Chapter 1: The Last Hours of Calm
She opened her eyes slowly, as if sleep still had its hold on her. It wasn't laziness that kept her in bed—it was the desire to stay a little longer inside that stillness before the day began. The holiday brought her a rare feeling: time that didn't press down on her, no alarm's shrill call yanking her awake.
The white duvet wrapped her in a comfortable warmth. She felt its gentle weight, the cold air drifting in from the window mingling with the scent of her perfume still clinging to the pillow. Everything was still, as if time itself had decided to move slowly, just for her.
She reached toward the nightstand, searching for her phone among the piled-up books. The screen read ten o'clock. She smiled. No school today. No long classes. No frantic scramble to leave the house. A clear lightness settled over her, as if a small weight had just lifted from her chest.
She sat on the edge of the bed, watching sunlight stream through the curtains and draw thin lines across the floor. She paused there, following the dust as it drifted inside the beams, letting her mind stay calm and empty of any clear thought.
From downstairs, the familiar sounds of the house reached her: Maryam's footsteps, the clink of dishes in the kitchen, the murmur of boiling water. Familiar sounds. Comforting sounds. They confirmed that everything was as it should be.
She pushed the covers aside and set her feet on the cold tiles. A small shiver ran through her. She made her way to the bathroom, slow and unhurried, and stood in front of the mirror. Her face still carried the traces of sleep—hair messy and tangled, features showing the faint beginnings of maturity.
She washed her face with cold water. Freshness spread through every cell. While brushing her teeth, her eyes fell on a small photograph taped to the corner of the mirror. Her mother. She was smiling at her, her smile calm and natural, carrying a warmth that needed no words. She stopped, looking at her as if she were catching a lost moment from the past.
A brief memory surfaced: a spring morning, her mother brushing her hair quickly before she left, smiling as she talked about something now lost to her, laughing when she tried to squirm away from the brush. A flicker—but enough to make the photograph feel alive, more than just ink on paper.
She didn't feel sad. She didn't cry. What came instead was a strange warmth, a mixture of longing and familiarity, as if her mother were part of her daily routine—just like the mirror, or the cold tap. Longing doesn't demand tears. Familiarity doesn't lessen the value of memory. Both of them coexisted, quiet, somewhere inside her chest. Five years had passed since she left, but her presence had never faded. Every corner of the house carried a trace of her—every piece of furniture, every lingering scent. It felt as if she were watching her in silence. No blame. No demands. Just... there.
She pulled her gaze back to her own reflection, finished brushing her teeth, and turned off the tap.
Back in her room, she changed into home clothes, ran a brush through her hair, then made her way slowly down the stairs. The smell of hot pancakes was enough to guide her without thought. In the kitchen, Maryam was humming an old tune, arranging plates and opening cupboards with quiet care.
"Good morning, my dear," she said, kissing her forehead and touching her hair gently.
"Good morning, Maryam," she answered with a smile. The warmth spread through her, as if she had just stepped back into a safe place she'd been missing without knowing it.
Maryam set a plate of golden pancakes and a tall glass of juice in front of her. She took a sip of the juice, then bit into a hot pancake, the taste and warmth spreading through her mouth. Everything was simple. Ordinary. But she let herself enjoy it.
They sat together for breakfast, talking about school, classmates, the small routines of daily life.
"Arya, did you finish that big project you were working on last week?" Maryam asked, a smile on her face.
"Oh... almost. The one my science teacher assigned? Honestly, I didn't understand part of the experiment and wasted so much time trying to get it right," she said with a short sigh.
Maryam smiled. "Don't worry. We all go through difficult moments. What matters is that you try and you learn."
Then, as usual, Maryam tried to convince her to step away from the computer for a while. She insisted on finishing her work before the holiday truly began. Maryam laughed, brushed her hair back. She knew how this ended. Maryam returned to her chores in the kitchen, leaving her to enjoy the morning and the quiet.
After breakfast, she headed back upstairs. On her way, she glanced around the house. From the outside, it was a two-story home with a calm-colored façade, a small front garden holding a handful of trees and neatly kept flowerbeds, a paved path leading to the door. Tidy and comfortable—nothing extravagant. Just a house that spoke of stability.
She opened the door to her room. It wasn't large, but it was well-lit, with wide windows that let the sunlight flood in easily. By the window, her computer sat on the desk, neatly placed, facing a comfortable chair. The bed was relatively tidy; the cotton duvet soft and warm, showing signs of everyday use. A small bookshelf held books, a few toys, small decorations. Everything was arranged, everything signaled that this room was her own space—a place where she could live freely and manage her time as she pleased.
She sat down at the computer and started working, trying to finish a heavy school assignment before the holiday truly began. Time passed. Through the window, she could hear the birds chirping, the soft rustle of wires, the trees swaying in a light breeze. Cars passing on the distant road. Children laughing and playing. The occasional bark of a dog.
Everything was normal. Just like any other day.
Then came Maryam's knock at the door. She entered carrying a tray with juice and cookies, the scent of chocolate rising from them.
"Arya, take a break," she said. She walked to the window and threw it wide open. Sunlight burst into the room. She shut her eyes for a second.
"Look," Maryam said. "The children are playing. The weather is beautiful, the air is fresh. Why don't you go outside for a walk? Or to the playground, have some fun?"
"Not now. I want to finish this," she answered, stubborn in the way only a teenager holding her ground can be. Maryam shook her head, helpless, and went back to her chores.
She leaned back in her chair, took a sip of juice, and bit into a cookie—slowly, exactly the way she liked it. She knows exactly what I love, she thought, watching from the window.
Children were playing with a ball, their laughter ringing out. Cars of all kinds passed by. Mr. Liam, their neighbor across the street, was washing his car. Boredom began pressing against her skull. Time crawled; every second a dead weight. She watched the ball bounce—again, and again, and again—the laughter echoing on a loop, as if everything were prerecorded. The same movements. The same sounds.
Nothing else.
She shut her computer and pulled the curtain slightly, just enough to shield her eyes from the sun. She grabbed her phone. A cold bank notification flashed onto the screen:
[An amount has been deposited from … ]
She stared at it, blank. Her father thinks numbers can build a home. She didn't care. She opened her favorite game, put on her headphones, and let herself sink into the virtual world. She bit into another cookie, chasing targets, deep inside the game—
And then her phone screen went black. The sound in her headphones died.
She tried turning it on again. Nothing. Before she could make sense of it, the sound of a car crash and people screaming tore through the street outside.
She rushed to the window.
On the road below, a car had slammed violently into the curb. Metal was still groaning. People were screaming in shock and fear—some rushing closer, others backing away fast. Bodies moved in a frenzy. Sudden cries filled the air. The children who had been playing just moments ago were looking around, lost and confused. The dogs in the street started barking in sharp, ragged bursts; some bolted, others flattened themselves to the ground. The birds perched on the wire across the way stopped chirping and took flight all at once, scattering with no clear direction.
Before she could understand any of it, a strange sound cut through the quiet of her room. Cold. Deep. It didn't come from outside, or from any device. It came from inside her own head. A metallic voice, stripped of any human tone, spoke:
[Commencing integration… initiating awakening.]
She froze. She couldn't understand the meaning. She searched for the source and found nothing. She wanted to run downstairs. She wanted to check.
"Maryam," she called, her voice strangled.
The moment her hand touched the doorknob, a wave of pain slammed into her.
This was no ordinary pain. It was as if thousands of microscopic needles had pierced her body all at once—as if some alien energy from the outside air had entered her and was now surging through her veins like ground glass brought to a boil: cold, sharp, searing every cell it touched.
Her muscles seized. Her bones groaned under the pressure. Her fifteen-year-old body was rejecting the intruder, but the energy was stronger. It tore through tissue to build something she couldn't yet understand in its place, and she fought to control it by pure instinct. She knew, with a certainty that came from somewhere deeper than thought, that if she didn't make this thing hers, it would consume her.
She dropped to her knees, gasping for air that had turned thick and metallic. Her vision started to blur. Everything around her began to waver between light and shadow, between sound and silence. True fear gripped her then—a feeling words cannot capture. The feeling that something inside her would leave nothing left of her if she didn't take hold of it.
She hit the cold floor.
The last thing she saw, before the dark swallowed everything, was a single drop of spilled juice—suspended in midair above the carpet.
Silence.
No motion. No sound. Not even her own breath.
Then everything sank into the dark.
ns216.73.216.67da2
and then Add to home screen.