They were about to push the door open—Koran and Timo—when the mother's voice rose from deep inside the house, her familiar warm tone carrying that unmistakable note of insistence, though it wasn't harsh:
"Did you forget breakfast?"
The boys stopped at once, as if the words had pulled their feet backward.
Koran turned first, slowly glancing toward the source of the voice, while Timo mumbled softly, raising his eyebrows with slight resignation:
"Ugh… not again."
They walked toward the kitchen with slow steps, their eyes avoiding meeting the gaze of Koran's mother, as if they were guilty in a silent court.
The mother was sitting in the corner, on the modern floating chair near the window, sipping slowly from a cup of tea barely steaming. Her hands weren't completely steady, but her features were composed, carrying a calmness of someone well-trained in hiding worry behind a faint smile.
She didn't say a word when they approached, simply gestured toward the modestly arranged table.
Koran sat first, very slowly, his eyes moving between the dishes on the table:
Warm bread, a kind of light soup, and some fruit slices neatly arranged.
In the background, the house was still—no television, no music, no technological noise. Everything was off… only a soft silence, occasionally broken by the mother's quiet movements or Timo's breathing as he devoured the food with relentless appetite.
As Koran slowly lifted the spoon, he suddenly asked without thinking:
"Where's Dad?"
He didn't look at his mother as he asked, just threw the question into the air, with a chilling detachment.
The mother raised her head slightly, looked at him for a moment before answering, her voice soft and carrying nothing in particular:
"At work, as usual."
She added nothing.
Koran returned to stare at his bowl, stirring the soup slowly, before thinking to himself in a voice no one could hear:
"Always at work… always."
There was no bitterness in his words, but rather a strange kind of familiarity, as if his father's absence had become part of his daily routine, not even worth questioning anymore.
He continued eating slowly, while observing his mother's face; there was something in her eyes… a cloudy look, like a foggy morning sky, saying nothing yet lamenting everything.
The mother didn't ask them anything.
She didn't talk about school, or their dreams, or even the coming day.
Everything seemed placed in glass molds, to be touched gently but never broken.
When Koran finished his bowl, he raised his head slowly, looked at Timo who was still immersed in the food, a playful childish smile on his lips.
At that moment, just as he tried to rise from the chair, Timo said with a soft laugh:
"Heh, forgot the game, Koran? I was going to beat you today!"
Koran shook his head lightly, drifted off for a moment, then replied coldly:
"No time for games today."
He said it in a slow tone, as if tasting the words before speaking them, then got up quietly.
The mother watched them from the corner of her eyes, but said nothing. When Koran and Timo reached the door again, and before they pushed it, the mother spoke in a low tone, as if whispering to the wind:
"Be careful on the road…"
They didn't reply. They simply left.
Behind them, the mother remained alone in the kitchen, turning the teacup between her hands, her eyes watching the window, where the morning light was slowly creeping in… as if she were waiting for something she didn't know the name of.
When Koran and Timo finally pushed open the door, morning breezes rushed against their faces, carrying a refreshing but gentle chill.
The air was filled with the smell of fresh bread wafting from a nearby bakery, mixed with the scent of ground coffee, and a faint fragrance of jasmine flowers drenched in dew, coming from a small garden at the end of the alley.
Koran breathed in slowly, as if trying to keep all those smells inside his chest.
It wasn't an exceptional morning, just an ordinary one in every detail… but it felt full of life, in a strange way that was hard to explain.
The street ahead of them was bustling with movement, people walking in their usual rhythm; some carrying paper bags from shops, others
pushing small carts with chattering children inside.
Self-driving cars moved in smooth lines between the sidewalks, neither intrusive nor dominant, but a natural part of the city's rhythm, like the ticking of a giant clock unnoticed by anyone.
At the corners, street vendors were opening their tiny stalls, selling fresh fruits or offering local sweets, while from some windows, soft music played—the tunes familiar to Koran since childhood.
Everything moved in harmony, no coldness, no cruelty… just ordinary people, fighting for a new day, talking, laughing, sometimes arguing in low voices.
Timo whispered, with a wide smile as he pointed to a nearby shop:
"That candy smell is irresistible! You know? I envy them—working in a place like this every day…"
Koran chuckled lightly, for the first time that morning, watching the shop owner sprinkling powdered sugar over the sweets with care, before replying in a calm tone:
"Sometimes… the smell alone is enough."
They walked together through the mild crowd, the sounds of footsteps blending with the faint hum of cars, and the gentle tapping of heels on pavement, in a simple morning scene, yet full of life.
Koran looked around with calm eyes, capturing every detail of the small city, as if storing it in his memory, layer upon layer. He walked with steps closer to a waking dream. His blond hair, falling across his forehead like pale waves of light, bore traces of a strange wind Timo didn't feel. His blue eyes—like frozen lakes on a winter's day—scanned the details sharply, as if afraid the world might vanish suddenly.
In his left hand, he gripped the edge of his school bag with unconscious force, the veins on his slender hand like blue threads drawn under his pale skin. His red scarf, which he forgot to tie properly as usual, hung like a long wound behind his back.
When they passed by a shop, Koran's eyes caught the glass window for a single second. In the reflection, his face looked pale like the page of an old book, and his eyes carried that familiar expression Timo had grown used to—the look of someone who sees something beyond the glass, beyond the street, even beyond this ordinary morning everyone insisted on believing was just a normal morning.
There was nothing in the city worth marveling at… yet, in its own way, it whispered something.
As Koran and Timo walked down the wide alley, they passed by a huge glass façade of a shopping center, covered by a massive display screen pulsing with light and colors.
At first, it wasn't clear what was being shown… just swirls of golden and silver colors slowly blending, interlaced with soft musical notes, like a song coming from a distant dream.
Then mysterious words began to appear, one by one, in glowing script, at a calculated pace.
"The time is near."
"Prepare… for the greatest event."
"When the moon is full… everything begins."
A shadowy image of an ambiguous symbol appeared—perhaps a crown, a moon, or something else undefinable—then the screen glitched suddenly, returning to regular commercial clips of the store's products.
Timo, as usual, didn't notice, busy counting the passing flying cars, but he said laughing while looking at the screen:
"Ha… silly ads again."
But Koran stood for seconds, staring at the empty screen, his eyes narrowing slowly, as if trying to decode something unsaid.
Yet he didn't linger long, just moved slowly to catch up with Timo,
as those words kept echoing in his mind, as if they weren't truly over yet.
As they walked with uneven steps—Timo skipping playfully and Koran walking slowly—Koran noticed a man sitting quietly at the corner of the street, behind a small wooden table barely standing.
The old man had a short gray beard, wore a faded brown coat, and an old-fashioned hat covered his head.
Before him, on the table, lay bundles of newspapers, yellowed at the edges, emitting the scent of aged ink—a smell that reminded Koran of old photographs and worn schoolbooks.
No one paid the old man any attention.
People passed by him—some smiling respectfully, others not noticing him at all.
But Koran stopped.
There was something odd in the man's stillness, in his confident posture, in his eyes that sparkled behind round glasses, like the eyes of someone who had seen too much.
The old man looked at him slowly, as if he had been waiting.
"Don't you want to know the news of this morning?"
he said, his voice hoarse but calm, carrying a tone not easily explained.
Koran raised an eyebrow, didn't reply immediately, but Timo jumped beside him, laughing:
"News? Who reads paper anymore? Everything's on our phones now!"
The old man chuckled lightly, like a breeze blowing through old pages.
"Oh yes… everything's on your phones, that's true."
Then he lifted a newspaper, dusting it gently, and added in a tone closer to a whisper:
"But the words written here… are slow. They know how to wait."
Koran blinked, watching the man's hand as he turned the pages slowly, like observing an ancient ritual.
"Then why do you sell them, if no one cares?"
Koran asked, his voice calm, but with a hidden curiosity.
The old man smiled, a strange glint passing through his eyes, and said:
"I don't just sell them… I plant them."
Timo burst out laughing, thinking it was a joke:
"Plant them? And what will you harvest? News trees?"
The old man wasn't offended; he smiled even more, his eyes fixed only on Koran, ignoring Timo's laughter:
"Maybe… harvest takes time, boy."
Then, suddenly, he changed his tone, lowering it as if sharing a secret:
"Remember… not everyone who hurries arrives first."
Koran fell silent for a moment, feeling something settle inside those words, like they were
carving a path into his mind.
Timo tugged Koran's arm:
"Come on, we'll be late for school—don't mind him… he's rambling!"
But before leaving, Koran asked in a soft tone:
"What's your name?"
The old man laughed, his voice for a moment sounding like wind slipping through his ribs, and simply said:
"I'm just an old reader…"
The boys finally walked away, with Timo chattering excitedly about other things, while Koran remained silent, a strange look in his eyes.
Behind them, the old man watched, following them until they vanished into the crowded streets.
He muttered to himself, barely audible:
"The game has begun… just like the last time."
Then he bent over his table, rearranging the papers, as if nothing had happened.