A call had been made suddenly; Elena wanted to spend time with her middle son. Since he was free from school, in theory, he was available for that. He said goodbye with a heaviness from Kael; that whole dialogue had gone too far, and he had even accompanied him to the library's exit door with that smile that comforted even hell.

  The seismic shock was becoming normal throughout these moments alone, with the very tectonic plate itself—what a disaster.

  The car was already waiting for him in front of the establishment; his trip was short, he hadn't even paid attention to the route; his distraction was a sign of his fate's fuse being lit.

  Why had he revealed his weakness?

  And worse, he wanted him to believe in him as if he were his God, which could never be allowed—not only was it a sin and blasphemy, but it was also an attack on everything he needed to be sure he knew.

  Of course, this attack could be even more evident when he considered the matter as reciprocal, and even beyond that, he wanted Lucian to consider himself divine as well.

  The need to let go once and for all and avoid him was becoming an almost simplistic urgency; if he thought about it carefully, it wasn't exactly about what he wanted, but rather about cowardice.

  If he kept facing the natural phenomenon, he would suffer consequences worse than swimming against the tide. His presence was more than good, he couldn't deny it; however, without conscious reason, it was essential to hunt for the reason behind all of this.

  His mother rambled as always in a monologue about flora and metaphors for occurrences at work. She was efficient and dignified; her youth preserved in her eyes and vivacity betrayed the reputation of a shrew held by her adversaries. Elegant and articulate, an expensive wine, virtuous and respected wherever she made her presence known.

  Her grace belonged to something greater before marriage; as she was well-spoken-of and full of fine qualities, she also became extremely courted. His parents didn't commonly share family stories, nor did they bring up how they met; however, if this prestige was absolute, his mother was a gift to his father.

  Not due to appreciation for materiality, but because he didn't seem like the type of man who would win Elena—all rigid and inexpressive, barely interacting with his own family.

  She obviously came from a family of great acquisitions, so wealth and titles weren't the reason for this alliance; her beauty had always been unparalleled, so it wasn't for lack of options either.

  "Mam?, cum v-a?i cunoscut tu ?i tata??"

  The habit of rambling and asking his thoughts out loud was becoming a bad habit.

  She looked at him from the corner of her eye, shuddering, her usual sweet smile faltering; it wasn't a comfortable topic for her. And despite this, she still maintained her composure and began another gentle, playful monologue full of her charming eloquence that won over any ally.

  As a young adult, before completing her final year of university, she met him at a business intervention; there was a partnership between a certain course and the coordination with the Moldoveanu company. Mihai was present in an earthy suit with checkered details, accompanied by Alexandru who followed the pattern, but in blues.

  The cooperation within this alliance was weak; not even competent interns were being qualified for that role. What was a fortuitous remark became the quill Elena used to write her fate. She used to be a scholarship holder for an innovative project at the time, something about democracy in a state of liquidity within the business environment.

  And consequently, she was present at the discussion, listening to the complaints and taking her notes; she intended to return them to the exclaimer directly, to break his logic—which didn't go as expected.

  They were in a private meeting room, with two company partners, in addition to father and son; the unilateral debate continued firmly when Alexandru interrupted.

  He had pointed at Elena and her little notebook, which she kept writing in, asking who she was to be taking down confidential details without even being invited or ordered to do so. Mihai laughed frankly and told her to read her notes, in full, without adding or removing anything she had written.

  It was a shot in the dark; her observations, besides being clear, contained practical solutions to the complaints that were being shamelessly addressed.

  The atmosphere didn't weigh down, nor intensify, but the spark of intrigue hovered through the room with all its force in the minds of the gentlemen. As the only woman, things might not be easy, and she might not be properly heard.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  However, Mihai invited her to join as a junior analyst at the company, accompanied by a senior—his son, in fact. And finally, everything happened very naturally; at a professional gathering, they both debated ideas and understood each other well, sequencing a valuable alliance between their families.

  Her story was vague; he had questions he wanted to know the answers to, however, at that point in the day, he realized that maybe, just maybe, he didn't need to know everything. But, who said he would respect himself at this stage of the game?

  "Cum ai ?tiut c? ?l iube?ti??"

  A faint gleam seemed to dim even more in that gaze; she followed Lucian to the porch, they watched the end of the sunset among the garden.

  She went on to tell him that she knew she liked him when they were on an outing with some potential new allies on a cruise, and she was being courted day and night by her suitors at the balls.

  And well, as soon as night fell and he managed to find her alone under the waning moon, he recited Replies1? to her, concluding on his knees amidst the melodic and muffled sound of a jazz group on the other side of the ship, holding an open velvet box with a ring that claimed to reflect the natural satellite above.

  It wasn't a request to imprison her; he had asked that she at least consider him one of her suitors. If she accepted, he guaranteed he would win her over every day of his life. Whether this was actually true at that moment, she wasn't sure, but if they are where they are, it's because she accepted him.

  After her tale, which seemed like a fallacy at that silent moment, she declared she was going to retire due to a headache—whether it was true or not, it didn't matter either. If his father had really recited Replies to her, he wasn't much of a charmer.

  The rest of the hot night was corrupted by the incessant moment; he revisited that place in his memories, hoping they would change and not be what they were.

  Sleep didn't come quickly, but the dream came abruptly. Shooting stars haunted his balcony, leaves and flowers stuck to the wooden deck, and he felt the presence of an intruder.

  He left his bed, heading to the balcony, watching the shower of phenomena over which he had no control. He heard a faint jazz melody and a bittersweet aroma, like dark chocolate, much sweeter in this case. His intruder was Miguel, who was sitting against the railing of that suspended place.

  He was aware it was a dream, one of those you never want to wake up from. His classmate was calm, saying he was getting some air, because the world around him was on fire, and the only one who could save him was Lucian.

  He knew, as a reaffirmation, that it wasn't real; Kael mumbled something about the flames, that they had been caused by the strange form of desire, which made fools of people to make them do whatever was necessary.

  It was all very redundant; it was a dream, he was aware, although he didn't understand what exactly they did nor why it needed to be done. When he looked at him, observing him as if it were possible to feel him through that gaze—because if it were, he was sure it was a warm look, the kind that warms the heart and extinguishes the fear of... no, he was crazy.

  He knew it would be a lie, from that night on, if he ever said he had never dreamed of meeting someone like that intruder. Literal, figurative, or out of fascination, he didn't need to think about it, because he needed to understand—the little sun in front of him kept mumbling about the flames.

  The more they observed each other, in that warm atmosphere, the more nuances appeared each time. Although he also knew he needed to leave him behind if he wanted to remain at peace with himself, he also knew he had never dreamed he would lose someone like him.

  The brightness of that gaze fascinated, complementing the confident laughter of someone who seemed to have known each other for centuries, which wasn't exactly true.

  Lucian was beginning to believe in him, not as God, but as an intimate person; he had never had anyone who could read him and not judge him, even seeing the whole picture.

  Physically, he felt himself loosening from the dream world; at any moment, he would wake up and lose sight of him—that less provocative and verbal version of his classmate. However, his mind wavered towards what his unconscious held. If his father wasn't a charmer, Lucian knew some other, more suitable poems.

  La Steaua*

  To the Star

  La steaua care-a r?s?rit

  Pe-o cale-atat de lung?,

  C? mii de ani i-au trebuit

  Luminii s? ne-ajung?.

  So far it is athwart the blue

  To where yon star appears,

  That for its light to reach our view

  Has needed thousand years.

  Poate de mult s-a stins ?n drum

  ?n dep?rt?ri albastre,

  Iar raza ei abia acum

  Luci vederii noastre.

  Maybe that ages gone it shed

  Its glow, then languished in the skies,

  Yet only now its rays have sped

  Their journey to our eyes.

  Lcoana stelei ce-a murit

  ?ncet pe cer se sue;

  Era pe cand nu s-a z?rit,

  Azi o vedem ?i nu e.

  The icon of the star that died

  Slowly the vault ascended;

  Time was ere it could first be spied,

  We see now what is ended.

  Tot astfel cand al nostru dor

  Pieri ?n noapte-adanc?,

  Lumina stinsului amor

  Ne urm?re?te ?nc?.

  So is it when our love's aspire

  Is hid beneath night's bowl,

  The gleam of its extinguished fire

  Enkindles yet our soul.

  — By Mihai Eminescu, his grandfather's favorite, a reflection of the contemporary troubled mind of his grandson, Lucian Moldoveanu. Even before waking, an interrogative thought arose, for what kind of person dedicates a poem to a friend? A friend who made his mind a workshop of seismic shocks.