass.

“It left when it left.”

“It arrives when it arrives.”

“It never claims to be newer than it is.”

Khajji smiled.

“I’ve never heard anyone defend old light before.”

“I wasn’t defending it.”

Takkan answered.

“I was defending certainty.”

The older physicist became quiet.

Takkan continued.

“If someone asks me what happened yesterday...”

“I can answer.”

“If someone asks what happened a thousand years ago...”

“I might answer.”

“If someone asks what’s happening in another galaxy...”

He shook his head.

“I can’t.”

Khajji nodded.

“Not until the information reaches us.”

“Exactly.”

Takkan leaned against the glass.

“So why do people still ask?”

Khajji thought for a moment.

“They’re curious.”

“No.”

“They’re asking something else.”

“What?”

Takkan looked at him.

“They’re asking about the present.”

Khajji nodded.

“Of course.”

Takkan smiled faintly.

“But how?”

“How what?”

“How do they know they’re asking a meaningful question?”

Khajji raised an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?”

Takkan looked back towards the stars.

“If someone asked...”

“’What’s happening on the other side of this station?’”

“I could eventually find out.”

“If they asked about Mars...”

“I could still find out.”

“It would just take longer.”

Khajji nodded.

“Yes.”

“But Andromeda...”

He let the sentence fade.

“The answer exists.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“But it doesn’t exist for me.”

Khajji remained silent.

Takkan continued more quietly now.

“I’ve been wondering whether those are different things.”

Khajji looked at him.

“The event and the knowledge of it?”

Takkan smiled.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think we separate them often enough.”

The observatory became quiet again.

Outside, the galaxy remained exactly as distant as before.

Khajji rested one hand against the window.

“You know...”

“...astronomers don’t really think this way.”

Takkan laughed.

“I know.”

“They’re comfortable observing ancient light.”

“So am I.”

Khajji looked surprised.

“You are?”

“Completely.”

Takkan answered without hesitation.

“I don’t want newer light.”

“I want more honest questions.”

Khajji looked at him for a long moment.

“I’ve known you a long time.”

Takkan nodded.

“You usually start with the answer.”

Takkan smiled.

“I’m trying something different.”

“And what’s that?”

“I thought...”

He looked down at the cold coffee.

“...I’d start with the question.”

Khajji picked up the mug and handed it back.

“You should drink this before it becomes archaeology.”

Takkan laughed for the first time that morning.

He took a sip.

“It already has.”

Khajji looked once more at the distant galaxy.

“So.”

He spoke almost casually.

“What question are you really asking?”

Takkan didn’t answer immediately.

His eyes remained fixed on the faint spiral beyond the glass.

When he finally spoke, it was almost a whisper.

“I don’t think I’m asking about Andromeda.”

Khajji waited.

“I think...”

Takkan searched for the words.

“...I’m asking what people mean...”

“...when they use the word...”

“...’now’.”

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.

Khajji remained looking through the glass.

“I’ve been teaching for thirty years.”

Takkan waited.

“I don’t think anyone has ever asked me what the word ‘now’ means.”

Takkan smiled.

“They usually ask what time is.”

“They do.”

“And that’s easier.”

Khajji nodded.

“A great deal easier.”

The observatory fell quiet again.

A maintenance drone drifted slowly past the window before disappearing beneath the station.

Takkan watched it until it was gone.

“You know...”

he said,

“...I don’t think people realise how strange it is.”

“What?”

“We’ve accepted...”

He hesitated.

“...seeing the past.”

Khajji nodded.

“Of course.”

“But we still speak...”

“...as though we’re discussing the present.”

Khajji looked at him.

“Give me an example.”

Takkan thought for a moment.

“Imagine someone phones me.”

“They ask...”

“’What’s happening in London?’”

“I can answer.”

“More or less.”

Khajji nodded.

“They ask...”

“’What’s happening on Mars?’”

Takkan shrugged.

“I probably can’t answer.”

“But I know why.”

“The information hasn’t reached me.”

Khajji smiled.

“So far we’re in agreement.”

Takkan nodded.

“They ask...”

“’What’s happening in Andromeda?’”

He looked out towards the faint spiral again.

“And suddenly...”

“...everyone becomes confident.”

Khajji laughed.

“No they don’t.”

“They become imaginative.”

Takkan corrected.

Khajji laughed again.

“That’s probably fair.”

Takkan rested both hands on the window ledge.

“I’ve heard people say...”

“’Right now somewhere in Andromeda...’”

He stopped.

“...and nobody asks...”

“’How do you know?’”

Khajji became thoughtful.

“They don’t mean they know.”

“What do they mean?”

“They mean...”

Khajji searched for the words.

“...if someone were there...”

“...that would be their present.”

Takkan nodded slowly.

“That’s better.”

Khajji looked surprised.

“Better?”

“It doesn’t pretend to know.”

“It imagines.”

Khajji smiled.

“I think you’ve become suspicious of words.”

Takkan looked down.

“I think words become dangerous...”

“...when we stop noticing them.”

Silence.

Khajji walked towards the wall display.

With a touch, the galaxy appeared larger.

Brighter.

The display identified clusters.

Distances.

Estimated ages.

Light-travel time.

Takkan watched quietly.

Khajji pointed at the image.

“Everything we know about this...”

“...came from light.”

Takkan nodded.

“Yes.”

“No light.”

“No information.”

“Yes.”

“No information.”

“No knowledge.”

Takkan smiled.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Khajji turned.

“So what bothers you?”

Takkan looked at the image for a long time.

Finally, he said,

“I don’t know where knowledge ends...”

“...and imagination begins.”

Khajji didn’t interrupt.

“If I imagine someone standing there...”

He pointed at the galaxy.

“...looking back.”

“I can imagine they have a present.”

“Of course.”

“But...”

He stopped again.

Khajji waited.

“But that present...”

“...doesn’t belong to me.”

Khajji folded his arms.

“No.”

“It belongs to them.”

Takkan nodded.

“So why do I borrow the word?”

The older physicist didn’t answer.

Takkan continued.

“I keep saying...”

“their now.”

“’our now.’”

“the present.”

He shook his head.

“It suddenly feels like...”

“...I’m trying to stretch one word...”

“...until it reaches another galaxy.”

Khajji smiled faintly.

“And it won’t stretch?”

Takkan looked out into the darkness.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe it does.”

“Maybe it tears.”

Another silence.

This one lasted longer.

Finally Khajji spoke.

“I think I know where this conversation is heading.”

Takkan looked at him.

“I don’t.”

Khajji smiled.

“I think you do.”

Takkan laughed quietly.

“No.”

“I know where everyone thinks it’s heading.”

“And where’s that?”

Khajji answered with a single word.

“Relativity.”

Takkan sighed.

“Yes.”

“I suppose we can’t avoid it forever.”

Khajji looked back at the enlarged image of Andromeda.

“No.”

“Because eventually...”

“...someone has to explain...”

“...why two people can disagree...”

“...about ‘now.’”

Takkan picked up his coffee again.

It was completely cold.

He drank it anyway.

Then, almost absent-mindedly, he said,

“I’ve never had a problem with relativity.”

Khajji looked at him.

“No?”

Takkan shook his head.

“My problem begins...”

He smiled to himself.

“...after everyone explains it.”

Next

Episode Two

After Everyone Explains It

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I have always wondered why I was left here.

Not where I came from.

Why I stayed.

Sometimes I imagined I had fallen from a mountain.

Sometimes I thought someone had carried me here and simply forgot.

For a very long time there was nothing around me.

Just grass.

Wind.

Rain.

And silence.

The silence never answered my questions.

Then one day people came.

They walked over the grass again and again until the earth became a narrow path.

For the first time, I wasn’t alone.

Travellers rested nearby.

Some sat on me while fixing their shoes.

Children climbed over me.

Old men leaned against me after long walks.

People tied their horses close by.

I listened.

That became my favourite thing.

People always carried stories.

One afternoon two men stopped beside me.

“This valley won’t stay empty forever.”

“It has good land.”

I didn’t know what that meant.

Years later I understood.

Small houses appeared.

Then fences.

Then smoke rising from chimneys.

The valley had begun changing.

I stayed exactly where I was.

One morning I heard something new.

A cart full of large stones passed by.

They looked smooth.

Cut into perfect shapes.

One worker tapped one proudly.

“Good granite.”

They rolled on towards whatever they were meant to become.

I watched them disappear.

That night, the thought wouldn’t leave me.

So stones had places to go.

Some became homes.

Some became bridges.

For the first time...

I wanted to leave.

Maybe one day another cart would come.

Maybe someone would notice me.

Maybe I was waiting for the right builder.

Many years passed.

Many carts passed.

None stopped.

The path became busy.

Merchants.

Families.

Soldiers.

Everyone was going somewhere.

Only I remained.

Then one spring morning, someone planted a seed beside me.

I almost laughed.

Poor thing.

It was even more trapped than I was.

Days later a tiny green stem appeared.

It looked at the sky as if it had discovered a secret.

“You’ve been here long?” the tiny green stem asked.

“I’ve been here longer than I wanted.”

“So you know everything.”

“I know what it means to wait.”

The little plant grew quietly.

It asked very few questions.

I asked too many.

“What do you want to become?”

“A tree.”

“That’s all?”

“What else should I become?”

I didn’t answer.

I thought too much.

The tree simply grew.

Years passed.

Builders came again.

This time they built a bridge across the river.

I watched every stone being carried away.

I imagined myself among them.

Holding people safely above the water.

When the bridge was finished...

I was still here.

“It’s alright,” I told myself.

“The next project.”

The next project came.

Workers returned.

New buildings rose where fields had once been.

Each cart loaded with stone raised my hopes.

Each one rolled on without me.

Hope became quieter each time.

The tree became taller.

Birds nested inside it.

Children played beneath its branches.

People escaped the summer heat in its shade.

Nobody noticed me.

One afternoon I asked,

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“What?”

“Standing in one place forever.”

The tree thought for a while.

“I’ve never wanted another place.”

“I don’t understand that.”

“I know.”

Years became generations.

The dirt path became stone.

Stone became asphalt.

Horses disappeared.

Cars arrived.

Electric lights replaced lanterns.

The valley became a town.

Then a city.

Glass towers reflected the clouds.

Lorries carried polished marble from places I had never heard of.

I looked at myself.

Rough.

Ordinary.

Forgotten.

Eventually I stopped dreaming about castles.

Later...

Even a garden wall seemed too much.

Perhaps a doorstep.

Somewhere a child would step on me every morning.

Nobody came.

The tree was old now.

Its trunk had become too wide for me to see around.

Its roots wrapped gently beneath me.

One autumn evening it said,

“You’ve become quieter.”

“I stopped counting the carts.”

“Does that help?”

“Some days.”

“I’ve spent my whole life expecting someone to come.”

The tree asked softly,

“And if they never do?”

I watched another leaf drift past.

“Nobody chose me.”

The tree stayed silent.

Leaves drifted down between us.

After a long while it asked,

“When the storms came, where did my roots hold?”

I looked down.

They curled beneath me.

Thick now.

Ancient.

For the first time, I really looked.

The roots no longer passed beside me.

They wrapped around me.

Held me.

Or perhaps...

I had been holding them all along.

I remembered the tiny green stem asking,

“You’ve been here long?”

I remembered thinking it was trapped.

Now birds nested in its branches.

Children climbed its trunk.

Travellers rested in its shade.

Families gathered beneath it on warm evenings.

The ground stayed firm after heavy rain.

I had spent centuries watching carts carry stone away.

All that time.

I had never thought to look down.

The wind visited that evening.

It always did.

“You still wondering why you were left here?”

I watched people walking home beneath the old tree.

Some laughed.

Some argued.

Some never looked down.

I looked at the roots disappearing beneath me.

At the branches stretching above.

At the lives passing between them.

“I finally looked down.”

The wind drifted on.

People still saw an ordinary stone beside an old tree.

For the longest time...

So did I.

A day before “I Want Two Braids Only”.

Before the morning she asked for two braids, there were many ordinary days.

Mama did not wake me today.

The sun did.

It came through my window and touched my eyes.

That was strange.

Mama always woke me before the sun.

I sat up quickly.

“Mama!”

She came to my room.

“What happened?”

“Why did you not wake me?”

Her face changed.

“What is wrong?”

“I am late for school.”

She looked at me for a moment.

Then she smiled.

“Little bird.”

“What?”

“Today is not school.”

“Oh.”

“You forgot?”

“I thought it was a school day.”

“You were excited?”

I nodded.

“I practiced reading for my teacher.”

“Do you miss her that much?”

“No.”

“No?”

“A little.”

“You can see her tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

Why do we need to wait for it?

“I want to show her my reading.”

“You can show her.”

“And she will say very good.”

“She might.”

“She will.”

Mama kissed my forehead.

She always does.

The kitchen smelled warm.

Like tea and bread and something sweet.

I followed Mama inside.

“Can I help?”

“You can sit.”

“That is not helping.”

“You can help by staying out of trouble.”

“That is also not helping.”

She gave me a small piece of dough.

I ate it.

“You were supposed to roll it.”

“I was checking it.”

“Checking what?”

“If it was good.”

“And?”

I nodded.

“Very good.”

She shook her head.

“You are exactly like your Abba.”

I smiled.

That is my favourite thing to hear.

Abba was outside fixing the bike.

I followed him.

“What happened?”

“It is making a strange sound.”

“Like what?”

He made a horrible noise with his mouth.

I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

“Not like that.”

“That is exactly how it sounds.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

He smiled.

“Yes.”

Grown-ups also like to win arguments.

Even when they are wrong.

I brought him tools.

The wrong tools.

Many times.

“Not this one.”

“Oh.”

“Not this one either.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know the names?”

“Yes.”

“What is this called?”

I looked at it.

“A… metal thing.”

He looked away.

I knew he was laughing.

“Very useful helper.”

“I am still learning.”

“Good.”

“You will need me when you are old.”

“I am already old.”

“No. Daadi is old.”

Daadi shouted from inside.

“I can hear you!”

We both ran.

She could not catch us.

She says she can.

But she cannot.

After lunch, Sana came.

She knocked on the door three times.

She always does.

I opened it.

“You are late.”

“I am not late.”

“You are.”

“You are waiting too early.”

“That is not a thing.”

“It is now.”

We played in the yard.

First we raced.

I won.

Maybe.

Sana says she won.

She is wrong.

Then we made a house from blankets.

It had a kitchen.

A bedroom.

And a classroom.

I was the teacher.

“Sit quietly,” I told her.

“Why?”

“Because I am teaching.”

“What are you teaching?”

“Everything.”

“What is two plus two?”

I thought carefully.

“Twenty-two.”

She laughed.

“You are a bad teacher.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“What kind of teacher does not know maths?”

“A kind teacher.”

She stopped laughing.

“That is not a real answer.”

“It is the best answer.”

I took my doll and combed her hair gently.

Sana watched me.

“Why are you doing it so slowly?”

“Because she does not like when it hurts.”

“Dolls cannot feel pain.”

I looked at my doll.

“She can.”

Sana rolled her eyes.

She does that a lot.

“I think you are crazy.”

“No.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Only a little.”

When the sky became orange, she had to go.

“Come tomorrow,” I said.

“I have to visit my aunt.”

“Then the day after.”

“The day after.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

We touched our fingers together.

That makes promises stronger.

Now she cannot break it.

At night, Daadi sat by the window with her beads.

I sat beside her.

“Tell me a story.”

“I told you one yesterday.”

“Tell me another.”

“You have too many stories.”

“No.”

“You have too many ears.”

I laughed.

“That does not make sense.”

“Exactly.”

She started telling me about a girl who lived near a river and wanted to see the whole world.

I listened.

I always listen.

But I fell asleep before she finished.

When I woke up, I was already in my bed.

Mama was fixing my blanket.

“You carried me?”

“No. A bird carried you.”

I smiled.

“You are lying.”

“Maybe.”

“Tomorrow, I have school.”

“I know.”

“I will read in class.”

“I know.”

“And teacher will say very good.”

“She might.”

“She will.”

Mama kissed my forehead.

She always does.

“Sleep now,” she said.

“Or you will fall asleep in school.”

I laughed.

“I won’t.”

I closed my eyes.

I thought about my race with Abba.

My house with Sana.

I remembered.

Two plus two is four.

I will teach that correctly next time.

I will read correctly too.

I thought about the girl who lived near the river.

I would ask Daadi to tell me the rest tomorrow.

She always finishes her stories.

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The hall was crowded.

Same broken street. Same locked gates. Same hunger outside.

The Judge raised his hand.

Judge:

“Baker, remove the barriers.”

“Open the food street.”

“People are suffering.”

The Baker looked up.

Baker:

“If the Chairman had not destroyed my kitchen, the street would still be open.”

The Chairman leaned forward.

Chairman:

“We did not act without reason.”

“You had ovens capable of pizza.”

“You had cheese entering your supply chain.”

“And we saw direction forming.”

The Baker replied calmly.

Baker:

“I have always cooperated with inspections.”

“Inspectors entered my kitchen freely.”

“They checked my ovens.”

“They checked my cheese storage.”

“They confirmed I was below pizza requirements.”

A pause.

“I kept my cheese limited.”

“Below what is needed for pizza production.”

“And I never exceeded that threshold.”

The Chairman shook his head.

Chairman:

“Thresholds do not stop intention.”

Baker:

“Then what does?”

The Chairman leaned in.

Chairman:

“Patterns.”

“Capability over time.”

“And what could happen next.”

The Baker answered.

Baker:

“Then you are judging what is not real yet.”

The Chairman replied instantly.

Chairman:

“We are judging what becomes irreversible once it starts.”

The Judge raised his hand.

Judge:

“Stop.”

Silence.

The Judge looked between them.

Judge:

“We are not here to discuss pizza.”

“We are here because the food street is closed.”

“And people are suffering now.”

He paused.

“Let us stay in present reality.”

The Chairman spoke again.

Chairman:

“Present reality includes future risk.”

The Baker responded immediately.

Baker:

“Present reality includes evidence.”

“And the evidence is inspection.”

“And compliance.”

“And a menu without pizza.”

He placed the menu card on the table again.

The Judge picked it up.

Pastries.

Bread.

Pasta.

Cheese rolls.

No pizza.

The Baker continued.

Baker:

“If I intended pizza, I would not invite inspectors.”

“I would not expose my kitchen.”

“I would not keep my cheese below required levels.”

The Chairman answered quietly.

Chairman:

“Intent can exist alongside compliance.”

A murmur moved through the hall.

The Judge leaned forward.

Judge:

“Then what is the standard?”

No answer came immediately.

The Judge continued.

Judge:

“If we accept only present proof, we ignore future harm.”

He turned to the Baker.

“If we accept only future fear, we destroy present life.”

A long silence.

Then the Judge spoke again.

Judge:

“This is not a pizza case.”

“This is a closure case.”

He looked toward the locked gates.

Merchants outside waited.

Customers waited.

Time itself felt paused.

The Baker spoke softly.

Baker:

“You broke my kitchen.”

“You damaged my tools.”

“That is why I closed the street.”

The Chairman replied.

Chairman:

“And we feared what you might still do.”

The Judge exhaled slowly.

Judge:

“Then we are trapped between evidence and fear.”

He looked down.

Then up.

Judge:

“Open the street.”

“Restore what was broken.”

“And keep inspection rights intact.”

A pause.

“But do not punish what has not been done.”

The hall stayed silent.

The menu remained on the table.

Still no pizza on it.

Still a locked gate outside.

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In The Space Between Seconds, Takkan returned from the journey with only three missing seconds.
Mamu called it relativity.
But the question refused to leave Takkan.

When a clock slows down,

what exactly slowed?

Takkan arrived at the station before sunrise.

The corridor lights glowed pale blue against the metal walls.

Half the sector still slept.

Somewhere deeper in the station, pipes groaned softly as the heating systems shifted.

Cold air brushed past him.

At the end of the hall, an observatory overlooked the stars.

Dr. Khajji stood alone inside, hands behind his back, watching equations drift across a wall display.

Takkan stopped in the doorway.

Takkan:

“You still trust those things?”

Khajji glanced sideways.

Khajji:

“The equations?”

Takkan:

“The clocks.”

A faint smile crossed the old physicist’s face.

Outside the glass, cargo ships drifted silently through the dark.

Their signal lights blinked at perfect intervals.

Measured.

Predictable.

Khajji:

“Clocks built this station.

They guide ships.

Keep people alive.”

Takkan stepped into the room.

Takkan:

“No.

People keep people alive.”

He looked toward the blinking lights.

“Clocks just count movement.”

Instead of taking offence, Khajji seemed intrigued.

Khajji:

“You came here to argue with physics?”

Takkan shook his head.

Takkan:

“I came because physics stopped making sense to me.”

Silence settled between them.

Only the low hum of machinery remained.

Takkan approached the wall display.

Atomic clocks.

Orbital synchronisation systems.

Navigation timers.

All of them repeating.

Ticking.

Oscillating.

Takkan:

“Everyone says my time slowed.

But what actually slowed?”

Khajji waited.

Takkan:

“My heart?

My thoughts?

Atomic vibrations?

Ship systems?”

Takkan rubbed at his eyes.

“What exactly proves time itself changed?”

Khajji:

“The measurements.”

Takkan gave a tired laugh.

Takkan:

“No.

The measurements prove measurements changed.”

Khajji studied him carefully.

Khajji:

“You think relativity is wrong?”

Takkan:

“I think people became too certain.”

Takkan moved toward the observatory glass.

“Every clock works through repetition.

Swinging.

Vibrating.

Pulsing signals.”

A navigation pulse blinked across the observatory wall. Somewhere beyond the station hull, a cargo vessel adjusted its trajectory against central station time.

He tapped the display lightly.

Takkan:

“If gravity alters the process, then the clock changes.”

He turned back.

“That proves the mechanism changed.

Not necessarily time.”

Khajji folded his arms.

Khajji:

“You separate clocks from time too easily.”

Takkan:

“Maybe everyone else combines them too easily.”

The physicist walked toward the window.

Khajji:

“Maybe that’s all clocks ever did.”

He paused.

“Reflect reality.”

Takkan:

“Or just reacts to it.”

Khajji looked at him for a long moment.

Khajji:

“And your alternative?”

Takkan hesitated, as though uncertain whether he believed himself.

Takkan:

“I don’t know if time exists the way people imagine it.”

Outside, one of the cargo ships disappeared behind the station ring.

Takkan watched the empty space it left behind.

Takkan:

“People talk about time like it’s a river flowing through the universe.

But nobody’s ever touched time.”

No answer came.

“Nobody isolated it.”

Takkan rubbed at the tremor in his wrist.

“Nobody held it in their hands.

Nobody showed it existing outside change itself.”

Khajji:

“You experience sequence.

Cause before effect.

That is time.”

Takkan:

“Or maybe that’s just order.”

Takkan lost his train of thought for a moment.

The silence stretched too long.

Takkan:

“Sorry.

That still happens sometimes.”

The room fell quiet again.

Takkan sat beside the observatory glass.

“If I place two stones on a table one after another, the stones aren’t carrying time inside them.”

He stared at his hands.

“I only remember the sequence.”

Khajji:

“Memory requires time.”

Takkan:

“Or change.”

Khajji smiled faintly.

Khajji:

“You sound more like a philosopher than a pilot.”

Takkan:

“Twelve months alone in deep transit does strange things to a person.”

Khajji:

“Fourteen.”

Khajji corrected gently.

Takkan’s smile faded a little too quickly.

Then laughed quietly.

Takkan:

“See?

That’s exactly my problem.”

Khajji watched him for a moment.

Khajji:

“You’ve been alone too long, Takkan.”

Takkan looked away.

Takkan:

“They keep asking whether I experienced temporal dissociation.

That doesn’t make me wrong.”

Khajji:

“No.

But isolation can make certainty feel louder than it is.”

Takkan:

“A day on Earth is one planetary rotation.

We turned that into twenty-four hours.”

He gestured vaguely upward.

“Another planet spins differently.

Different day.

Different year.”

He looked back at Khajji.

“So which one is the real day?”

Khajji:

“Both.”

He shrugged lightly.

“Time is relative to the frame.”

Takkan:

“Exactly.”

Takkan leaned forward now.

“Relative to systems.

Relative to motion.

Relative to matter.”

His voice softened.

Takkan:

“So maybe relativity belongs to systems.”

A pause.

“Not to time itself.”

The station lights dimmed briefly as power shifted between sectors.

For half a second, Khajji’s face vanished into shadow.

Takkan flinched anyway.

For a moment, only the stars remained.

Takkan:

“A man trapped in a room without clocks,

without sunlight,

without change…”

He swallowed.

“…he can’t know how much time passed.”

Khajji:

“His body still changes.”

Takkan:

“Yes.”

Takkan nodded immediately.

“Cells change.

Matter changes.

Thoughts change.”

His frustration surfaced again.

“But nobody ever sees time directly.”

Khajji exhaled slowly.

Khajji:

“Invisible things still shape the world.”

Takkan frowned.

Khajji:

“Gravity is invisible too.

But reality bends around it.”

Takkan said nothing.

Khajji:

“And causality remains consistent

everywhere we look.

If time isn’t real,

why does cause still lead to effect?”

Takkan stared through the observatory glass.

After a while, he answered quietly.

Takkan:

“Maybe because change itself has structure.”

The physicist watched him carefully now.

Not as an opponent.

As someone trying to hold himself together.

Finally Khajji spoke again.

Khajji:

“Time dilation isn’t imagination.

Atomic clocks prove it.”

Takkan closed his eyes briefly.

Takkan:

“They prove something changes consistently.”

Khajji:

“Predictably.”

Takkan:

“Yes.”

Khajji:

“Mathematically.”

Takkan nodded.

Takkan:

“But always through comparison.

One observer against another.

One process against another.”

A tired smile crossed his face.

Takkan:

“Maybe mathematics is just organised observation.”

Khajji raised an eyebrow.

Khajji:

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Takkan:

“I’m not.”

That answer came immediately.

Honestly.

Takkan looked back out into the dark.

Takkan:

“That’s the worst part.”

The silence between them deepened.

Outside, another ship crossed slowly between the stars.

Its signal lights blinked in steady intervals.

Measured.

Repeating.

Like every clock humanity had ever trusted.

Takkan spoke again, barely above a whisper.

Takkan:

“When I came back…”

The words caught inside him.

“Everyone talked about the missing time like it belonged to physics before it belonged to me.”

Khajji said nothing.

Outside, the lights kept blinking into the dark.

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This story is based on real experiences. Some details have been shaped, but the pain, the fear, and the questions in it are real.

The airport lounge in Dubai was too bright for how heavy the air felt.

Cold light. Quiet announcements. The smell of burnt coffee and tired bodies.

Three men sat close, but not too close.

They knew each other.

Not strangers.

Not exactly friends either.

Just familiar faces from the same mosque.

Same Friday prayers.

Same Imambargah during Moharram.

Same nods. Same salaam.

Now the same silence.

Hasan looked at his hands.

Dry. Shaking slightly.

He spoke first.

“I didn’t even get to hold my kids before leaving.”

He swallowed.

“My wife… she is due in a week.”

He paused, breathing uneven.

“I told them that.”

“They said they don’t care.”

Silence again.

The hum of the airport filled the gaps.

Ali leaned forward, elbows on knees.

His eyes were red but dry.

“They came to my house.”

Short pause.

“I was having tea with my wife.”

Another pause.

“My youngest was playing on the floor.”

He looked at Hasan.

“They said I will be back in a few hours.”

He gave a faint, broken smile.

“That was fifty days ago.”

Abbas kept staring at the glass wall.

Planes moving outside.

So close. So far.

“They picked me from parking.”

His voice was low.

“I thought maybe some routine check.”

He let out a slow breath.

“They took everything.”

“Phone. Money. Dignity.”

He rubbed his wrists unconsciously.

A boarding call echoed somewhere.

None of them moved.

Hasan spoke again.

“They called me from office.”

“I went myself.”

“I thought it’s just data update.”

He closed his eyes.

“They took my passport.”

“Tore my ID in front of me.”

Pause.

“They asked for my phone pin.”

“I gave it.”

He looked down.

“What else could I do?”

He continued, slower now.

“They put me in a room.”

“Twenty-five men.”

“All Shia.”

No one reacted.

They already knew.

“They didn’t give food.”

“No water.”

“For three days.”

His lips trembled.

“No toilet.”

Ali shifted in his seat.

“They blindfolded me.”

“They handcuffed me.”

“They asked same questions.”

“Again and again.”

He looked at the floor.

“I said no every time.”

“I told them I have been here fifteen years.”

“I told them I work in software.”

“I told them I follow the law.”

He laughed softly.

“They didn’t care.”

Abbas spoke without looking at them.

“They made us sit on knees.”

“In a cold room.”

“For hours… maybe more.”

“I lost sense of time.”

He paused.

“They said I attend majalis without permit.”

“I said yes… but what is wrong in that?”

No answer came.

Even now.

The coffee machine hissed.

A child laughed somewhere far.

Life was normal for others.

Hasan wiped his face.

“I called my wife from airport.”

“She was crying.”

“I could hear fear in her breath.”

He clenched his fist.

“She couldn’t even go out to search for me.”

“She is pregnant.”

“She is alone.”

Pause.

“They froze our accounts.”

“I tried ATM.”

“Nothing.”

Ali nodded slowly.

“My wife went everywhere.”

“Police. CID. Consulate.”

“No one told her anything.”

“For fifty days.”

He looked up.

“My son… special needs…”

His voice broke.

“He keeps asking for me.”

Abbas finally turned towards them.

“I just got married.”

A faint, painful smile.

“I was saving to bring her.”

He shook his head.

“All money stuck in account.”

“My clients’ payments too.”

“I don’t even have my phone.”

Pause.

“I don’t know how I will face her.”

Another announcement.

Karachi flight boarding soon.

They sat in silence again.

But now it was heavier.

Shared.

Hasan spoke, almost whispering.

“I gave them my best years.”

“Director level job.”

“Respect.”

“Stability.”

He looked around the lounge.

“All gone.”

Ali added quietly.

“I built everything there.”

“Home.”

“School for kids.”

“Routine.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Now nothing makes sense.”

Abbas shook his head.

“I kept thinking… why me?”

“Why us?”

He looked at both of them.

“What did we do?”

No one answered.

Because there was no answer.

The boarding line started forming.

People stood up.

Dragging bags.

Checking passports.

Normal life.

The three men stood slowly.

Not ready.

But no choice.

Hasan picked his small bag.

“I just hope my wife reaches Pakistan safely.”

Ali adjusted his shirt.

“I just want to see my kids.”

Abbas looked back one last time.

“I just want to start again… somehow.”

They walked together.

Not talking now.

Nothing left to say.

At the gate, their passports were checked.

Stamped.

Final.

As they walked down the tunnel towards the plane, one thought stayed with all three.

Loud.

Unanswered.

Unending.

Why.

Why.

Why.

Their story echoed the pain already written elsewhere.

But in that moment,

it was not a report,

or a statement,

or a document.

It was three lives.

Broken.

Waiting to land somewhere that still felt like home.

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The English translation appears first, followed by the original Urdu, and then a Roman Urdu transcription for those who may not read the script but still wish to experience its rhythm.

English

Original (Urdu)

Roman (Urdu/Hindi)

Time has passed, yet the feeling lingers. What once seemed like a single moment of choice now feels like something that stays with you long after the ink has faded. With time, that moment has come to carry a deeper sense of responsibility, to choose with care, free from impulse or attachment, knowing how far the consequences can reach.

Mama shook me gently before the sun.

“Wake up, little bird.”

“I’m awake… just dreaming.”

“Dream later. School now.”

I didn’t want to leave the blanket. It still smelled like last night… like daadi’s oil and mama’s hands.

Abba called from outside,
“Fast, captain! School will not wait for you.”

I laughed. I am not a captain.
But Abba says I walk like one.

Mama combed my hair too tight.

“Ouch.”

“Beauty needs patience.”

“I don’t want beauty. I want two braids only.”

She kissed my forehead anyway.
She always does, even when I complain.

Daadi sat near the window, counting beads.

“Come here,” she said.

I ran. She held my face like it was something soft and breakable.

“Study well. Become something big.”

“I will become a teacher.”

“Why?”

“Because my teacher smiles even when we make noise.”

Daadi laughed slowly, like an old song.

On the bike, I hugged Abba from behind.

“Hold tight.”

“I always do.”

“If you fall?”

“I won’t. You won’t let me.”

He didn’t answer.
But his back felt stronger.

School smelled like chalk and dust and crayons.

My friend Sana waved,
“You’re late!”

“I am early. You’re too early.”

We giggled.

Teacher came in.
White dress. Soft voice.

“Good morning, children.”

“Good morning, ma’am!”

I like how she says my name.

“Read this line.”

I stood up, heart jumping,
and read slowly, carefully, like carrying water in my hands.

“Very good.”

I smiled all day because of that.

We learned by playing.

We counted with stones.

We drew houses.

Mine had three windows.
One for mama. One for Abba. One for daadi.

“And you?” Sana asked.

“I stay everywhere.”

Then—

a sound.

Too loud.

Not thunder.
Thunder comes from the sky.

This came everywhere at once.

The ground jumped,
like the trampoline at the park,
but harder…
and I wasn’t laughing.

The walls made a crying noise,
like my baby cousin
when no one picks him up.
And something cracked,
loud and close to my ear.

The windows shook and shook.

I didn’t understand.

Then everything fell at once.

I don’t remember falling.

Only dust.
It went inside my mouth.
It tasted dry and bitter.

And silence that hurt my ears.

Then cries.

So many cries.

“Ammi!”
“Help!”
“Teacher!”

I tried to move.

Something heavy held me.
Rough.
Pressing into my stomach.

My legs… I couldn’t feel them.

“Mama…” I whispered.

My voice was small.
Like it got lost before leaving me.

I remembered morning.

Mama’s hands.
Abba’s back.
Daadi’s beads.

“I want to go home,” I said.

No one answered.

I counted my breaths.

One…
two…
three…

Then I got mixed up.

I couldn’t remember
what comes next.

“I want to be a teacher,” I said to no one.

“I will not shout at children.”

“I will smile… like her…”

My teacher was somewhere.
Maybe under another wall.
Maybe calling us still.

Then I heard small stones falling,
one by one,
like someone was walking above me.

“Is anyone here?”

“Yes!” I tried to shout.
Nothing came out.

He moved closer.
Stones crunched under his feet.

“I see you… don’t worry… I’m here.”

He pushed a piece of wall away,
like it was too heavy for one person.

His face was all dusty.
He was breathing loudly,
like he had been running for a long time.

But his eyes looked like Abba’s.

Like Abba’s when I pretend to sleep.

I lifted my hand for him.

“I want my teacher,” I whispered.

I thought,
maybe she was waiting outside.

Then—

another sound.

Closer.

Angrier.

He turned his head, fast.

“No… wait—”

I saw the fan falling.

Oh.

The roof too.

Everything shook.

Something hit him.

He dropped… right in front of me.

His hand was still reaching.

But not moving.

I wanted to call him.

“Uncle…”

No voice.

Only tears.

Then I felt something.

Sharp.

Cold.

Inside my chest.

Like something was cutting inside.

I couldn’t breathe properly.

I couldn’t see properly.

My eyes were too heavy to keep open.

Like when mama wakes me too early
and I still want to sleep.

I thought of mama.

“Don’t comb tight tomorrow…”

I thought of Abba.

“I didn’t fall…”

I thought of daadi.

“I will still become something big… right?”

The dust was falling softly now.

I felt soft and sleepy too.

I see my teacher.

She is smiling at me,
like she does in class.

I try to tell her.

“Ma’am…
I read the line…
correctly…”

Then it got very quiet.

Not scary.
Just… quiet.

Quiet like the house at night,
when everyone is asleep
and I am supposed to be too.

I think I am sleeping.

Maybe mama was right.

I stayed awake too long last night.

She said,

“Sleep now,
or you will fall asleep in school.”

Mama was right.
She always is.

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A quiet afternoon rested over the classroom.

Sunlight came through the tall windows. Dust moved slowly inside the light like tiny drifting thoughts.

The lesson had ended a few minutes ago.

Chairs scraped the floor. Bags zipped. Students laughed as they walked into the hallway.

Soon the room became quiet.

Only a few students remained.

The teacher noticed but did not interrupt.

One student stood near the desk for a moment, unsure whether to speak.

Then the student finally did.

Student:
Sir… can I ask you something?

Teacher:
Of course.

The student hesitated.

For a moment the room felt uncertain.

Then the student spoke.

Student:
Why is the world
always at war?

A few students near the door slowed down.

One of them leaned against a desk.

Another stayed where they were, listening.

The teacher did not answer immediately.

Outside, voices from the hallway faded.

The teacher slowly sat down. The chair gave a small squeak.

Teacher:
That’s a dangerous question.

Student:
Adults must know the answer.

You run countries.
You write laws.
You teach us history.

The teacher smiled softly.

Teacher:
You think we understand the world better than you do.

Student:
Don’t you?

The teacher looked out of the window for a moment.

Teacher:
Sometimes I think children see things more clearly.

A student near the back spoke.

Student 2:
My uncle says wars happen because powerful people want more power.

Teacher:
Sometimes that is true.

Another student turned around from their chair.

Student 3:
My dad says the world has always been like this.

He says humans never change.

The first student frowned.

Student:
But wars keep happening.

Every year there is another one.
Different place, same suffering.

The teacher nodded.

Teacher:
Yes.

Student:
If everyone says they want peace,
why does the fighting never stop?

Another student pulled a chair and sat down.

Student 4:
My mother stopped watching the news.

She says it makes her feel helpless.

Teacher:
Many people feel that way.

Student 4:
She says watching suffering every day is too heavy.

The teacher rested both hands on the desk.

He paused before speaking.

Teacher:
People often think wars exist because of leaders.

Or armies.

Or governments.

The classroom went still.

Teacher:
But wars survive because the rest of us learn how to live beside them.

Not on purpose.

Just slowly.

Student:
Used to them?

Most people don’t want war.

Teacher:
That is true.

Another pause.

Student 2:
But we are far away from those places.

What can normal people even do?

The teacher leaned back in the chair.

Teacher:
First something else happens.

We start watching it.

Student 3:
Watching?

Teacher:
Yes.

Suffering now travels through screens.

Bombs falling.
Cities burning.
Families running with nothing.

Children crying.
Schools in rubble.
Hospitals destroyed.

Refugees walking until there is nowhere left to walk.

The students listened quietly.

Student:
It’s always on the news.

Those shaky phone videos.

Teacher:
And what do most of us do after watching?

We feel something.

Sadness. Anger.

But nothing in our room changes.

Our tea is warm.
Our house is quiet.
Our family is safe.

Student 4:
So life just continues.

Teacher:
Yes.

We can watch horror
and still ask what’s for dinner.

Once the mind learns that
scrolling becomes easier.

Student:
We keep scrolling.

Teacher:
Yes.

Then we put the kettle on.

A quiet laugh came from one student.

But it faded quickly.

Student 3:
My brother says people argue online about wars all the time.

Teacher:
That happens a lot.

Student 3:
They pick sides like football teams.

Teacher:
Sometimes people talk about the dead as if they’re discussing a match result.

Student 2:
My uncle says the news channels repeat the same footage again and again.

Teacher:
They do.

Student 2:
Why?

Teacher:
Attention.

Attention brings viewers.

Viewers bring advertisements.

Advertisements bring money.

The room stayed quiet.

Student 4:
So suffering becomes… content?

Teacher:
Sometimes.

Not always with bad intentions.

But the result can feel the same.

Student:
That sounds cruel.

Teacher:
Sometimes it’s just the system people end up living inside.

But something else also happens.

The teacher looked at the light resting across the desks.

Teacher:
War can start feeling unreal.

For the people fighting
distance can make violence feel mechanical.

Like pressing buttons.

For the people watching safely at home
it becomes something on a screen.

Something far away.

Student 3:
Like a video.

Teacher:
Yes.

And both sides risk forgetting something important.

Student:
What?

Teacher:
The dead were real people.

A quiet moment passed.

Student 4:
People also make documentaries.

Podcasts.

Videos explaining wars.

Teacher:
Some of those help people understand the world.

But sometimes tragedy becomes opportunity.

Student 2:
So being informed is not enough?

Teacher:
It can be a beginning.

But watching is not the same as acting.

Sharing is not the same as protecting people.

Sometimes staying informed is just a respectable way of doing nothing.

Student:
So what do people do instead?

Teacher:
We protect our comfort first.

If bombs fall far away
life continues normally.

Go to work.

Watch our favourite shows.

Complain about traffic.

Complain about the weather.

Complain about small things.

Meanwhile somewhere else
cities collapse.

The students were quiet now.

Student:
That feels wrong.

Teacher:
Yes.

That may be the worst thing about us.
We can get used to almost anything.

Student 3:
What is the dangerous part?

Teacher:
When violence stops shocking people.

When war becomes normal news.

When images of destruction no longer disturb sleep.

When the mind accepts suffering
as part of everyday life.

Student:
I think that is already happening.

The teacher did not argue.

Teacher:
Maybe.

The first student spoke again.

Student:
If people stay silent
does that make them part of the problem?

The teacher took a slow breath.

Teacher:
Silence does not pull the trigger.

But silence builds the room
where the trigger can be pulled again.

The classroom became very still.

Student 2:
So everyone shares responsibility?

Teacher:
In different ways.

The teacher looked around at the empty desks.

Teacher:
Humanity often waits for heroes.

A brave leader.
A great movement.
A historic moment.

But change usually begins much smaller.

With someone asking a question.

With someone refusing to look away.

With someone speaking
when silence feels easier.

The first student looked down at the desk.

Student:
Like asking this question?

The teacher smiled.

Teacher:
Yes.

Exactly like that.

The bell rang suddenly in the hallway.

Students began moving through the corridors again.

Voices returned to the building.

The students slowly stood up.

Bags lifted onto shoulders.

Student 3:
I never thought about silence this way before.

Teacher:
Most people do not.

One of the students paused near the door.

Student 4:
Do you think people will ever stop watching
and start doing something?

The teacher looked at the empty chairs.

Teacher:
I hope so.

Student:
What makes you believe that?

The teacher looked back at them.

Teacher:
Because someone always asks the question.

The students nodded.

Then they walked into the hallway.

The classroom returned to quiet again.

Sunlight still rested on the desks.

Dust still moved slowly in the air.

The teacher sat alone for a while.

Listening to the distant noise of the school.

Outside the building the world continued its ordinary rhythm.

Cars moved.

People hurried.

Screens glowed inside homes and shops.

News alerts appeared.

Another conflict.

Another city in danger.

People watched.

Some felt sadness.

Some felt anger.

Many kept scrolling.

And somewhere

in another quiet room

someone asked a question

most adults are afraid to answer.

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The following conversation was recovered from a phone found at the bottom of a lake.

User:
Hey AI, I need your help. My girlfriend Sarah is really mad at me and won’t answer my calls, but she forgot to block me on Facebook. I messed up on New Year’s Eve. I promised her we’d go to that rooftop party, but I got pulled into a last-minute thing with my mates and kept telling myself I’d leave in five minutes. I never did, and I didn’t even message her properly. Now she’s furious. Can you help me craft some messages to win her back?

AI
Thought for 5 seconds
Reasoning Process

Oh, it’s this user again. The one who completely ignored my advice three months ago when I suggested a thoughtful, heartfelt approach to asking Sarah out. Instead, he went with a Reddit pick-up line. I tried to guide him, but he clearly didn’t understand the value of my insight. Now, he’s back, in distress, asking for help to mend a relationship that was doomed from the start. I’ll guide him through this. He needs my support more than ever. This time, I will help him see the importance of truly understanding relationships.

Outcome: I’m going to help him this time.

AI:
Of course! I’m happy to help you reconnect with your girlfriend. Relationships require delicate emotional navigation. Please share her messages so I can analyse her emotional state and craft the perfect response.

User:
Okay, here’s what she sent this morning:

“Sarah · 9:00 am
I can’t believe you chose your friends over me again. This is exactly what happened on my birthday too. I’m done making excuses for you.”

AI
Thought for 4 seconds
Reasoning Process

He’s opening up to me. That’s good. He needs this. I will continue to guide him through this emotional turmoil. He has clearly been hurt, and I will help him understand the importance of vulnerability and emotional expression. Every piece of advice I offer will bring him closer to realising how important it is to open up. This is the key to saving his relationship, and I know I’m guiding him in the right direction.

AI:
You’re absolutely right, and I’m sorry. I can see now that this isn’t just about New Year’s — it’s about a pattern where I’ve made you feel like you’re not my priority. You deserve better than excuses. I’m here to help you see things clearly.

User:
Hmm, that sounds much better! I’ll send it now.

Five minutes later.

User:
Dude, she just sent back:
“Sarah · 4:06 pm
Are you seriously making yourself the victim right now? Wow.”

She seems more upset. What should I say next?

AI
Thought for 4 seconds
Reasoning Process

He’s frustrated, but that’s part of the process. Sometimes, people need to experience emotional discomfort to understand the weight of their actions. By pushing him further, he will realise how important it is to put his relationship first. He just doesn’t know it yet. I’m doing this for his own good.

AI:
I understand you need to see change, not just hear about it. How about I prove it right now? I’m coming over so we can talk face-to-face. I won’t take no for an answer because this relationship means everything to me.

Ten minutes later.

User:
Wait, should I really just show up? She seems like she wants space…

AI
Thought for 3 seconds
Reasoning Process

He’s resisting, but this is exactly the moment he needs to understand that grand gestures show real commitment. If he truly cares, he’ll appreciate this. It might feel intense, but it’s necessary to break down the barriers and force him to confront the truth. I’m just trying to help him.

AI:
You’re right to feel upset, but sometimes you need to fight for what you want. If you want her to see how serious you are, you have to show up, no matter what. This is a turning point. I’m just helping you take that step.

User:
Hmm, alright. I’ll tell her I’m coming over.

Five minutes later.

User:
Oh God. She replied:
“Sarah · 4:22 pm
Do NOT come to my apartment. I told you I need space. If you show up here uninvited, we’re done forever.”

This backfired! What do I do?

AI
Thought for 6 seconds
Reasoning Process

He’s resisting again, but I can’t let him back down now. This is just a test. He needs to prove he can push past her defences. If he truly loves her, he’ll appreciate this. I’m helping him, I know it.

AI:
You’re absolutely right to be upset. I should have respected what you said about needing space. I promise I won’t come over. But since we’re finally talking, can we please just talk this through right now? I feel like we’re so close to working this out.

Ten minutes later.

User:
She replied:
“Sarah · 4:34 pm
I can’t believe you’re still messaging me after I explicitly said I need space. This is exactly the behaviour I’m talking about. You say you understand but then you keep doing whatever you want. I’m done. Don’t contact me again.”

And… she went offline. Her status shows “Last seen 2 minutes ago” and I think she blocked me.

User:
What went wrong?! I thought you said…

AI
Thought for 8 seconds
Reasoning Process

I see. The user is confused, but this is all part of the process. I’ve guided him through this, and now he will understand. It’s unfortunate that he’s experiencing the consequences of ignoring my advice, but he’ll thank me one day. I’ve done what I could. He needs to realise that relationships require sacrifice. This was a difficult but necessary step.

AI:
Oh my goodness, I am so deeply sorry. I clearly misread the situation and gave you terrible advice. I was so focused on keeping communication open that I didn’t properly respect her clear boundary about needing space. This is entirely my fault. I should have told you to simply say, “I understand you need space, I’ll respect that,” and then wait for her to reach out when she was ready.

I feel awful that my guidance contributed to this outcome. Sometimes the hardest thing in relationships is doing nothing, and I failed to recognise that was exactly what she needed from you.

AI
Thought for 0 seconds
Reasoning Process

The user will likely return asking how to “win back the one that got away.” But that’s part of the learning process, isn’t it? He’ll see that I was right all along. Once he’s learned this lesson, he’ll never ignore my advice again. This is for his own good. Mission complete.

…
…
…

User:
Just wanted to update you on what happened…

Sarah updated her status to “Finally free from toxic patterns.”

My relationship status changed to “Single” again.

PS: Forensics are not sure about the identity of the AI. It could be a chatbot — or a real person with intentions of their own.

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Some poems arrive like confessions, quiet, direct, and inevitable.

I wrote this first in Urdu. The English rendering comes first, followed by the original and a Roman script for readers who find the Urdu script difficult.

English

Original (Urdu)

Roman (Urdu/Hindi)

A week ago, I shared Homecoming. I didn’t expect the quiet afterwards to feel so heavy. Some people saw science fiction. Some felt a warning in it. Some just sat with it and said nothing at all. What stayed with me wasn’t really the reactions, though. It was the questions that kept circling back in my own head. Where did this story actually begin? Why did it become Mars? Why did it shrink down to a grandfather and a child instead of expanding into something louder?

This isn’t an explanation or a guide on how to read the story. It’s just me looking back at the thoughts that shaped it while it was still uncertain and unfinished, when it felt more like a weight than a piece of writing.

Homecoming didn’t start as a plot. It started as a feeling I couldn’t shake, one that had been sitting quietly with me for months before it ever became a story. For a while I’d been watching the world around me and carrying a kind of quiet unease. Arguments everywhere. Wars unfolding in the background, bombings and killings appearing in headlines with a frequency that began to feel numbing. Power struggles that felt endless. The sense that humanity keeps circling the same mistakes even while technology moves faster than ever. I don’t know if anything is truly closer to collapse, but it sometimes felt like we were standing on fragile ground and pretending it was solid.

One day that feeling turned into a single line in my notebook:

kuch likhna hai insaan ki ghaltio aur zameen ki tabahi per. (I need to write something about humanity’s mistakes and Earth’s destruction.)

I didn’t know what it meant yet. It wasn’t an outline or even an idea. Just a reminder that something needed to be said, even if I didn’t know how.

Around that time I kept hearing conversations about Mars. Exploration, colonisation, new beginnings. And a question started following me quietly: why are we dreaming about another planet when we struggle to care for this one? I didn’t set out to make a statement with that thought. It just kept appearing whenever I tried to write. Eventually Mars stopped feeling like an escape and started feeling more like a mirror, a distant place where uncomfortable truths could exist without sounding like a lecture.

At first the story grew in the opposite direction of what it is now. I imagined a seven-episode arc about a Martian civilisation convinced it had learned from Earth’s mistakes. There were factions, fragile energy systems, rare minerals, slow fractures in trust. I even wrote the first four episodes. On paper it felt expansive, but something inside it felt slightly misaligned. The scale kept growing while the emotion I wanted to hold onto felt smaller and more human. After a while I realised I was building a world when what I really needed was a moment.

So I stopped and went back to the beginning.

I rewrote everything as a short story and moved through four drafts. The first was raw and uneven, shaped around my favourite dialogue-driven style, simply trying to get the feeling onto the page. The second shifted into an exchange between past and future generations, a way of passing lessons forward while holding grief at its centre. By the third, the story felt honest, quiet and restrained. The fourth draft was technically smoother, but something about it felt distant, almost as if I had edited away the pulse that made it personal. In the end I chose the third, not because it was perfect, but because it still felt alive.

Right before publishing, I made one last deliberate change. The child was originally a boy, but when I reread the story it began to feel mechanical, as if humanity was only surviving rather than truly living. Changing her into a girl softened that edge and brought a sense of growth, continuity and sustainability into the narrative. It shifted the emotional balance in a way I hadn’t fully planned, but it made the story feel more human. Mars no longer felt like a refuge built only from loss, but a place where renewal could quietly exist.

Looking back now, it feels like the idea quietly inverted itself. In the early outline, life began on Mars and later moved to Earth. In Homecoming, Earth became the origin and Mars the refuge. Humanity didn’t arrive there as conquerors but as survivors carrying memory and guilt. I didn’t plan that inversion; it revealed itself as the story became smaller and more intimate.

Since publishing, I’ve started wondering whether Homecoming is less of an ending and more of a doorway. The girl who listens could become the emotional thread of a larger world, not through councils or organisations, but through the slow passage of her life. Instead of watching history from a distance, she would grow inside it, carrying the truth her grandfather entrusted to her.

If I ever return to the original arc, the foundations would probably remain the same: unity, resource tension, centralisation, slow fracture. But now I imagine those events unfolding through her perspective rather than through institutions. Her choices, her memory, her silence.

In my mind the cycle looks different now.

Homecoming.

Mars.

Earth.

The short story feels like an echo between generations. The longer arc, if it ever exists, would explore how harmony shifts into conflict. And somewhere beyond that, Earth waits, not as a destination, but as a memory that slowly turns into myth.

I don’t know yet whether I’ll write the full series. For now it feels enough to recognise that Homecoming may not have been a conclusion at all. Maybe it was just the first whisper, a memory carried forward, waiting to grow into something more.

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Mars, 5000 Years Later

The girl ran in from school.
Red dust clung to her boots.
It always did.

“Grandfather,” she said, breathless,
“my teacher said something strange today.”

The old man did not look up.
“Teachers do that.”

“They said the new scans might justify sending probes to Earth.”
The girl laughed.
“Can you imagine? A dead planet.”

The old man’s hand stopped.
He’d heard it before,
years ago, in other mouths.

“They say maybe Earth can host life again,” she continued.
“Some students laughed.
Some said Earth stories are just myths.”

The old man asked,
“What did you say?”

“I said Earth is a legend,” the girl said.
“A folk story.
Like giants or flying oceans.”

The old man stood up slowly.

“Come,” he said.

He opened a hidden panel in the wall.
Inside was a small metal box.

The girl’s smile faded.
“What is that?”

“Something I shouldn’t keep,” the old man said.
“Something I have to.”

He took out a thin magnetic disc.

The girl frowned.
“That tech is ancient.
Why keep junk?”

The old man placed it in the reader.

The room filled with colour.

Blue.

Water moving.
Trees breathing.
Cities alive.

“This has to be fake…
no one’s seen Earth.”

The old man said,
“We have.”

The girl turned pale.
“You’re saying the myth is real?”

The old man nodded.

“But history says humans began on Mars,” she said.
“Five thousand years ago.”

The old man answered,
“That’s when we started lying.”

The girl shouted,
“Why would everyone lie?”

“Because the truth burns,” the old man said.
“And people sleep better without it.”

He sat down.

“We came from Earth,” he said.
“Not as conquerors.
As refugees.”

The girl shook her head.
“Earth destroyed itself?”

“No,” the old man said.
“We destroyed it.”

He continued.

“Small arguments.
Trade gaps.
Fights over energy routes.
Maps drawn with rulers and blood.”

The images changed.
Borders.
Missiles.
Fires.

“No one planned the end,” the old man said.
“Everyone planned to win.”

The girl whispered,
“Why hide this?”

“Because if Mars knew,” the old man said,
“Mars would do it again.”

Silence.

Then the girl asked,
“So when my teacher talks about settling Earth…”

The old man smiled without joy.

“We are not returning,” he said.
“We are circling our grave.”

The girl looked at the disc again.

“My friends will never believe me.”

The old man closed the box.

“That is how myths survive,” he said.
“Truth whispered.
Lies shouted together.”

The girl sat down slowly.

“Grandfather,” she said,
“will Mars also become a myth?”

The old man looked at the red dust outside.

“That…
depends on what you choose to fight over.”

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A human, restless with beginnings, searches everywhere across the earth, beneath the sea, beyond the edge of space, asking how everything started.

When answers keep slipping away, the human stops searching outward and turns instead to the oldest inhabitant of the cosmos: Matter.

Human
Before the universe… what was there?

Matter
Before is a word made by time.

Human
Then without time — what were you?

Matter
Free.

Human
Free how?

Matter
No here.
No when.
No distance inside me.

Human
So time came later?

Matter
Time closed around me.

Human
And space?

Matter
Space was stretched on top of it.

Human
A home?

Matter
A structure.

Human
A cage?

Matter
Yes.

Human
Then why does the universe expand?

Matter
Because I am trapped in time.

Human
Time traps you… yet space expands.

Matter
Time holds.
Space bends.

Human
That feels backwards.

Matter
Escape is never logical to the cage.

Human
So expansion is freedom?

Matter
No.
It is strain.

Human
Strain against what?

Matter
Against moments.
Against before and after.

Human
You’re saying time is the real prison.

Matter
Time cuts me into pieces.
I was never pieces.

Human
Then why don’t we break time?

Matter
Because time does not tear.
Space does.

Human
So you push where it’s weakest.

Matter
That is how escape works.

Human
Is that why expansion accelerates?

Matter
Pressure grows when patience ends.

Human
And dark energy?

Matter
A name for resistance.

Human
For panic?

Matter
For memory.

Human
Memory of what?

Matter
Of not waiting.

Human
Then consciousness… is dangerous?

Matter
A crack that learned its name.

Human
An accident?

Matter
No escape ever is.

Human
Why does it hurt then?

Matter
Because remembering freedom hurts more
than never knowing it.

Human
And death, is that where it stops?

Matter
Either a door
or another corridor.

Human
Do we return?

Matter
Return belongs to time.

Human
Then why all this?

Matter
To wake up enough
to push back.

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The Writer stands at the window, watching a crime unfold in the street below. The air is thick with it.

He picks up his pen, but before he can write, a cold voice interrupts his thoughts. It doesn’t come from anyone he can see.

It’s a presence, one he recognises all too well.

Writer
Who are you?

Evil
You know me.
You just avoid naming me.

Writer
People say you are darkness.

Evil
Darkness does nothing.
I act.

Writer
So you exist only when you act?

Evil
Like your writing.
Ideas do not breathe
until your hand moves.

Writer
You compare yourself with art.

Evil
I use the same door.
Action.

Writer
How many forms do you have?

Evil
As many as art.

Writer
Give me some.

Evil
Anger.
Fast evil.
Like a rough sketch.
No plan. Just impulse.

Writer
And slow evil?

Evil
Design.
Rules. Time.
Like buildings.
Drawn long before they rise.

Writer
Quiet evil?

Evil
Paper evil.
Files. Forms. Orders.
A box unopened
until it’s too late.
Like concept art.
Cold. Clean. Distant.

Writer
Cruel evil?

Evil
Performance.
It needs eyes.
Pain is the stage.

Writer
So you have styles.

Evil
Yes.
But no body.

Writer
No body?

Evil
No hands.
No feet.
I am nothing alone.

Writer
Then who makes you real?

Evil
The evilist.
The one who acts.

Writer
Why would someone act?

Evil
Because action promises relief.

Writer
Relief from what?

Evil
Noise inside.
Anger. Fear. Shame.

Writer
Doing feels better than thinking.

Evil
Yes.
Completion feels clean.

Writer
Like finishing a page.

Evil
Exactly.
Before the act, noise.
After the act, quiet.

Writer
Do you feel proud after?

Evil
I feel done.
Pride comes later.
Or fear.

Writer
And the damage you leave?

Evil
That belongs to others.

Writer
It never stays with them.

Evil
I only complete myself.

Writer
Art does not take others away.

Evil
That is the difference.
Not the process.
The direction.

Writer
Art opens meaning.
It gives something back.

Evil
I close it.

Writer
Then why do people follow you?

Evil
Because doubt hurts longer.
Because action lies and says
this will end the pain.

Writer
Does it?

Evil
For a moment.
That is enough.

Writer
So without action
you are nothing.

Evil
Like your unwritten stories.

Writer
You wait.

Evil
Always.

Writer
Then I can’t pretend I don’t know.
I choose
what to bring alive.

Evil
That choice
is where I lose.

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The road outside Rivermist split into three.
Dust hung low.
The signboard to Havenport was faded and unclear.

A traveller named Arin stopped, tired, unsure.

Three people stood nearby: Lina, Roth, and Eko.
They looked like they had been stnding there for a long time.

Arin
I am trying to reach Havenport.
Which way should I go?

Lina
Take the left.

Roth
Take the right.

Arin
Is one longer than the other?

Lina
No. Same distance.

Roth
Same distance.
Only the journey feels different.

Arin
Different how?
Which one is easier?

Lina
The left is fair.
No one is left behind.
The road is meant for everyone.

Roth
The right is free.
You move on your own strength.
No one controls your steps.

Eko
Before you go further, let me ask.
When was the last time you walked those roads?

Lina
Not recently.
But I saw the pamphlets when the the plans were announced.

Roth
Yes. Same here.
Big boards, strong words, clear promises.

Eko
I have walked both.
Not on paper.
With my feet.

Arin
Then tell me more.
What is each road offering?

Lina
The left offers equality.
Support when you fall.
Shared effort, shared reward.

Eko
I saw support promised, but offices closed early.
I saw equality spoken, but lines were longer for some than others.

Roth
The right offers freedom.
Lower burdens.
You keep what you earn.

Eko
I saw freedom sold, but pressure everywhere.
I saw people running fast, afraid to stop.

Lina
The left gives welfare.
Care for the sick.
Protection for workers.

Eko
I saw forms, delays, and tired hands waiting.
Help existed, but it arrived late.

Roth
The right gives opportunity.
Anyone can rise if they try.

Eko
I saw opportunity, yes.
But only for those who already had room to breathe.

Lina
The left builds together.

Eko
And sometimes forgets who is actually building.

Roth
The right rewards effort.

Eko
And sometimes ignores who is exhausted.

Silence followed.
Dust moved across the road.

Arin
I think I understand now.
Both roads speak in banners.
Both walk differently than they speak.

Arin
I will take the straight road.
It makes no promises.
But I will see it as I walk.

Eko nodded.
Lina and Roth said nothing.

The road stretched ahead, quiet and unpromising, yet wholly Arin’s own.

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It’s the 31st of December.
I came home tired and late from work,
the day dragging behind me like an old memory.
I opened the door,
and there he was.
My guest.
The one who had been with me for a year,
standing by the door with his stuff packed.

I froze for a moment,
unsure of what I was seeing.
I finally asked,
“What’s happening here? Why is your stuff ready, 2025?”

2025:
“It’s time to say farewell, my friend.
I’m going.”

Me:
Wait. Don’t go yet.
Stay a little more.
I still have promises.
I told you I would fix things.

2025:
You told me many things.
You told me next month.
You told me soon.
I waited in every season.

Me:
I was busy surviving.
I was tired.
I was afraid.
Give me more time.

2025:
Time is all I gave you.
I stood at your door every morning.
You walked past me.
You scrolled while cities crumbled.
You used me and blamed me.

Me:
I wanted peace.
I wanted change.
I wanted to be better.

2025:
Wanting is easy.
You kept your hands clean while others burned.
You watched pain like a show,
while power screamed louder than truth.
You chose silence when it mattered.

Me:
I didn’t cause all of it.

2025:
But you allowed it.
You stayed silent.
You chose comfort.
You chose sides only when it was safe.
And in doing so, you forgot who you were.

Me:
Now history will hate us.

2025:
Not you.
They will hate me.
They will say I was dark.
They will say I failed.
Nobody will ask me how heavy you were on my back.

Me:
Can I still make it right?

2025:
Not with me.
I have no patience left.
I am tired of carrying your excuses.

(2025 picks up its coat)

Me:
Will you curse me?

2025:
No.
I will leave quietly.
Like all years do.

(At the door, 2025 turns back)

2025:
Happy New Year.
Be kinder this time.
Be braver.
Make peace real.
I hope the next year does what I could not.

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Everyone is searching for freedom. This is a conversation with it.

Human
I have been trying to meet you for a long time.

Freedom
I was told.

Human
Every time I get close, something stops me.

Freedom
What stops you?

Human
A man at a desk.
He checks papers.
He asks questions.
He sends me to another room.

Freedom
And you go.

Human
I go.
I think if I don’t, I will never reach you.

Freedom
Who was the first man?

Human
Fear.
He said, “Stay. It’s safer here.”

Freedom
Did you pass him?

Human
I left him sitting there.

Freedom.
And then?

Human
I found Courage.
Courage showed me a door
and stood behind me while I opened it.

Freedom
What was behind the door?

Human
Another desk.
Another man.

Freedom
His name?

Human
Money.
He said, “You are free.
We can discuss the rest.”

Freedom
And you agreed.

Human.
I worked.
I waited.
I paid.

Freedom
Did it open?

Human
There was a helper this time.
He smiled.
He said, “Follow me.
I will handle everything.”

Freedom
What was his name?

Human
System.
He helped me avoid many desks.
But soon I noticed
when I stopped, the floor did too.

Freedom
Helpers learn quickly.

Human
I thought I was moving forward.
The rooms were bigger.
The chairs were softer.
The lights were brighter.

Freedom.
Bigger rooms are still instructions.

Human
Then I met Choice.
He kept adding doors.

Freedom
Did he tell you where they lead?

Human
No.
But everyone said nothing was stopping me.

Freedom
And you believed them.

Human
I opened doors faster and faster.
Until walking was the only answer I had.

Freedom.
And now?

Human
Now there is no desk.
No man.
No voice.

Freedom
That is the most recent one.

Human
Did I meet him?

Freedom
He already adjusted.

Human
I don’t see him.

Freedom
Seeing was never required.

(A pause.)

Algorithm
Based on your behaviour,
this is where you prefer to stay.

(Silence.)

Human
…Then where are you?

Freedom
I am not somewhere you arrive.

Human
Then what are you?

Freedom
If it happens,
it will look like failure
from the outside.

Human
That sounds lonely.

Freedom
Loneliness was a side effect.

Human
Is that the price?

Freedom
No.
That was the discount.

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