The floors had just been mopped. Ginger tea drifted in from the kitchen—healthy, they said, but "don't be spoiled with sugar"—and beneath it all, the thin hum of devices that never slept. Mesh routers. Door sensors. A small server tucked into the corner shelf, its tone steady like the breath of someone who knew: complacency is expensive.
4:38 PM.
I sat with my back straight—not out of discipline, but because my body had learned that at this hour, the brain needed a safe posture before it was forced to light up again.
The desk held nothing. Except the one object that never changed on workdays: a physical token, flash-drive sized. Cold. Unpretty.
I plugged the YubiKey into the encrypted port. The mechanical click was the only sound in the room besides the low hum of the local server on the shelf.
My smart contact lens reflected a thin blue line. The encrypted channel opened slowly—like a steel door that never fully trusted you, but never closed all the way either.
A notification arrived.
Not from the system.
A reminder from Maata.
MAATA // VOICE + FILE ATTACHMENT
Sweetheart, don't forget the progress on our little project.
I exhaled softly.
"A little project," in Maata's vocabulary, usually meant: don't make me do it myself.
Across my lens, RS+PSI+AIR_v0.1 unfolded into layers of heatmaps glowing electric blue. I rotated my chair slightly, leaned back, and began reading—slowly, like instructions where ignoring even one line could produce consequences that lasted.
The text wasn't presentation bullet points. It was field notes.
Location:
- Peri-urban. Not the city center.
Field notes:
- the area tends to be dry
- rain is unpredictable
- minimum: the aquifer still needs to be workable
Core team:
- an idealist hydrogeologist (the type whose research gives sponsors a fever)
- an engineer/planner who works with heart, not a pitch deck
Principle:
Don't hunt for land everyone fights over.
Find land others avoid.
I nodded once.
Another voice note came in. Shorter. Shorter than a warning.
A week has passed. We have less than a week left. No drama. If you keep it clean, I'll buy you that custom-built server you've been eyeing.
I smiled without noticing. Then typed a brief reply.
Is "one week" your operational version… or your home version?
A response came fast. Too fast for someone who claimed she was relaxed.
Home version. Operational is always faster.
And if you find land that nobody looks at, you can take three days off public school.
I'll handle it. Bonus.
I let out a quiet laugh.
This was Maata's way of saying: use your brain, not just obedience.
I tapped the confirm icon. The file locked itself. No screenshots. No forwarding. No saving.
I opened the internal map. Not the kind people used for coffee shops or the quickest route home. This map carried layers normal people never touched: elevation, density, daily access, migration patterns—and one layer that always made me pause before activating it.
Water.
I filtered the region slowly. Not what looked pretty. Not what went viral. What made life possible without begging too many people for permission.
I marked a radius that made sense—close enough that travel wouldn't drain the body. Far enough from a center that was too loud. And one indicator Maata never wrote down but always hunted for:
a place unimportant to powerful people,
but crucial to those who were forced to wake before dawn.
I paused.
Took a sip of ginger tea that had gone cold.
The day had barely started.
And somehow, it felt like I'd just been assigned a watch shift.
The study-room door opened slightly.
Tara appeared in the gap—hair half-tied, one side higher than the other, training shirt still damp at the neck. She didn't step in right away. Her eyes went straight to my screen.
"Bhaaiya…"
Her voice was soft. Suspicious.
"What do those colors mean?"
She walked closer without asking. Stood beside my chair, leaned forward, reading with a frown—not because she understood, but because she could tell something mattered.
I turned my head. My stare roughly translated to: please don't make me explain this in adult language at this hour.
Tara pointed at a green-blue area.
"Why is that blinking?"
Then at the graph beside it.
"And this… why does it go up and down?"
"Data filter," I said.
She made a small sound.
"It looks like a heartbeat."
I shifted a layer. The display changed. Tara's eyes rounded slightly.
"Oh. So this is… water?"
"Water potential," I corrected.
"Stored in the ground."
She went quiet, processing.
"So… we're not making water."
"No, Beta. We're returning what was always meant to stay."
I brought up infiltration lines. Tara leaned closer.
"Like… not letting rain run straight into drains?"
I nodded.
"More or less."
She exhaled, then closed the door with her foot.
"Bhaiya."
That tone.
I don't want to disturb you, but I already saw something.
I didn't look at her.
"Why does the map look like veins?" she asked again.
"This isn't a normal road map, is it?"
I nudged my chair. The screen tightened into denser lines.
"Because water is the bloodstream, Beta," I said without turning.
"We're building a hospital not to show off a logo. We already built mobile clinics that follow informal workers' migration patterns. Big people see buildings. We see flows."
She squinted, leaning in.
"So we're building a small hospital and a park?"
I nodded.
Tara sat on the edge of the desk. Her legs swung fast, restless.
"Why didn't we start with a big hospital from the beginning?"
I paused. Took another sip of cold tea.
"Because big things make people visible," I said.
"Mobile things make people honest."
"Honest about what?"
"Showing up."
"Not showing up."
"Returning."
"Not returning."
Her feet stopped swinging.
"And the ones who don't return?"
"Usually stop at the cost."
She blinked.
"Oh."
Half a second of silence.
"So…"
She rubbed her face.
"We've been counting sick people one by one?"
"Watching patterns," I said.
"What's the difference?"
I shifted the screen. Dots appeared, then vanished.
"People get tired of being counted," I said.
"Patterns don't."
Tara pressed her fingers to her temples.
"Oh my God…"
"This is only stage one?"
"Mandatory," I replied.
"If we skip it, the risk of building the wrong thing is huge."
She laughed—more panic reflex than amusement.
"So… why is the hospital only happening now?"
"Because now we know what's actually needed."
Tara tilted her head, stared at the map, then exhaled.
"Our parents…"
"Can make people work ten years before building a building," she muttered, half-awed.
"They can," I said.
"And we're sitting at hour one."
Her expression sharpened.
"Wait."
"The money."
Her voice dropped fast.
"Us?" she asked. "Are we paying too?"
I exhaled through my nose.
"Relax."
"If you're asked to raise funds, we run. Because it will be huge."
She laughed—then stopped.
"Then where does it come from?"
"Not from patients."
I didn't answer immediately. I tapped the desk once. Soft.
"From back-end services," I said.
"Like what?"
I raised one finger—not to delay her, but to stop the line there.
"Not us," I said quietly.
"Not yet."
Tara opened her mouth. Closed it. Eyebrows lifted halfway.
"So… who? Come on, Bhaiya, I'm curious."
I angled the screen just enough to show short titles, people's names, and years. No big logos. No flags.
"People," I said.
"Not buildings."
"Which people?"
"Doctors who write," I replied.
"Guest lecturers who pass through."
"Short-contract researchers."
Tara squinted.
"They make those… papers?"
I nodded.
"Small cases. Short series."
"Field methods."
"Their names go on top. Our data gets a small mention below."
Tara inhaled.
"Oh."
Then, still short and controlled, I added:
"If the data stays consistent," I said,
"then the Institution speaks."
"Not the other way around."
"Why not just do it directly?"
Her speed made sense.
"Because in that world," I replied, eyes back on the screen,
"people are trusted first. Buildings later."
Tara went silent. Then laughed softly—the laugh of someone who realized something just walked past her face.
She leaned back.
"Thank God," she said.
"I thought we'd be told to earn money."
I hummed, half-smiling.
"Don't be shocked," I said.
"One day we might be told to build a Campus."
Tara froze.
"A Campus?"
"But," I added quickly, "Ma says—she's not the one planning that."
I mimicked Maata's flat tone:
'You kids. Your turn. I want to cuddle your Father everyday— even if I'm wearing senior diapers.'
Tara stared for one second. Then burst into laughter.
I returned to the screen. Tara leaned back, still giggling.
"Does Pa know?"
The question landed like a coin on tile. Small, but loud.
I didn't answer right away.
"We structure it," I said.
"Ma said Pa only needs the top line."
"Because Pa has too much to think about," Tara murmured.
"Yes," I repeated.
She laughed, but it dried out fast.
"So what are we now?"
I looked at her.
"Interns," I said.
"Without a CV."
Tara exhaled long, then smirked.
"How much do we get paid?"
I looked back to the map.
"Unfortunately not money," I said.
"It's… permission to wake up late sometimes."
"And skip schedules."
She groaned.
"Cheap."
Then, abruptly, her eyes stayed on the screen and she said,
"If the park happens, I want to host a community dance event."
I didn't respond immediately.
"Yes, yes, I know," she rushed, already defending herself,
"I have to ask Ma first."
Before I could reply, my phone vibrated.
Maata.
"Yes, Ma."
Her voice came without video—calm, level, the voice of someone walking while reading three different things.
"Sweetheart, any obstacles?"
Straight to the point.
"Not yet, Ma," I said.
"The structure holds."
"Good."
A fraction of a pause.
"If you're about to give up, tell me."
I nearly laughed.
"All good, Ma. I just need confirmation."
"Yes?" she said.
"Ma. About execution. We're looking for dry land to support the area. But you want two types of experts whose careers are stalled. Seriously?"
One second of silence.
"If their careers are stalled because they're too honest," Maata said,
"then they haven't been bought."
Tara made a small sound—half "ugh," half "true."
"Then I have three candidate clusters," I said.
"Peri-urban. Worker access. Feasible aquifer layer. I'll shortlist five hydrogeologists. For the engineer, I'll target someone who designed public schools or water facilities—not malls."
"Good," Maata said.
"Oh, and," she added, like remembering groceries,
"in that park, I want a few stalls."
"Stalls?" I blinked.
"Street food," Maata said lightly.
"Simple. Cheap. Fast."
Tara leaned in.
"Like…?"
A pause.
Then the names flowed—calm, almost casual: Indonesian veggie balls with spicy peanut sauce, chewy fried snacks with chili seasoning, sweet-savory grilled veggie balls, smoky grilled corn, crisp fries, hot stuffed tofu, banana fritters with palm sugar—things that made people stop walking just from the smell.
I nodded, storing it without writing.
"They must be registered," Maata continued.
"Hire locals. The ones the system rejects. You know the type."
Tara narrowed her eyes.
"So this is to make the park lively?"
Maata laughed once. Small.
"It's an economic catalyst, sweetheart. People come to eat, they stay for health. I call it Snack Diplomacy."
Tara stared at me.
"Ma is so kind."
I stared back at the map.
"Strategic," I corrected softly.
"And… she has an elegant way of making sure her favorite snacks stay close."
Tara giggled.
Maata was about to end the call, but I slipped in quickly.
"Ma—about the park. Beta wants to do dance activities. Community. If it happens."
A short silence.
Not doubt. Calculation.
Then Maata spoke, still calm.
"Allowed," she said.
"But don't make patients an audience. Make them breathe with you."
"Build the schedule. Design the space. Ensure it benefits the surroundings."
"Not a stage."
Tara, who had been holding her breath, nodded automatically—then realized Maata couldn't see.
"Yes, Ma," she said quickly anyway.
"If there's nothing else," Maata continued, already moving,
"I'm ending this. Still preparing your Father's needs. Your study focus later will be with Mr. Zayd."
"Ma—" Tara tried to slip something in.
Too late. The call ended.
Tara stared at my phone.
"She didn't say bye."
"Busy," I said.
"That was Ma's version of goodbye."
Tara huffed, but a small smile escaped.
"At least I can dance."
"Yes," I said.
"And work."
"There's always a condition," she muttered.
I returned to the screen and tapped a small note—tomorrow's schedule.
Footsteps came from the corridor.
Not Kamala.
A grown man. Clean rhythm. Leather shoes that didn't squeak, but carried authority.
Today's instructor.
He entered without long pleasantries—Middle Eastern features, calm face, sharp eyes, and a stance that made the room automatically more formal.
Mr. Zayd Al-Harthi — Trade & Geopolitical Systems Instructor
***
Mr. Zayd arrived at precisely 18:04. Expensive oud followed him in a thin trail. His robe was bespoke in a way that signaled class without shouting. He carried no laptop—only a slim folder of camel leather.
I was already seated. Back straight. Laptop closed. Pen on the right, blank paper on the left. Tara sat slightly turned. Her feet didn't reach the floor. Shoulders relaxed—eyes alert.
He stopped at the threshold. Didn't speak immediately.
Silence as a tool.
"Good evening," he said at last.
"Good evening, Ustadh," I replied.
"Good evening," Tara followed—this time not rushed.
He nodded once. Set the folder on the table. Didn't open it. Looked between us.
"I don't teach children," he said, voice low, like a subwoofer's vibration.
"I teach people who will be blamed later."
Tara swallowed. I didn't move.
"Sit properly," he said, flat.
Tara corrected her posture at once. No eye-rolling. No embarrassed smile. Just adjustment.
"Today," he continued,
"we start after sunset because serious systems do not operate during comfort hours."
He glanced at the time: 18:07.
"Open nothing," he said.
Nothing opened.
"Tell me," he said, looking directly at Tara,
"what moves first in a crisis?"
Tara thought half a second.
"People?"
Mr. Zayd didn't nod. Didn't shake his head.
"And after people?"
"Money," Tara answered.
He shifted his gaze to me.
"And before both?"
I didn't answer quickly. I spoke, quiet.
"Flow."
Mr. Zayd nodded once.
Enough.
"Correct."
He wrote a single word on the digital board in sharp, almost calligraphic strokes:
FLOW
Then a line beneath it, in Arabic:
"مَن لا يعرف كيف يتدفق الشيء، لا يعرف من يملكه."
(Whoever does not know how something flows will never know who owns it.)
Tara wrote it down. I didn't.
Mr. Zayd glanced at me.
"You don't write?"
"I remember patterns better," I said.
"Good," he replied.
"Patterns are harder to steal."
He moved to the side of the room and turned on a screen. No country maps. Only lines, dots, arrows.
"This," he said,
"is not trade."
I frowned.
"It looks like logistics."
"Exactly," he said.
"Trade is what politicians talk about. Logistics is what survives them."
He paused, then looked at Tara.
"You dance?" he asked, sudden.
Tara froze for half a second.
"Yes?"
"In dancing," he continued,
"what happens when one muscle rushes?"
"The whole move breaks," Tara replied reflexively.
A thin smile touched Mr. Zayd's mouth.
"Good. Trade systems work the same way."
He wrote another line:
"القوة ليست في السرعة، بل في التوازن."
(Strength is not speed— it is balance.)
My eyes stayed on it longer than intended.
Mr. Zayd returned to the table and opened the folder.
Only one sheet inside.
"No names," he said.
"No countries. Only roles."
He slid the paper to the center.
"Your task," he said,
"is to negotiate without asking."
"And to refuse without humiliating."
Tara swallowed.
"Is that… possible?"
Mr. Zayd met her stare.
"If it wasn't," he said,
"people like your Father would not exist."
Tara almost smiled. Stopped herself.
I spoke quietly.
"What's the penalty?"
Mr. Zayd looked at me for a long moment. Then stood and drew one straight line.
"This is trade," he said.
"Now watch."
He broke the line into three segments.
"Power is not owning the line."
"Power is controlling the break."
Tara raised her hand halfway. He didn't tell her to lower it.
"Speak."
"If that's the case," Tara said carefully,
"the one who loses is the one trapped in the middle?"
Mr. Zayd stared at her.
"Say it again," he said.
"Without fear."
Tara lifted her chin.
"The one who loses is the one who depends."
Mr. Zayd nodded.
"Good."
He wrote again:
"الاعتماد نقطة ضعف"
(Dependence is a weak point.)
He tapped the words once.
"Dependency," he said.
"The only penalty that lasts."
The time read 18:42.
No one moved. No one breathed too loudly.
Mr. Zayd stood.
"Trade," he said, almost like a closing—almost—
"is not shopping."
He looked at us again.
"It is leverage."
Silence. The clock ticked.
He didn't end with a command. He closed the folder.
"Class ends at nineteen hundred," he said.
"If your brain stops before that, we stop."
Silence arrived—long enough for thought to work without audio support.
"Next week," he said softly, straightening the slim folder,
"you will learn what happens when leverage is used too early."
He walked to the door. Paused for half a second.
"Remember," he added without turning:
"القوة التي تُعرض قبل أوانها تتحول إلى عبء."
(Power displayed too early becomes a burden.)
The door closed.
The clock chimed once.
19:00.
I stayed still. Tara stared at the board, now blank.
No applause.
No relief.
Only one feeling remained—like being handed a key, without being told which doors were allowed to open.
***
20:06.
The corridor had grown quieter. Lights were half-on—bright enough to walk, dim enough to go home with your own thoughts.
Tara walked faster than usual. Her hair wasn't retied. Her energy hadn't come down.
"Bhaiya," she said, pulling out her phone,
"Pa really leaves tomorrow, right?"
I nodded, sliding my pen back into place.
"Should."
I watched Tara hit call. I already knew what was happening on the other end. I'd just seen Pa's live location feed and the manually activated Do Not Disturb. I exhaled, feeling sorry for my sister's innocence.
Ring tone.
One.
Two.
No answer.
She stared at the screen, then tried again.
Longer.
Still nothing.
"Ugh," she muttered.
"Pa usually picks up."
I closed my laptop slowly.
"At this hour," I said flatly,
"Pa might not be holding his phone."
"Why?" Tara snapped her head toward me.
I didn't answer right away. I grabbed my water bottle, took a sip. Bought time the safest way.
"Maybe he's focused on something," I said finally.
Tara frowned, but didn't push. She lowered her phone—then, as if the idea came suddenly, started typing fast.
"Fine," she said lightly.
"I'll call Ma."
My hand lifted halfway on reflex.
"Beta—"
Too late. The call tone was already going.
Then—
click.
Pa's voice came through. Slightly lower than usual.
Calm.
Too calm.
"Yeah?"
Tara brightened instantly.
"Pa! You didn't pick up. Tomorrow you're leaving, right?"
A fraction of a pause.
Short—but enough for me to close my eyes.
"Yes," Pa said, controlled. Too controlled. His breathing carried a hitch that didn't belong to a man who usually spoke like a machine.
"Oh good!" Tara chirped.
"Pa, I want—"
She didn't wait.
"My favorite chocolate," she said fast.
"Don't mess the brand. And small souvenirs for the kids at Green Haven."
"Hm."
Pa sounded… restrained.
Breath? A smile in the wrong place?
"Noted," he said, short.
Tara narrowed her eyes.
"Pa, you're listening, right?"
"Mm—yes."
A beat.
"Anything else?"
"Take care there," Tara said, her tone dropping half an octave.
Then quick—too quick for her age.
"Where's Ma?"
I breathed in slowly.
On the other end, Pa didn't answer immediately.
Then—with a voice too gentle for this hour—
"Ma… is asleep."
Tara froze.
"Huh?"
"Asleep," Pa repeated.
"Very."
"Soundly."
I opened my eyes.
Yep.
Tara frowned.
"Oh."
She wasn't suspicious. Not yet.
"Okay," she said, light.
"Don't wake her. See you before you go."
"Sure," Pa answered.
Too fast.
The call ended.
Tara stared at her phone a moment, then shrugged.
"Whatever," she said.
"I'll remind him again tomorrow."
I nodded.
Too quickly.
We walked in silence for a few steps. Then Tara looked up.
"Bhaiya."
"Hmm?"
"Why did Pa sound weird?"
I didn't turn. My steps stayed even.
"Because," I said quietly,
"Pa is doing a high-level negotiation that doesn't need an auditor's interruption. Come on—let's finish school tasks."
Tara frowned.
"You're weird too."
I smiled faintly.
"Get used to it."
We turned the corner. The lights behind us shut off one by one.
Night continued.
—To be Continued—