Kieran's perspective, in this new world
Morning came without light. Just a dull grey bleeding through the curtains like it was afraid to enter. Kieran blinked in the dark, unsure if he'd even slept. His limbs ached like they'd stayed tense all night.
Then came a knock.
No. Not a knock. A pound.
"Get up. You're not sleeping the damn day away."
Kieran sat up fast, his heart in his throat. His door cracked open, and a thick shadow spilt in.
His father's voice followed. "You lazy bastard."
Kieran didn't get up quickly enough. The man took three big steps across the room before he could prepare for the blow. The second hit was the worst, not the first. To the side of his poor head, open a palm. Next, he delivered another backhand to his opposite cheek. Finally, Kieran deflected a blow to his arm. Hard enough to bruise yet not strong enough to shatter bones.
"You think you can just sulk in your room all day?"
"No, sir," Kieran mumbled, breath catching.
Another blow. The edge of it clipped his shoulder, and he curled instinctively.
Then silence. Heavy breathing.
"Get dressed. And don't be late again."
The door slammed.
Kieran sat still for a while. Breathing through the sting. He didn't cry. Not anymore. That had dried up years ago. He wasn't sure.
He changed out of his shirt, wincing at the raw black-purple patches blooming under the skin. The new one wasn't much better.
He didn't eat. No one offered, and he didn't ask. He just left.
The walk to school was cold, even with the sun out. A breeze kept tugging at the hem of his too-small school jumper, making his skin prickle where the bruise was fresh.
He hugged his arms close, head down. Walking against the wind.
The school gate came into view. Concrete playground. Clusters of kids who arrived early laughing loud and proud, running very fast. They were wearing earmuffs, scarves and coats. Kieran moved past them like a fog.
He walked straight to his classroom and was greeted by his teacher.
"Good morning, Kieran."
Mr Alden was at the classroom door. Year 4 teacher, mid-thirties. Smelt like pure coffee. Wore scarves in every season. I guess he likes scarves.
He gave Kieran a quick look over. His smile faltered for a moment. Then it returned, tight at the edges.
Kieran saw his eyes drift to the edge of his sleeve, where the fabric had ridden up just enough to show a dark bruise.
He saw it.
And then he looked away.
"Go ahead and take your seat."
Kieran did as he was told.
The classroom was warmer than his room, full of posters about kindness and friendship. Bright bulletin boards.
Roy sat beside him again. Same as yesterday. Same quiet energy, like he existed just a step out of reality.
Kieran didn't look at him. Just unpacked his things, careful not to wince when his shoulder moved in the wrong way.
There was a pause before Roy said anything. Then: "Are you okay?"
Kieran's pencil scratched faintly across the desk. "Yeah."
A longer pause.
Roy didn't press on forward, nor did he offer pity, nor did he give him that look people give when they see something broken and don't know how to fix it.
He just nodded slightly. "Okay."
They sat like that through the first lesson. Kieran listened to half of what the teacher said; the rest was buried under the noise in his head.
And for some reason, Roy's silence felt louder than anything else.
Midway through the second period, the lesson shifted.
Mr Alden set down the math worksheets which he was about to distribute and clapped his hands once, lightly, to gain the whole class's attention.
"Let's try something different," he said, moving toward the whiteboard. "A little theory, and a little history. But maybe a little mystery."
The room quietened; even the fidgeters stopped fidgeting.
Mr Alden tapped the screen, and it flickered to life. The title read: The Origins of Prana – The Speculation & Understanding.
Below it, a swirl of ancient symbols turned slowly, a mix of runes, constellations and indecipherable scripts.
"Now, I want to be clear," Alden said, turning to face the class. "What we're about to cover is not a proven fact, but it is in the syllabus. It is theoretical, meaning it's a guess that is not proven, so it is just speculative, okay? But it's worth thinking about."
He walked slowly along the front of the class, voice lowering just a little, like he was inviting them into a secret.
"Prana – every one of us has heard of it. It is our life force. The breadth of existence. Call it what you want, but it's everywhere and in everything. Not just in people, but also in animals, in water and in air. Even in silence."
Kieran looked up from his class book, away from the doodles.
Maybe it was the topic, or maybe it was the way Mr Alden said it.
"There are those who believe Prana didn't start here," he continued. "That it's older than Earth, our species and time itself. That maybe, just maybe, it came from somewhere else. Somewhere far beyond."
He tapped the board again. Images flipped past: satellite photos of strange energy patterns in deep space, cave paintings with glowing lines around human figures, and ancient texts written in languages no one had ever spoken aloud.
"We don't know how it first appeared. All we know is that it binds to living things, responds to emotions, and, under certain conditions, can be shaped and directed."
Kieran's pencil hovered above the page, unmoving, his gaze at his teacher unyielding. He didn't blink.
"Some researchers believe Prana is not of Earth but was drawn here, like a dandelion seed carried by the wind. Others say it's always been here, just invisible… until someone, somewhere noticed it. Awakened it."
A faint whisper of excitement stirred across the room. Not of fear. Not of awe. Just curiosity, barely formed. Kieran felt it too, but deeper than others, like a string inside him had been pulled.
"Of course," Mr Alden added with a half smile, "We still don't fully understand how it works, even now. Why people now can see it or shape it. Why it responds differently depending on the person."
Roy sat still beside him, hands folded, expression unreadable. Not fascinated. Not bored.
Kieran's fingers curled slightly around his pencil.
There was something about the word 'seed' that stuck with him.
A seed from somewhere else. Something ancient and watching. Something that chose to connect with everything living.
He didn't raise his hand. He didn't ask questions and didn't want to stand out. But for the first time in a long time, he had a desire to ask a question.
He kept his thoughts to himself.