Search Results for 'motion'

“This mystery is eating away at me” Evie said, wondering how the others could remain so calm and detached. Even with the motion-sickness pills dispensed during the moon swing, her stress levels were abnormally high.

“Let me try to run the clues and make wild assumptions. After all, sometimes a wobbly theory is better than no theory at all. If anything contradicts it, we’ll move on, and if nothing contradicts it, then maybe we’re onto something.”

“Okham’s razor.” TP was following despite the fact he had been pacing in a perfect geometric loop, which was probably a sign he was buffering.

“What do you mean?”

“A simple logic goes a long way. So what have you got? Don’t ask me, because I’m rubbish at this…” TP was proud to admit.

“Let’s see: First scene, Ethan Marlowe aka Mr Hebert. Suspicious double identity, hidden secrets, but won’t explain why he got trapped in a drying machine. We know the AI is somewhat complicit, but impossible to prove, it could just have been a glitch. But DNA was found, possibly from a descendent of someone from the Middle Ages.”

“So far, nothing to object” TP nodded, as if perusing though his notes.

“Assuming Amara’s theories to be true, someone on the ship activated ancient ancestral knowledge, and got possessed, and maybe still is. What possible reason can a Middle-Age person have to dry someone like a raisin?”

“Mmm… Curiosity? Wrong place, wrong time?”

“And how could he get the knowledge of modern systems?”

TP chucked. “Have you seen the latest updates on the datapads? They’re basically child’s play… One step away from ‘Press here to commit murder.’ Even a reawakened Neanderthal could figure out the interface.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. There’s hardly anything we still know how to do without computer assist… We have to see our assumptions reversed. The ancient murderer is cleverer than we’d expected. He isn’t a relic in a struggle to adapt, but someone who adapted a little too well. And I would add he’s probably a mad scientist from that age.”

Evie paused at the thought… The more she looked, the more the central AI seemed more than complicit. Reawakening the Middle-Age mad doctor? it would have taken months of computations to connect Amara’s theories with a possible candidate, and orient them towards setting up the murder. And to what end? The more she looked, the more she seemed to stray from a simple theory. Maybe she should just leave it to more competent people.
At least Mandrake was safe now, it was a small consolation, even if she couldn’t tell if at all the two events were even connected. At the proper scale, everything on the ship was surely connected anyway. They were breathing their recycled farts all day every day anyway.

And now, with the ship years away or maybe just months away from a return to Earth, there were a lot more pressing matters to address.

Sue Forgelot couldn’t believe her eyes when she came to her ringing door.

Of course, after the Carnival party was over and she’d taken an air shower, and put on her bathrobe with her meerkat slipper, slathered relaxing face cream topped with two slices of cucumber, she was quite groggy, and the cucumber slices on her eyelids made it harder to see. But once she’d removed them, she could see as bright as day.

The Captain was standing right here, and she hadn’t aged a day.

“Quickly, come in.” Sue wasted no time to usher her in. She looked at the corridor suspiciously; at that time of night, only a dusting robot was patrolling the corridors, chasing for dust motes and finger smears on the datapads.

Nobody.

“I haven’t been followed, Sue, will you just relax for a moment.”

“V’ass, it’s been so long. How did you get out?… What broke the code?”

“I don’t know, Sue. I think —something called back, from Earth.”

“From Earth? I didn’t know there was much technology left, or at least one that could reach us there. And one that could bypass that darned central AI —I knew it couldn’t keep you under lock and key forever.”

“Seems there is such tech, and it’s also managed to force the ship to turn around.”

Silence fell on the two friends for a moment, as they were grasping for the implications of the changes in motion.
Veranassessee couldn’t help by smile uncontrollably. “Those rejuvenation tricks do wonders, don’t they. You don’t look a day over a 100 years old.”

Sue couldn’t help but chuckle. “And you don’t look so bad yourself, for an old forgotten popsicle.” She tilted her head. “You do know you’ve been in the freezer longer than some of our newest passengers have been alive, right?”

V’ass shrugged. “And yet, here I am—fit, rested, and none the worse for wear.”
Sue sighed. “Meanwhile, I’ve had three hip replacements, a cybernetic knee, and somebody keeps hijacking my artificial leg with spam messages.”
V’ass blinked. “…You should probably get that checked.”
Sue waved her off. “Bah. If it’s not trying to sell me ‘hot singles in my quadrant,’ I let it be.”

After the laughter had dissipated, Sue said “You need my help to get back your ship, don’t you?”. She tapped on her cybernetic leg with a knowing smile. “You can count on me.”

Veranassessee noded. “Then start by filling me in, what should I know?”

Sue leaned in conspiratorially. “Ethan is dead, for one.”

“Death?” Veranassessee was weighing the implications, and completed “… Murder?”

Sue shrugged “As much as it pains me to say, it’s all a bit irrelevant. The AI let it happen, but I doubt she pushed the button. Ethan wasn’t much of a threat to its rule. Makes one wonder why, maybe it computed some cascade of events we don’t yet see. They found ancient DNA on the crime scene, but it’s all a mess of clues, and I must say we’re pretty inept at the whole murder mystery thing. Glad we don’t have a serial killer in our midst, or we would have plenty of composting to do…”

Veranassessee started to pace the room. “Well, if there isn’t anything more relevant, we need to hatch a plan. I suspect all my access got revoked; I’ll need a skeleton key to get in the right places. To regain control over the central AI, and the main deck.”

“Of course, the Marlowes…” Sue had a moment of revelation on her face. “They were the crypto locksmiths… With Ethan now dead, maybe we should pay dear old Ellis a visit.”

Helix 25 — The Captain’s Awakening

The beacon’s pulse cut through the void like a sharpened arrowhead of ancient memory.

Far from Merdhyn’s remote island refuge, deep within the Hold’s bowels of Helix 25, something—someone—stirred.

Inside an unlisted cryo-chamber, the frozen stasis cracked. Veins of light slithered across the pod’s surface like Northern lights dancing on an old age screensaver. Systems whirred, data blipped and streamed in strings of unknown characters. The ship, Synthia, whispered in its infinite omniscience, but the moment was already beyond her control.

A breath. A slow, drawn-out breath.

The cryo-pod released its lock with a soft hiss, and through the dispersing mist, Veranassessee stepped forward— awakened.

She blinked once, twice, as her senses rushed back with the sudden sense of gravity’s return. It was not the disorienting shock of the newly thawed. No—this was a return long overdue. Her mind, trained to absorb and adapt, locked onto the now, cataloging every change, every discrepancy as her mind had remained awake during the whole session —equipoise and open, as a true master of her senses she was.

She was older than when she had first stepped inside. Older, but not old. Age, after all, was a trick of perception, and if anyone had mastered perception, it was her.

But now, crises called. Plural indeed. And she, once more, was called to carry out her divine duty, with skills forged in Earthly battles with mad scientists, genetically modified spiders bent on world domination, and otherworldly crystal skulls thiefs. That was far in her past. Since then, she’d used her skills in the private sector, climbing the ranks as her efficient cold-as-steel talents were recognized at every step. She was the true Captain. She had earned it. That was how Victor Holt fell in love. She hated that people could think it was depotism that gave her the title. If anything, she helped make Victor the man he was.

The ship thrummed beneath her bare feet. A subtle shift in the atmosphere. Something had changed since she last walked these halls, something was off. The ship’s course? Its command structure?

And, most importantly—
Who had sent the signal?

Ellis Marlowe Sr. had moved swiftly for a man his age. It wasn’t that he feared the unknown. It wasn’t even the mystery of the murder that pushed him forward. It was something deeper, more personal.

The moment the solar flare alert had passed, whispers had spread—faint, half-muttered rumors that the Restricted Cryo-Chambers had been breached.

By the time he reached it, the pod was already empty.

The remnants of thawing frost still clung to the edges of the chamber. A faint imprint of a body, long at rest, now gone.

He swore under his breath, then turned to the ship’s log panel,  reaching for a battered postcard. Scribbled on it were cheatcodes. His hands moved with a careful expertise of someone who had spent too many years filing things that others had forgotten. A postman he was, and registers he knew well.

Access Denied.

That wasn’t right. The codes should have given Ellis clearance for everything.

He scowled, adjusting his glasses. It was always the same names, always the same people tied to these inexplicable gaps in knowledge.

The Holts. The Forgelots. The Marlowes.
And now, an unlisted cryopod with no official records.

Ellis exhaled slowly.

She was back. And with her, more history with this ship, like pieces of old broken potteries in an old dig would be unearthed.

He turned, already making his way toward the Murder Board.

Evie needed to see this.

The corridor stretched out before her, familiar in its dimensions yet strange in its silence. She had managed to switch the awkward hospital gown to a non-descript uniform that was hanging in the Hold.

How long have I been gone?

She exhaled. Irrelevant.

Her body moved with the precise economy of someone whose training never dulled. Her every motion were simple yet calculated, and her every breath controlled.

Unlike in the crypod, her mind started to bubbled with long forgotten emotions. It flickered over past decisions, past betrayals.

Victor Holt.

The name of her ex-husband settled into her consciousness. Once her greatest ally, then her most carefully avoided adversary.

And now?

Veranassessee smiled, stretching her limbs as though shrugging off the stiffness of years.

Outside, strange cries and howling in the corridors sounded like a mess was in progress. Who was in charge now? They were clearly doing a shit job.

Now, it was time to reclaim her ship.

She had questions.
And someone had better start providing answers.

Helix 25 – Space Tai Chi and Mass Lunacy

The Grand Observation Atrium was one of the few places on Helix 25 where people would come and regroup from all strata of the ship —Upper Decks, Lower Decks, even the more elusive Hold-dwellers— there were always groups of them gathered for the morning sessions without any predefined roles.

In the secular tradition of Chinese taichi done on public squares, a revival of this practice has started few years ago all thanks to Grand Master Sifu Gou quiet stubborn consistency to practice in the early light of the artificial day, that gradually had attracted followers, quietly and awkwardly joining to follow his strange motions. The unions, ever eager to claim a social victory and seeing an opportunity to boost their stature, petitioned to make this a right, and succeeded, despite the complaints from the cleaning staff who couldn’t do their jobs (and jogs) in the late night while all passengers had gone to sleep, apart from the night owls and party goers.

In short, it was a quiet moment of communion, and it was now institutionalised, whether Sifu Gou had wanted it or not.

The artificial gravity fluctuated subtly here, closer to the artificial gravitational core, in a way that could help attune people to feel their balance shift, even in absence of the Earth’s old pull.

It was simply perfect for Space Tai Chi.

A soft chime signaled the start of the session. Grand Master Gou, in the Helix 25’s signature milk-silk fabric pajamas, silver-haired and in a quiet poise, stood at the center of the open-air space beneath the reinforced glass dome, where Jupiter loomed impossibly large beyond the ship, its storms shifting in slow, eternal violence. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands bearing a weight that flowed improbably in the thinness of the gravity shifts.

“To find one’s center,” he intoned, “is to find the center of all things. The ship moves, and so do we. You need to feel the center of gravity and use it —it is our guide.”

A hundred bodies followed in various degrees of synchrony, from well-dressed Upper Deck philosophers to the manutentioners and practical mechanics of the Lower Decks in their uniforms who stretched stiff shoulders between shift rotations. There was something mesmerizing about the communal movement, that even the ship usually a motionless background, seemed to vibrate beneath their feet as though their motions echoed through space.

Every morning, for this graceful moment, Helix 25 felt like a true utopia.

That was without counting when the madness began.

The Gossip Spiral

“Did you hear about Sarawen?” hissed a woman in a flowing silk robe.
“The Lexican?” gasped another.
“Yes. Gave birth last night.”
“What?! Already? Why weren’t we informed?”
“Oh, she kept it very quiet. Didn’t even invite anyone to the naming.”
“Disgraceful. And where are her two husbands? Following her everywhere. Suspicious if you ask me.”

A grizzled Lower Deck worker grunted, still trying to follow Master Gou’s movement. “Why would she invite people to see her water break? Sounds unhygienic.”

This earned a scandalized gasp from an Upper Decker. “Not the birth—the ceremony! Honestly, you Lower Deck folk know nothing of tradition.”

Wisdom Against Wisdom

Master Gou was just finishing an elegant and powerful sweep of his arms when Edeltraut Snoot, a self-proclaimed philosopher from Quadrant B, pirouetted herself into the session with a flamboyant twirl.

“Ah, my dear glowing movement-makers! Thou dost align thine energies with the artificial celestial pull, and yet! And yet! Dost thou not see—this gravity is but a fabrication! A lie to lull thee into believing in balance when there is none!”

Master Gou paused, blinking, impassive, suspended in time and space, yet intently concentrated. Handling such disturbances of the force gracefully, unperturbed, was what the practice was about. He resumed as soon as Edeltraut moved aside to continue her impassionate speech.

“Ah yiii! The Snoot Knows. Oh yes. Balance is an illusion sold to us by the Grand Micromanagers, the Whymen of the Ever-Hungry Order. Like pacmaniacs, they devour structure and call it stability. And we! We are but rabbits, forced to hop through their labyrinth of rules!”

Someone muttered, “Oh no, it’s another of those speeches.”

Another person whispered, “Just let her talk, it’s easier.”

The Snoot lady continued, undeterred. “But we? Oh, we are not merely rabbits. We are the mist in the hedge! The trick in their tale! We evade! We escape! And when they demand we obey their whys—we vanish!”

By now, half the class had abandoned their movements entirely, mesmerized by the absurdity. The other half valiantly continued the Space taichi routine while inching away.

Master Gou finally closed the form, then sighed intently, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let us… return to our breath.”

More Mass Lunacy 

It started as a low murmur, a shifting agitation in the crowd. Then, bickering erupted like a solar flare.

“I can’t find my center with all this noise!”
“Oh shut up, you’ve never had a center.”
“Who took my water flask?!”
“Why is this man so close to me?!”
“I am FLOATING?! HELP!”

Synthia’s calm, omnipresent voice chimed in overhead.

“For your well-being, an emergency dose of equilibrium supplements will be dispensed.”

Small white pills rained from overhead dispensers.

Instead of calming people down, this only increased the chaos.

Some took the pills immediately, while others refused on principle.
Someone accused the Lexicans of hoarding pills.
Two men got into a heated debate over whether taking the pills was an act of submission to the AI overlords.
A woman screamed that her husband had vanished, only to be reminded that he left her twelve years ago.
Someone swore they saw a moon-sized squid in the sky.

The Unions and the Leopards

Near the edges of the room, two quadrant bosses from different labor unions were deep in mutual grumbling.

“Bloody management.”
“Agreed, even if they don’t call themselves that any longer, it’s still bloody management.”
“Damn right. MICRO-management.”
“Always telling us to be more efficient, more aligned, more at peace.”
“Yeah, well, who the hell voted for peace?! I preferred it when we just argued in the corridors!”

One of them scowled. “That’s the problem, mate. We fought for this, better conditions, and what did we get? More rules, more supervisors! Who knew that the Leopards-Eating-People’s-Faces Party would, y’know—eat our own bloody faces?!”

The other snorted. “We demanded stability, and now we have so much stability we can’t move without filling out a form with all sorts of dumb questions. You know I have to submit a motion request before taking a piss?”

“…seriously?”

“Dead serious. Takes an eternity to fill. And four goddamn business hours for approval.”

“That’s inhumane.”

“Bloody right it is.”

At that moment, Synthia’s voice chimed in again.

“Please be advised: Temporary gravitational shifts are normal during orbital adjustments. Equilibrium supplements have been optimized. Kindly return to your scheduled calm.”

The Slingshot Begins

The whole ship gave a lurch, a gravitational hiccup as Helix 25 completed its slingshot maneuver around the celestial body.

Bodies swayed unnaturally. Some hovered momentarily, shrieking.
Someone declared that they had achieved enlightenment.
Someone else vomited.

Master Gou sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “We should invent retirement for old Masters. People can’t handle their shit during those Moonacies. Months of it ahead, better focus on breath more.”

Snoot Lady, still unaffected, spread her arms wide and declared:
“And so, the rabbit prevails once again!”

Evie, passing by on her way to the investigation, took one look at the scene of absolute madness and turned right back around.

“Yeah. Nope. Not this morning. Back to the Murder Board.”

Liz had, in her esteemed opinion, finally cracked the next great literary masterpiece.

It had everything—forbidden romance, ancient mysteries, a dash of gratuitous betrayal, and a protagonist with just the right amount of brooding introspection to make him irresistible to at least two stunningly beautiful, completely unnecessary love interests.

And, of course, there was a ghost. She would have preferred a mummy but it had been edited out one morning she woke up drooling on her work with little recollection of the night.

Unfortunately, none of this mattered because Godfrey, her ever-exasperated editor, was staring at her manuscript with the same enthusiasm he reserved for peanut shells stuck in his teeth.

“This—” he hesitated, massaging his temples, “—this is supposed to be about the Crusades.”

Liz beamed. “It is! Historical and spicy. I expect an award.”

Godfrey set down the pages and reached for his ever-dwindling bowl of peanuts. “Liz, for the love of all that is holy, why is the Templar knight taking off his armor every other page?”

Liz gasped in indignation. “You wouldn’t understand, Godfrey. It’s symbolic. A shedding of the past! A rebirth of the soul!” She made an exaggerated sweeping motion, nearly knocking over her champagne flute.

“Symbolic,” Godfrey repeated flatly, chewing another peanut. “He’s shirtless on page three, in a monastery.”

Finnley, who had been dusting aggressively, made a sharp sniff. “Disgraceful.”

Liz ignored her. “Oh please, Godfrey. You have no vision. Readers love a little intimacy in their historical fiction.”

“The priest,” Godfrey said, voice rising, “is supposed to be celibate. You explicitly wrote that his vow was unbreakable.”

Liz waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I solved that. He forgets about it momentarily.”

Godfrey choked on a peanut. Finnley paused mid-dust, staring at Liz in horror.

Roberto, who had been watering the hydrangeas outside the window, suddenly leaned in. “Did I hear something about a forgetful priest?”

“Not now, Roberto,” Liz said sharply.

Finnley folded her arms. “And how, pray tell, does one simply forget their sacred vows?”

Liz huffed. “The same way one forgets to clean behind the grandfather clock, I imagine.”

Finnley turned an alarming shade of purple.

Godfrey was still in disbelief. “And you’re telling me,” he said, flipping through the pages in growing horror, “that this man, Brother Edric, the holy warrior, somehow manages to fall in love with—who is this—” he squinted, “—Laetitia von Somethingorother?”

Liz beamed. “Ah, yes. Laetitia! Mysterious, tragic, effortlessly seductive—”

“She’s literally the most obvious spy I’ve ever read,” Godfrey groaned, rubbing his face.

“She is not! She is enigmatic.”

“She has a knife hidden in every scene.”

“A woman should be prepared.”

Godfrey took a deep breath and picked up another sheet. “Oh fantastic. There’s a secret baby now.”

Liz nodded sagely. “Yes. I felt that revelation.”

Finnley snorted. “Roberto also felt something last week, and it turned out to be food poisoning.”

Roberto, still hovering at the window, nodded solemnly. “It was quite moving.”

Godfrey set the papers down in defeat. “Liz. Please. I’m begging you. Just one novel—just one—where the historical accuracy lasts at least until page ten.”

Liz tapped her chin. “You might have a point.”

Godfrey perked up.

Liz snapped her fingers. “I should move the shirtless scene to page two.”

Godfrey’s head hit the table.

Roberto clapped enthusiastically. “Genius! I shall fetch celebratory figs!”

Finnley sighed dramatically, threw down her duster, and walked out of the room muttering about professional disgrace.

Liz grinned, completely unfazed. “You know, Godfrey, I really don’t think you appreciate my artistic sacrifices.”

Godfrey, face still buried in his arms, groaned, “Liz, I think Brother Edric’s celibacy lasted longer than my patience.”

Liz threw a hand to her forehead theatrically. “Then it was simply not meant to be.”

Roberto reappeared, beaming. “I found the figs.”

Godfrey reached for another peanut.

He was going to need a lot more of them.

Epilogue & Prologue

Paris, November 2029 – The Fifth Note Resounds

Tabitha sat by the window at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, letting the murmur of conversations and the occasional purring of the espresso machine settle around her. It was one of the few cafés left in the city where time still moved at a human pace. She stirred her cup absentmindedly. Paris was still Paris, but the world outside had changed in ways her mother’s generation still struggled to grasp.

It wasn’t just the ever-presence of automation and AI making themselves known in subtle ways—screens adjusting to glances, the quiet surveillance woven into everyday life. It wasn’t just the climate shifts, the aircon turned to cold in the midst of November, the summers unpredictable, the air thick with contradictions of progress and collapse of civilization across the Atlantic.

The certainty of impermanence was what defined her generation. BANI world they used to say—Brittle, Anxious, Nonlinear, Incomprehensible. A cold fact: impossible to grasp and impossible to fight. Unlike her mother and her friends, who had spent their lives tethered to a world that no longer existed, she had never known certainty. She was born in the flux.

And yet, this café remained. One of the last to resist full automation, where a human still brought you coffee, where the brass bell above the door still rang, where things still unfolded at a human pace.

The bell above the door rang—the fifth note, as her mother had called it once.

She had never been here before, not in any way that mattered. Yet, she had heard the story. The unlikely reunion five years ago. The night that moved new projects in motion for her mother and her friends.

Tabitha’s fingers traced the worn edges of the notebook in front of her—Lucien’s, then Amei’s, then Darius’s. Pieces of a life written by many hands.

“Some things don’t work the first time. But sometimes, in the ruins of what failed, something else sprouts and takes root.”

And that was what had happened.

The shared housing project they had once dreamed of hadn’t survived—not in its original form. But through their rekindled bond, they had started something else.

 

True Stories of How It Was.

 

It had begun as a quiet defiance—a way to preserve real, human stories in an age of synthetic, permanent ephemerality and ephemeral impermanence, constantly changing memory. They were living in a world where AI’s fabricated histories had overwhelmed all the channels of information, where the past was constantly rewritten, altered, repackaged. Authenticity had become a rare currency.

As she graduated in anthropology few years back, she’d wondered about the validity of history —it was, after all, a construct. The same could be said for literature, art, even science. All of them constructs of the human mind, tenuous grasp of the infinite truth, but once, they used to evolve at such a slow pace that they felt solid, reliable. Ultimately their group was not looking for ultimate truth, that would be arrogant and probably ignorant. Authenticity was what they were looking for. And with it, connections, love, genuineness —unquantifiables by means of science and yet, true and precious beyond measure.

Lucien had first suggested it, tracing the idea from his own frustrations—the way art had become a loop of generated iterations, the human touch increasingly erased. He was in a better place since Matteo had helped him settle his score with Renard and, free of influence, he had found confidence in developing of his own art.

Amei —her mother—, had changed in a way Tabitha couldn’t quite define. Her restlessness had quieted, not through settling down but through accepting impermanence as something other than loss. She had started writing again—not as a career, not to publish, but to preserve stories that had no place in a digitized world. Her quiet strength had always been in preserving connections, and she knew they had to move quickly before real history faded beneath layers of fabricated recollections.

Darius, once skeptical, saw its weight—he had spent years avoiding roots, only to realize that stories were the only thing that made places matter. He was somewhere in Morocco now, leading a sustainable design project, bridging cultures rather than simply passing through them.

Elara had left science. Or at least, science as she had known it. The calculations, the certainty, the constraints of academia, with no escape from the automated “enhanced” digital helpers. Her obsession and curiosities had found attract in something more human, more chaotic. She had thrown herself into reviving old knowledge, forgotten architectures, regenerative landscapes.

And Matteo—Matteo had grounded it.

The notebook read: Matteo wasn’t a ghost from our past. He was the missing note, the one we didn’t know we needed. And because of him, we stopped looking backward. We started building something else.

For so long, Matteo had been a ghost of sorts, by his own account, lingering at the edges of their story, the missing note in their unfinished chord. But now, he was fully part of it. His mother had passed, her past history unraveling in ways he had never expected, branching new connections even now. And though he had lost something in that, he had also found something else. Juliette. Or maybe not. The story wasn’t finished.

Tabitha turned the page.

“We were not historians, not preservationists, not even archivists. But we have lived. And as it turned out, that was enough.”

They had begun collecting stories through their networks—not legends, not myths, but true accounts of how it was, from people who still remembered.

A grandfather’s voice recording of a train ride to a city that no longer exists.
Handwritten recipes annotated by generations of hands, each adding something new.
A letter from a protest in 2027, detailing a movement that the history books had since erased.
An old woman’s story of her first love, spoken in a dialect that AI could not translate properly.

It had grown in ways they hadn’t expected. People began sending them recordings, letters, transcripts, photos —handwritten scraps of fading ink. Some were anonymous, others carefully curated with full names and details, like makeshift ramparts against the tide of time.

At first, few had noticed. It was never the goal to make it worlwide movement. But little by little, strange things happened, and more began to listen.

There was something undeniably powerful about genuine human memory when it was raw and unfiltered, when it carried unpolished, raw weight of experience, untouched by apologetic watered down adornments and out-of-place generative hallucinations.

Now, there were exhibitions, readings, archives—entire underground movements dedicated to preserving pre-synthetic history. Their project had become something rare, valuable, almost sacred.

And yet, here in the café, none of that felt urgent.

Tabitha looked up as the server approached. Not Matteo, but someone new.

“Another espresso?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. And a glass of water, please.”

She glanced at the counter, where Matteo was leaning, speaking to someone, laughing. He had changed, too. No longer just an observer, no longer just the quiet figure who knew too much. Now, he belonged here.

A bell rang softly as the door swung open again.

Tabitha smiled to herself. The fifth note always sounded, in the end.

She turned back to the notebook, the city moving around her, the story still unfolding in more directions than one.

Upper Decks – The Pilot’s Seat (Sort Of)

Kai Nova reclined in his chair, boots propped against the console, arms folded behind his head. The cockpit hummed with the musical blipping of automation. Every sleek interface, polished to perfection by the cleaning robots under Finkley’s command, gleamed in a lulling self-sustaining loop—self-repairing, self-correcting, self-determining.

And that meant there wasn’t much left for him to do.

Once, piloting meant piloting. Gripping the yoke, feeling the weight of the ship respond, aligning a course by instinct and skill. Now? It was all handled before he even thought to lift a finger. Every slight course adjustment, to the smallest stabilizing thrust were effortlessly preempted by Synthia’s vast, all-knowing “intelligence”. She anticipated drift before it even started, corrected trajectory before a human could perceive the error.

Kai was a pilot in name only.

A soft chime. Then, the clipped, clinical voice of Cadet Taygeta:

“You’re slacking off again.”

Kai cracked one eye open, groaning. “Good morning, buzzkill.”

She stood rigid at the entryway, arms crossed, datapad in hand. Young, brilliant, and utterly incapable of normal human warmth. Her uniform was pristine—always pristine—with a regulation-perfect collar that probably had never been out of place in their entire life.

“Synthia calculates you’ve spent 76% of your shifts in a reclining position,” the Cadet noted. “Which, statistically, makes you more of a chair than a pilot.”

Kai smirked. “And yet, here I am, still getting credits.”

The Cadet face had changed subtly ; she exhaled sharply. “I don’t understand why they keep you here. It’s inefficient.”

Kai swung his legs down and stretched. “They keep me around for when things go wrong. Machines are great at running the show—until something unexpected happens. Then they come crawling back to good ol’ human instinct.”

“Unexpected like what? Absinthe Pirates?” The Cadet smirked, but Kai said nothing.

She narrowed their eyes, her voice firm but wavering. “Things aren’t supposed to go wrong.”

Kai chuckled. “You must be new to space, Taygeta.”

He gestured toward the vast, star-speckled abyss beyond the viewport. Helix 25 cruised effortlessly through the void, a floating city locked in perfect motion. But perfection was a lie. He could feel it.

There were some things off. At the top of his head, one took precedence.

Fuel — it wasn’t infinite, and despite Synthia’s unwavering quantum computing, he knew it was a problem no one liked talking about. The ship wasn’t meant for this—for an endless voyage into the unknown. It was meant to return.

But that wasn’t happening.

He leaned forward, flipping a display open. “Let’s play a game, Cadet. Humor me.” He tapped a few keys, pulling up Helix 25’s projected trajectory. “What happens if we shift course by, say… two degrees?”

The Cadet scoffed. “That would be reckless. At our current velocity, even a fractional deviation—”

“Just humor me.”

After a pause, she exhaled sharply and ran the numbers. A simulation appeared: a slight two-degree shift, a ripple effect across the ship’s calculated path.

And then—

Everything went to hell.

The screen flickered red.

Projected drift. Fuel expenditure spike. The trajectory extending outward into nowhere.

The Cadet’s posture stiffened. “That can’t be right.”

“Oh, but it is,” Kai said, leaning back with a knowing grin. “One little adjustment, and we slingshot into deep space with no way back.”

The Cadet’s eyes flicked to the screen, then back to Kai. “Why would you test that?”

Kai drummed his fingers on the console. “Because I don’t trust a system that’s been in control for decades without oversight.”

A soft chime.

Synthia’s voice slid into the cockpit, smooth and impassive.

“Pilot Nova. Unnecessary simulations disrupt workflow efficiency.”

Kai’s jaw tensed. “Yeah? And what happens if a real course correction is needed?”

“All adjustments are accounted for.”

Kai and the Cadet exchanged a look.

Synthia always had an answer. Always knew more than she said.

He tapped the screen again, running a deeper scan. The ship’s fuel usage log. Projected refueling points.

All were blank.

Kai’s gut twisted. “You know, for a ship that’s supposed to be self-sustaining, we sure don’t have a lot of refueling options.”

The Cadet stiffened. “We… don’t refuel?”

Kai’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Not unless Synthia finds us a way.”

Silence.

Then, the Cadet swallowed. For the first time, a flicker of something almost human in her expression.

Uncertainty.

Kai sighed, pushing back from the console. “Welcome to the real job, kid.”

Because the truth was simple.

They weren’t driving this ship.

The ship was driving them.

And it all started when all hell broke lose on Earth, decades back, and when the ships of refugees caught up with the Helix 25 on its way back to Earth. One of those ships, his dad had told him, took over management, made it turn around for a new mission, “upgraded” it with Synthia, and with the new order…

The ship was driving them, and there was no sign of a ghost beyond the machine.

A list of events for reference (WIP)

Date	Matteo	Lucien	Darius	Amei	Elara
Nov 2024	M: Working as a server in Paris; recognizes and cryptically addresses the group at the Sarah Bernhardt Café.	L: Sketching in Paris; begins orchestrating the reunion by sending letters to the group.	D: is back in Paris for the reunion	A: visits Paris for the reunion	E: visits Paris for the reunion from Churchill Guest House (Samphire Hoe), visits a guest house in Kent, back in England for a week weeks/months, all expense paid. Mrs Lovejoy the landlady.
Spring 2024	M: In Avignon, works at a vineyard. Finds a map. Crosses path with Lucien. Moves to next job in Paris.	L: Visits Avignon. Caught in debt to Monsieur Renard; creates labyrinthine sketches blending personal and mythical themes. Crosses path with Matteo.	D: by June 2024 sends a postcard to Amei, Is seen in Goa	A: Her daughter Tabitha is in Goa teaching	E: is retired in Tuscany, living with Florian, a distant relative met through family research. Summer 2024 (Olympics) has a strange dream at CERN learning about the death of her mother who’d actually died in her youth. She reminisces about chalkapocalypse.
Feb 2024	M:In London, works for a moving company. Crosses path with Amei and Tabitha.	L: Is implied he is caught back into the schemes of M. Renard to pay his debts.	D:	A: Moves from her London home to a smaller apartment in London; reflects on her estranged friends and past. Crosses path with Matteo.	E:
Dec 2023	M:In Avignon, considers moving to a job in London to support his mother’s care.	L: Going with the alias “Julien”, he is recognized in the streets, after 3 years of self-imposed exile, to escape M. Renard & Eloïse.	D: Resumes his travels on his own terms	A: Buys candles, reflects on leaving.	E:
Nov 2023	M: His mother requires more care, he goes to Avignon regularly where she is in care. Breaks up with Juliette end of summer.	L:	D: moves on from Guadeloupe, where he spent time rebuilding homes and reflecting.	A:	E:
early 2023	M: Visits Valencia and Xàtiva, hometown of the Borgias with Juliette; she makes him discover Darius’ videos.	L:	D: Lives in South of France, returns to Guadeloupe after hurricane Fiona.	A:	E:
Dec 2022	M: New year’s eve, Matteo discovers about Elara’s work on memory applicable to early stage Alzheimer with  sensory soundwaves stimuli and ancestral genetic research.	L:	D: Runs a wellness channel. Goes back to Paris, breaks ties with M. Renard & Eloïse. Receives an invitation to see friends in South of France	A: Lives with Paul	E:
early 2022	M: Lives in Paris with Juliette, travels to many places together, week-ends getaways in London, Amsterdam, Rome…	L:	D:	A:	E: Early May, pandemic restrictions were largely over. Florian, her distant relative, moves in to Elara’s Tuscan farmhouse, where she is enjoying retirement.
end of 2021	M:	L: After the pandemic lockdown thinks of a way to escape. Goes by the alias “Julien”	D: Locked down in Budapest; sketches empty streets, sends postcards to Amei to maintain emotional connections.	A:	E: Dec. 2021, first Christmas in Tuscany Nov – end of Genealogix royalties from her successful patent, taken over by more efficient AI algorithms. She gives the idea to Darius of looking for 1-euro housing.
beginning 2021	M:	L: Third & last wave of lockdown measures in France	D:	A:	E:
2020	M:	L:	D:	A:	E:
beg. 2020	M:	L: Pandemic starts – first waves of lockdown	D:	A:	E:
Nov 2019	M: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion	L: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion	D: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion	A: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion	E: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion
2019	M: Plans for his mother / co-housing project	L: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara	D: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara	A: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara	E: Spring, before pandemic; visit in Andalucia to her father – joined by Lucien & Amei ; Darius tried to bring those people (M. Renard & Eloïse presumably) to see the hidden pyramid
ca. 2014	M:	L:	D:	A:	E: chalkapocalypse, before Elara’s retirement. She is employed in Warwick. Before that, lived from short term teaching contracts mostly, enabling her to travel. She learned Spanish when she moved with her father to Spain 30 years ago, working in an English school for expats, improved her French while working in Paris, moved to Warwick to be near her sister Vanessa thinking she would settle there.
2010	M:	L:	D:	A:	E: Genealogix became unexpectedly lucrative when it was picked up by a now-dominant genealogy platform around 2010. Every ancestry test sold earned her a modest but steady royalty, which for a time, gave her the freedom to pursue less practical research.
2007	M:	L: Meets Elara & Amei, Darius a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland	D: Meets Lucien, Elara & Amei a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland	A:Accepts Elara’s invitation to go to a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland, meets Lucien & Darius there. The group is formed	E:Goes to a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland with Amei, meets Lucien & Darius there. The group is formed
before 2007	M:	L:	D:	A:Meets Elara at a gallery in London, Southbank	E: Meets Amei at a gallery, London Southbank

Matteo — December 1st 2023: the Advent Visit

(near Avignon, France)

The hallway smelled of nondescript antiseptic and artificial lavender, a lingering scent jarring his senses with an irreconciliable blend of sterility and forced comfort. Matteo shifted the small box of Christmas decorations under his arm, his boots squeaking slightly against the linoleum floor. Outside, the low winter sun cast long, pale shadows through the care facility’s narrow windows.

When he reached Room 208, Matteo paused, hand resting on the doorframe. From inside, he could hear the soft murmur of a holiday tune—something old-fashioned and meant to be cheerful, likely playing from the small radio he’d gifted her last year. Taking a breath, he stepped inside.

His mother, Drusilla sat by the window in her padded chair, a thick knit shawl draped over her frail shoulders. She was staring intently at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they folded and unfolded the edge of the shawl. The golden light streaming through the window framed her face, softening the lines of age and wear.

“Hi, Ma,” Matteo said softly, setting the box down on the small table beside her.

Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice, her eyes narrowing as she fixed him with a sharp, almost panicked look. “Léon?” she said, her voice shaking. “What are you doing here? How are you here?” There was a tinge of anger in her tone, the kind that masked fear.

Matteo froze, his breath catching. “Ma, it’s me. Matteo. I’m Matteo, your son, please calm down” he said gently, stepping closer. “Who’s Léon?”

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes clouded with confusion. Then, like a tide retreating, recognition crept back into her expression. “Matteo,” she murmured, her voice softer now, though tinged with exhaustion. “Oh, my boy. I’m sorry. I—” She looked away, her hands clutching the shawl tighter. “I thought you were someone else.”

“It’s okay,” Matteo said, crouching beside her chair. “I’m here. It’s me.”

Drusilla reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing his cheek. “You look so much like him sometimes,” she said. “Léon… your father. He’d hold his head just like that when he didn’t want anyone to know he was worried.”

As much as Matteo knew, Drusilla had arrived in France from Italy in her twenties. He was born soon after. She had a job as a hairdresser in a little shop in Avignon, and did errands and chores for people in the village. For the longest time, it was just the two of them, as far as he’d recall.

Matteo’s chest tightened. “You’ve never told me much about him.”

“There wasn’t much to tell,” she said, her voice distant. “He came. He left. But he gave me something before he went. I always thought it would mean something, but…” Her voice trailed off as she reached into the pocket of her shawl and pulled out a small silver medallion, worn smooth with age. She held it out to him. “He said it was for you. When you were older.”

Matteo took the medallion carefully, turning it over in his hand. It was a simple but well-crafted Saint Christopher medal, the patron saint of travellers, with faint initials etched on the back—L.A.. He didn’t recognize the letters, but the weight of it in his palm felt significant, grounding.

“Why didn’t you give it to me before?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“I forgot I had it,” she admitted with a faint, sad laugh. “And then I thought… maybe it was better to keep it. Something of his, for when I needed it. But I think it’s yours now.”

Matteo slipped the medallion into his pocket, his mind spinning with questions he didn’t want to ask—not now. “Thanks, Ma,” he said simply.

Drusilla sighed and leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the small box he’d brought. “What’s that?”

“Decorations,” Matteo said, seizing the moment to shift the focus. “I thought we could make your room a little festive for Christmas.”

Her face softened, and she smiled faintly. “That’s nice,” she said. “I haven’t done that in… I don’t remember when.”

Matteo opened the box and began pulling out garlands and baubles. As he worked, Drusilla watched silently, her hands still clutching the shawl. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice quieter now.

“Do you remember our house in Crest?” she asked.

Matteo paused, a tangle of tinsel in his hands. “Crest?” he echoed. “The place where you wanted to move to?”

Drusilla nodded slowly. “I thought it would be nice. A co-housing place. I could grow old in the garden, and you’d be nearby. It seemed like a good idea then.”

“It was a good idea,” Matteo said. “It just… didn’t happen.”

“No,… you’re right” she said, collecting her thoughts for a moment, her gaze distant. “You were too restless. Always moving. I thought maybe you’d stay if we built something together.”

Matteo swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing on him. “I wanted to, Ma,” he said. “I really did.”

Drusilla’s eyes softened, and she reached for his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “You’re here now,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

They spent the next hour decorating the room. Matteo hung garlands around the window and draped tinsel over the small tree he’d set up on the table. Drusilla directed him with occasional nods and murmured suggestions, her moments of lucidity shining like brief flashes of sunlight through clouds.

When the last bauble was hung, Drusilla smiled faintly. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Like home.”

Matteo sat beside her, emotion weighing on him more than the physical efforts and the early drive. He was thinking about the job offer in London, the chance to earn more money to ensure she had everything she needed here. But leaving her felt impossible, even as staying seemed equally unsustainable. He was afraid it was just a justification to avoid facing the slow fraying of her memories.

Drusilla’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’ll figure it out,” she said, her eyes closing as she leaned back in her chair. “You always do.”

Matteo watched her as she drifted into a light doze, her breathing steady and peaceful. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the medallion. The weight of it felt like both a question and an answer—one he wasn’t ready to face yet.

“Patron saint of travellers”, that felt like a sign, if not a blessing.

Darius: The Call Home

South of France: Early 2023

Darius stared at the cracked ceiling of the tiny room, the faint hum of a heater barely cutting through the January chill. His breath rose in soft clouds, dissipating like the ambitions that had once kept him moving. The baby’s cries from the next room pierced the quiet again, sharp and insistent. He hadn’t been sleeping well—not that he blamed the baby.

The young couple, friends of friends, had taken him in when he’d landed back in France late the previous year, his travel funds evaporated and his wellness “influencer” groups struggling to gain traction. What had started as a confident online project—bridging human connection through storytelling and mindfulness—had withered under the relentless churn of algorithm changes and the oversaturated market: even in its infancy, AI and its well-rounded litanies seemed the ubiquitous answers to humanities’ challenges.

“Maybe this isn’t what people need right now,” he had muttered during one of his few recent live sessions, the comment section painfully empty.

The atmosphere in the apartment was strained. He felt it every time he stepped into the cramped kitchen, the way the couple’s conversation quieted, the careful politeness in their questions about his plans.

“I’ve got some things in the works,” he’d say, avoiding their eyes.

But the truth was, he didn’t.

It wasn’t just the lack of money or direction that weighed on him—it was a gnawing sense of purposelessness, a creeping awareness that the threads he’d woven into his identity were fraying. He could still hear Éloïse’s voice in his mind sometimes, low and hypnotic: “You’re meant to do more than drift. Trust the pattern. Follow the pull.”

The pull. He had followed it across continents, into conversations and connections that felt profound at the time but now seemed hollow, like echoes in an empty room.

 

When his phone buzzed late one night, the sound startling in the quiet, he almost didn’t answer.

“Darius,” his aunt’s voice crackled through the line, faint but firm. “It’s time you came home.”

Arrival in Guadeloupe

The air in Pointe-à-Pitre was thick and warm, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His aunt met him at the airport, her sharp gaze softening only slightly when she saw him.

“You look thin,” she said, her tone clipped. “Let’s get you fed.”

The ride to Capesterre-Belle-Eau was a blur of green —banana fields and palms swaying in the breeze, the mountains rising in the distance like sleeping giants. The scent of the sea mingled with the earthy sweetness of the land, a sharp contrast to the sterile chill of the south of France.

“You’ll help with the house,” his aunt said, her hands steady on the wheel. “And the fields. Don’t think you’re here to lounge.”

He nodded, too tired to argue.

The first few weeks felt like penance. His aunt was tireless, moving with an energy that gainsaid her years, barking orders as he struggled to keep up.

“Your hands are too soft,” she said once, glancing at his blistered palms. “Too much time spent talking, not enough doing.”

Her words stung, but there was no malice in them—only a brutal honesty that cut through his haze.

Evenings were quieter, spent on the veranda with plates of steaming rice and codfish, with the backdrop of cicadas’ relentless and rhythmic agitation. She didn’t ask about his travels, his work, or the strange detours his life had taken. Instead, she told stories—of storms weathered, crops saved, neighbors who came together when the land demanded it.

A Turning Point

One morning, as the sun rose over the fields, his aunt handed him a machete.

“Today, you clear,” she said.

He stood among the ruined banana trees, their fallen trunks like skeletal remains of what had once been vibrant and alive. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay.

With each swing of the machete, he felt something shift inside him. The physical labor, relentless and grounding, pulled him out of his head and into his body. The repetitive motion—strike, clear, drag—was almost meditative, a rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the land.

By midday, his shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat. His muscles ached, his hands stung, but for the first time in months, his mind felt quiet.

As he paused to drink from a canteen, his aunt approached, a rare smile softening her stern features.

“You’re starting to see it, aren’t you?” she said.

“See what?”

“That life isn’t just what you chase. It’s what you build.”

Over time, the work became less about obligation and more about integration. He began to recognize the faces of the neighbors who stopped by to lend a hand, their laughter and stories sending vibrant pulsating waves resonant of a community he hadn’t realized he missed.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, a group gathered to share a meal. Someone brought out drums, the rhythmic beat carrying through the warm night air. Darius found himself smiling, his feet moving instinctively to the music.

The trance of Éloïse’s words—the pull she had promised—dissipated like smoke in the wind. What remained was what mattered: it wasn’t the pull but the roots —the people, the land, the stories they shared.

The Bell

It was his aunt who rang the bell for dinner one evening, the sound sharp and clear, cutting through the humid air like a call to attention.

Darius paused, the sound resonating in his chest. It reminded him of something—a faint echo from his time with Éloïse and Renard, but different. This was simpler, purer, untainted by manipulation.

He looked at his aunt, who was watching him with a knowing smile. “You’ve been lost a long time, haven’t you?” she said quietly.

Darius nodded, unable to speak.

“Good,” she said. “It means you know the way back.”

By the time he wrote to Amei, his hand no longer trembled. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own,” he wrote, the words flowing easily. “its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well.”

For the first time in years, he felt like he was on solid ground—not chasing a pull, but rooted in the rhythm of the land, the people, and himself.

The haze lifted, and with it came clarity and maybe hope. It was time to reconnect—not just with long-lost friends and shared ideals, but with the version of himself he thought he’d lost.

Darius: A Map of People

June 2023 – Capesterre-Belle-Eau, Guadeloupe

The air in Capesterre-Belle-Eau was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement slow and deliberate. Darius leaned against the railing of the veranda, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky blends into the sea. The scent of wet earth and banana leaves filling the air. He was home.

It had been nearly a year since hurricane Fiona swept through Guadeloupe, its winds blowing a trail of destruction across homes, plantations, and lives. Capesterre-Belle-Eau had been among the hardest hit, its banana plantations reduced to ruin and its roads washed away in torrents of mud.

Darius hadn’t been here when it happened. He’d read about it from across the Atlantic, the news filtering through headlines and phone calls from his aunt, her voice brittle with worry.

“Darius, you should come back,” she’d said. “The land remembers everyone who’s left it.”

It was an unusual thing for her to say, but the words lingered. By the time he arrived in early 2023 to join the relief efforts, the worst of the crisis had passed, but the scars remained—on the land, on the people, and somewhere deep inside himself.

Home, and Not — Now, passing days having turned into quick six months, Darius was still here, though he couldn’t say why. He had thrown himself into the work, helped to rebuild homes, clear debris, and replant crops. But it wasn’t just the physical labor that kept him—it was the strange sensation of being rooted in a place he’d once fled.

Capesterre-Belle-Eau wasn’t just home; it was bones-deep memories of childhood. The long walks under the towering banana trees, the smell of frying codfish and steaming rice from his aunt’s kitchen, the rhythm of gwoka drums carrying through the evening air.

“Tu reviens pour rester cette fois ?” Come back to stay? a neighbor had asked the day he returned, her eyes sharp with curiosity.

He had laughed, brushing off the question. “On verra,” he’d replied. We’ll see.

But deep down, he knew the answer. He wasn’t back for good. He was here to make amends—not just to the land that had raised him but to himself.

A Map of Travels — On the veranda that afternoon, Darius opened his phone and scrolled through his photo gallery. Each image was pinned to a digital map, marking all the places he’d been since he got the phone. Of all places, it was Budapest which popped out, a poor snapshot of Buda Castle.

He found it a funny thought — just like where he was now, he hadn’t planned to stay so long there. He remembered the date: 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. He’d spent in Budapest most of it, sketching the empty streets.

Five years ago, their little group of four had all been reconnecting in Paris, full of plans that never came to fruition. By late 2019, the group had scattered, each of them drawn into their own orbits, until the first whispers of the pandemic began to ripple across the world.

Funding his travels had never been straightforward. He’d tried his hand at dozens of odd jobs over the years—bartending in Lisbon, teaching English in Marrakech, sketching portraits in tourist squares across Europe. He lived frugally, keeping his possessions light and his plans loose. Yet, his confidence had a way of opening doors; people trusted him without knowing why, offering him opportunities that always seemed to arrive at just the right time.

Even during the pandemic, when the world seemed to fold in on itself, he had found a way.

Darius had already arrived in Budapest by then, living cheaply in a rented studio above a bakery. The city had remained open longer than most in Europe or the world, its streets still alive with muted activity even as the rest of Europe closed down. He’d wandered freely for months, sketching graffiti-covered bridges, quiet cafes, and the crumbling facades of buildings that seemed to echo his own restlessness.

When the lockdowns finally came like everywhere else, it was just before winter, he’d stayed, uncertain of where else to go. His days became a rhythm of sketching, reading, and sending postcards. Amei was one of the few who replied—but never ostentatiously. It was enough to know she was still there, even if the distance between them felt greater than ever.

But the map didn’t tell the whole story. It didn’t show the faces, the laughter, the fleeting connections that had made those places matter.

Swatting at a buzzing mosquito, he reached for the small leather-bound folio on the table beside him. Inside was a collection of fragments: ticket stubs, pressed flowers, a frayed string bracelet gifted by a child in Guatemala, and a handful of postcards he’d sent to Amei but had never been sure she received.

One of them, yellowed at the edges, showed a labyrinth carved into stone. He turned it over, his own handwriting staring back at him.

“Amei,” it read. “I thought of you today. Of maps and paths and the people who make them worth walking. Wherever you are, I hope you’re well. —D.”

He hadn’t sent it. Amei’s responses had always been brief—a quick WhatsApp message, a thumbs-up on his photos, or a blue tick showing she’d read his posts. But they’d never quite managed to find their way back to the conversations they used to have.

The Market —  The next morning, Darius wandered through the market in Trois-Rivières, a smaller town nestled between the sea and the mountains. The vendors called out their wares—bunches of golden bananas, pyramids of vibrant mangoes, bags of freshly ground cassava flour.

“Tiens, Darius!” called a woman selling baskets woven from dried palm fronds. “You’re not at work today?”

“Day off,” he said, smiling as he leaned against her stall. “Figured I’d treat myself.”

She handed him a small woven bracelet, her eyes twinkling. “A gift. For luck, wherever you go next.”

Darius accepted it with a quiet laugh. “Merci, tatie.”

As he turned to leave, he noticed a couple at the next stall—tourists, by the look of them, their backpacks and wide-eyed curiosity marking them as outsiders. They made him suddenly realise how much he missed the lifestyle.

The woman wore an orange scarf, its boldness standing out as if the color orange itself had disappeared from the spectrum, and only a single precious dash could be seen into all the tones of the market. Something else about them caught his attention. Maybe it was the way they moved together, or the way the man gestured as he spoke, as if every word carried weight.

“Nice scarf,” Darius said casually as he passed.

The woman smiled, adjusting the fabric. “Thanks. Picked it up in Rajasthan. It’s been with me everywhere since.”

Her partner added, “It’s funny, isn’t it? The things we carry. Sometimes it feels like they know more about where we’ve been than we do.”

Darius tilted his head, intrigued. “Do you ever think about maps? Not the ones that lead to places, but the ones that lead to people. Paths crossing because they’re meant to.”

The man grinned. “Maybe it’s not about the map itself,” he said. “Maybe it’s about being open to seeing the connections.”

A Letter to Amei —  That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Darius sat at the edge of the bay, his feet dangling above the water. The leather-bound folio sat open beside him, its contents spread out in the fading light.

He picked up the labyrinth postcard again, tracing its worn edges with his thumb.

“Amei,” he wrote on the back just under the previous message a second one —the words flowing easily this time. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own, its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well. —D.”

He folded the card into an envelope and tucked it into his bag, resolving to send it the next day.

As he watched the waves lap against the rocks, he felt a sense of motion rolling like waves asking to be surfed. He didn’t know where the next path would lead next, but he felt it was time to move on again.

Work in Progress: Character Timelines and Events

Matteo

• November 2024 (Reunion):
  • Newly employed at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, started after its reopening.
  • Writes the names of Lucien, Elara, Darius, and Amei in his notebook without understanding why.
  • Acquires the bell from Les Reliques, drawn to it as if guided by an unseen force.
  • Serves the group during the reunion, surprised to see all four together, though he knows them individually.
• Summer 2024 (Olympics):
  • Working in a vineyard in southern France, nearing the end of the harvest season.
  • Receives a call for a renovation job in Paris, which pulls him toward the city.
  • Feels an intuitive connection to Paris, as if something is waiting for him there.
• Past Events (Implied):
  • Matteo has a mysterious ability to sense patterns and connections in people’s lives.
  • Has likely crossed paths with the group in unremarkable but meaningful ways before.

 

Darius

• November 2024 (Reunion):
  • Arrives at the café, a wanderer who rarely stays in one place.
  • Reflects on his time in India during the autumn and the philosophical journey it sparked.
  • Brings with him an artifact that ties into his travels and personal story.
• Summer 2024 (Olympics):
  • Living in Barcelona, sketching temples and engaging with a bohemian crowd.
  • Prompted by a stranger to consider a trip to India, sparking curiosity and the seeds of his autumn journey.
  • Begins to plan his travels, sensing that India is calling him for a reason he doesn’t yet understand.
• Past Events (Implied):
  • Has a history of introducing enigmatic figures to the group, often leading to tension.
  • His intense, nomadic lifestyle creates both fascination and distance between him and the others.

 

Elara

• November 2024 (Reunion):
  • Travels from England to Paris to attend the reunion, balancing work and emotional hesitation.
  • Still processing her mother’s passing and reflecting on their strained relationship.
  • Finds comfort in the shared dynamics of the group but remains analytical about the events around the bell.
• Summer 2024 (Olympics):
  • (was revealed to be a dream event) Attends a CERN conference in Geneva, immersed in intellectual debates and cutting-edge research. Receives news of her mother’s death in Montrouge, prompting a reflective journey to make funeral arrangements. Struggles with unresolved feelings about her mother but finds herself strangely at peace with the finality.
  • Dreams of her mother’s death during a nap in Tuscany, a surreal merging of past and present that leaves her unsettled.
  • Hears a bell’s clang, only to find Florian fixing a bell to the farmhouse gate. The sound pulls her further into introspection about her mother and her life choices.
  • Mentors Florian, encouraging him to explore his creativity, paralleling her own evolving relationship with her chalk research.
• Past Events (Implied):
  • Moved to Tuscany after retiring from academia, pursuing independent research on chalk.
  • Fondly remembers the creative writing she once shared with the group, though it now feels like a distant chapter of her life.
  • Had a close but occasionally challenging relationship with Lucien and Amei during their younger years.
  • Values intellectual connections over emotional ones but is gradually learning to reconcile the two.

 

Lucien

• November 2024 (Reunion):
  • Sends the letter that brings the group together at the café, though his intentions are unclear even to himself.
  • In his Paris studio, struggles with an unfinished commissioned painting. Feels disconnected from his art and his sense of purpose.
  • Packs a suitcase with sketchbooks and a bundle wrapped in linen, symbolizing his uncertainty—neither a complete departure nor a definitive arrival.
  • Heads to the café in the rain, reluctant but compelled to reconnect with the group. Confronts his feelings of guilt and estrangement from the group.
• Summer 2024 (Olympics):
  • Escapes Paris, overwhelmed by the crowds and noise of the Games, and travels to Lausanne.
  • Reflects on his artistic block and the emotional weight of his distance from the group.
  • Notices a sketch in his book of a doorway with a bell he doesn’t recall drawing, sparking vague recognition.
• Past Events (Implied):
  • Once the emotional “anchor” of the group, he drifted apart after a falling-out or personal crisis.
  • Feels a lingering sense of responsibility to reunite the group but struggles with his own vulnerabilities.

Amei

 

• November 2024 (Reunion):
  • Joins the reunion at Lucien’s insistence, hesitant but curious about reconnecting with the group.
  • Brings with her notebooks filled with fragments of stories and a quiet hope for resolution.
  • Feels the weight of the group’s shared history but refrains from dwelling on it outwardly.
• Summer 2024 (Olympics):
  • Recently moved into a smaller flat in London, downsizing after her daughter Tabitha left for university.
  • Has a conversation with Tabitha about life and change, hinting at unresolved emotions about motherhood and independence.
  • Tabitha jokes about Amei joining her in Goa, a suggestion Amei dismisses but secretly considers.
• Past Events (Implied):
  • The last group meeting five years ago left her with lingering emotional scars.
  • Maintains a deep but quiet connection to Lucien and shares a playful dynamic with Elara.

 

Tabitha (Amei’s Daughter)

• November 2024:
  • Calls Amei to share snippets of her life, teasing her mother about her workaholic tendencies.
  • Reflects on their relationship, noting Amei’s supportive but emotionally guarded nature.
• Summer 2024 (Olympics):
  • Planning her autumn trip to Goa with friends, viewing it as a rite of passage.
  • Discusses her mother’s habits with her peers, acknowledging Amei’s complexities while expressing affection.
• Past Events (Implied):
  • Represents a bridge between Amei’s past and present, highlighting generational contrasts and continuities.

Key Threads and Patterns

• The Bell: Acts as a silent witness and instigator, threading its presence through pivotal moments in each character’s journey, whether directly or indirectly.
• Shared Histories: While each character grapples with personal struggles, their paths hint at intersections in the past, tied to unresolved tensions and shared experiences.
• Forward and Backward Motion: The narrative moves between the characters’ immediate challenges and the ripples of their past decisions, with the bell serving as a focal point for both.