"Thirty Haispur, ma'am," the vendor said, not looking up from his scales.
Atama's mother stared down at the small bundle in her hands: a handful of wilted greens, a little rice, a bottle of cheap oil. Her fingers tightened around the coarse plastic wrapping.
She hesitated, then asked, her voice gentle but worn, "Could you lower the price? Just a little?"
The vendor's friendly mask slipped, revealing a tired impatience. "No, ma'am. Price is the price. Take it or leave it."
She held her breath for a second, looking again at the small bundle in her hands.
"Just this once," she thought. "For him."
Atama Mother, looking at Atama in the distance, looks seriously at the old woman. And the more she looks at them both, Atama should be to her by now.
Atama's mother paid thirty Haispur and said, "I'll take the chicken."As she walked toward him, her voice was gentle but curious.
She held her breath. Just this once, she thought, her gaze drifting to where Atama stood, distracted, by the old woman's stall. For him. A small celebration. He's awake. He's here.
"I'll take the chicken," she said quietly, the words tasting of sacrifice. She counted out the coins, feeling each one leave her palm like a drop of blood.
Bag in hand, she walked toward her son. Her steps were light, but her heart was heavy with a secret she hadn't yet shared.
"All done with your treat, sweetie?" she asked, her voice softening as she touched his arm.
Atama blinked, pulled from his reverie. "Yes, Mom."
He followed her, but not before casting one last glance over his shoulder. The old woman was watching him, her knowing smile a silent anchor in the bustling market. She gave a single, slow nod. A promise. A warning. Atama turned away, a chill tracing his spine.
* * *
Endless roads stretched ahead where poles are connected by cable to each other, going through the city and town. A lush of countless trees formed a wall toward the roads, and along that rode Atama and his mother, riding together on their old bicycle.
The road home was a gray ribbon under a vast, oppressive sky. Atama pedaled their creaking blue bicycle, his mother's hands resting lightly on his sides for balance. The rhythmic squeak of the chain was the only sound between them for a long while.
"Mom…" Atama began, then let the word hang, swallowed by the wind.
"Yes, sweetie?"
"…Never mind." He couldn't ask. Not yet. Not while they were still moving.
She didn't press, but her silence was attentive. She'd seen the look that passed between him and the old woman. A secret was hovering, waiting to land.
As they turned onto their street, the familiar sight of their flat-roofed house should have been a comfort. It wasn't.
Atama pushed the door open. "We're home."
The house answered with silence.
"Dad's still at work?" Atama ventured, unloading the bag.
"No," his mother said, her voice carefully neutral. "He took time off."
As they turned onto their street, the familiar sight of their flat-roofed house should have been a comfort. It wasn't.
Atama pushed the door open. "We're home."
The house answered with silence.
"Dad's still at work?" Atama ventured, unloading the bag.
"No," his mother said, her voice carefully neutral. "He took time off."
Atama was on his way to his room when he sensed something ominous—a knot of anxiety tightening deep in his stomach. He quickened his step, craving the familiar solitude, but stopped dead in the doorway.
There, on the ceiling above his bed, was the stain.
A sprawling patch of black, damp and vile, like a fresh bruise on the plaster. It seemed to pulse in the dim light, a silent testament to the thing that had crawled out of it. The very air around it felt heavy, curdled.
From that moment, his eyes widened, his mouth clenching in terror.
"Mom!" he shouted, louder this time, "come here."
His mother appeared, wiping her hands on a cloth. "What's wrong, sweetie?" Her eyes followed his pointed finger upward, then squinted in confusion. "What am I looking at?"
"That! The black spot! The fungus!" His voice trembled. "You really can't see it?"
She shook her head slowly, genuine bewilderment in her eyes. "Atama, there's nothing there."
A cold realization dawned on him. "Wait… you're not pure-blooded?"
"Pure-blooded?" Her confusion deepened. "What are you talking about?"
"The old woman… she said someone in our family is. She said that's why I can see…" He trailed off, his mind racing. His eyes snapped back to his mother's face. "Where's Father?"
"He'll be back," she said, but her voice lacked its usual certainty. It was a threadbare comfort.
"Wait." Atama's composure shattered. The fear, the confusion, the years of silent wondering erupted. "He is, isn't he? And you knew? You both knew this whole time?" His voice cracked. "I spent years thinking I was going crazy! Asking friends, teachers about the world above the sky, and they all looked at me like I was a freak! And you… you just let me believe it?"
His mother stood motionless, her face a mask of pained guilt. She had no defense.
The anger drained from Atama as quickly as it came, leaving behind a hollow ache. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I shouldn't shout. I'm not angry at you. I'm just… lost."
"Oh, Atama." Her own eyes filled with tears. She stepped forward and pulled him into a fierce embrace. "We're so sorry. We were afraid. We wanted to protect you, to give you a normal life for as long as we could. We were afraid this… gift… would pull you into a world we couldn't shield you from." She pressed a kiss to his hair, her voice muffled against him. "We're sorry we weren't there when you needed us most."
From the kitchen, the forgotten kettle began a frantic, shrieking whistle.
She pulled back, wiping her eyes with a shaky smile. "The tea. I nearly let it boil dry."
She hurried out, leaving Atama alone with the decaying stain. It seemed to throb in the quiet, a dark heart beating behind the veil of the ordinary world.
His own mind throbbed with a sudden, vivid memory—the market, the old woman's eyes, her words…
"Anapados is the ceiling world, dear."
"Wait," he had interjected, wary. "How do you know what I see?"
She had merely smiled, tapping the sun-and-bone tattoo on her wrist. "This old mark? It means I'm like you. Pure of blood. And you… you bear the wound-aura of a Dyviak's hunt. Few survive that. Fewer still see my tattoo for what it is."
The pieces crashed together in his mind. If my parents are pure-bloods too… why hide it? To protect me? Or to protect themselves? Why didn't they help when the creature came?*
"Do you know," he had asked, the name feeling dangerous on his tongue, "a woman named Viona Caine?"
Her smile didn't falter, but her eyes grew distant, careful. "Some names have their own time and place, boy. Focus on the path first." She leaned forward, her voice dropping. "You want to go up? Safely? South Lake Urthakamandalu. Follow the river to where the great roots touch the earth. That's the gate."
"A gate? How do I… open it?"
"You will. The blood knows. Your family's blood knows."
The memory faded, leaving him chilled. He had been steered, nudged toward this path by forces he didn't understand.
"Atama?" his mother called from the kitchen, her voice straining for normalcy. "Food's ready."
He stared at the black stain one last time. It was a question mark etched into his world, and the answer lay not here, but above. In Anapados.
He turned his back on it. "Coming, Mom.