ã€ŠAnno Magicaeã€‹


 Prologue

    The House began its life as a small wooden structure on the coast of what would eventually become known as the New World. Its first thoughts remain a mystery, but its first memories were of a thick fog rolling from the Ocean, a young girl laughing and playing in the comfort of its shade, hunters dressing a kill in its front yard, and boys stalking each other through the village. At night there was the singing and dancing of the People. And that brought a foreign feeling to the House.

    Joy.

    Its first residents practiced a limited form of magic that seeped into the walls and the grounds. Perhaps that is what gave it its first thoughts and memories and knowledge. Or maybe it was the life that surrounded it: the People and the fish and deer and streams and wind. Each of them provided some limited amount of energy that bled into the House and increased its consciousness.

    The House was there as the People farmed the land and hunted the animals. It was there through the joy and the happiness, the grief and the suffering. It was there as the People lived their lives, sang their songs, loved their families, mourned their dead, and built their communities. And it was there when the Others strode in across the Ocean on massive vessels to greet the People.

    It watched the conflict and violence that blanketed the People and drove them from the land. And when the village was destroyed and the People fled the massacres and sickness brought about by the Others, the House was left empty. It sat in a small, abandoned village that lacked singing and dancing.

    So it decided to move.

    It went North, following the migration of the People, and settled in a small, wooded valley. Once again it drank deep of the energy that surrounded it. The fish and deer and soil provided succor to the House. The People still sang songs and performed rituals, although the songs and rituals had different shapes. The songs were less than before and more akin to those sung by the Others from across the Ocean. But the House still remained content because it had the People.

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    It slowly grew in power over the years, and provided safety and security to the People until they were once more driven from the area. The House saw the People, penned in on all sides by the Others from across the Ocean, refuse to take up arms against their enemies. It saw as the People were gathered together and murdered, all while singing the songs taught to them by the Others from across the Ocean.

    The House, shocked by the slaughter, once again chose to move.

    This time a faint whisper of power drove it West until it found the River. It traveled South along the flowing waters, gathering remnants of energy from its current, seeking the tattered vestige of power that had been lost and scattered long before the House had gained its first memories. It finally settled down by two large Rivers and drank deeply of the surrounding area, watching as new People ventured away to the West.

    Violence once again stalked the House, this time in the form of conflict between the Others from across the Ocean. Word filtered through the Others that war had broken out, that lived were culled in a massive struggle that pitted families against one another.

    So it decided to move.

    It didn¡¯t stay in any one place for long. It became a small trading post, then a cottage, then a schoolhouse out on the frontier. It traveled West, drinking in the rowdiness and chaos of settlers trying to make a new life for themselves. It ventured North, sheltering hunters as they traipsed across snow-ridden terrain. It was a small shack in the California wilds, housing people dreaming of gold and wealth. It was a single-family home in West Virginia, housing men who carved into the land. It was the residence of a fisherman in Main, a merchant in the Carolinas, an orphanage in Ohio. It provided safety and security for a bandit out in the desert and was a gathering house of the faithful out in the wilds. It settled in hundreds of different places and housed hundreds of different people.

    And then it decided to go home.

    Home was the coast where it had its first memories, where it could still hear echoes of the dancing and the singing and the young girl playing in the shade. Home was where the House had first come into being, where it had watched the growth of the People. Home was a small island now called Manhattan by the Others who had settled there.

    Much had changed since the House had first left the island. The small village that once was had grown into a giant city. The Others from across the Ocean swelled the streets.

    The House nestled itself amongst the newly constructed buildings and lost itself to the city. It shaped its outer shell to better blend in with the surrounding architecture, all the while it dug its roots deep into the city to better survive.

    There it sat for years, feasting on the limited energy that soaked the land. The energy was smaller now. More diluted and lacking. The fish and streams and waters were polluted. And the People...something was wrong with them.

    When once the residents of the island had burst with energy and willingly bled it into the surrounding lands, now they kept what little they had close at hand. The rituals that the House had once enjoyed had changed, but there were still prayers. And the People still worked, and lived, and spent their energy. All of that slowly filtered to the House.

 Chapter 1 - The Storm pt. 1

    Excerpt from The Storm by Robert Ferro

    The practice of naming meteorological systems has a long and storied history that dates back centuries to the earliest sailors who used saints¡¯ names to refer to, document, and discuss the impact of significant weather phenomena.

    But our purpose isn¡¯t to dive deeply into that history.

    What you, the reader, needs to know is that the names we give to storms are ways to help people warn others about the potential impact of large weather systems. Naming a storm makes it easier to communicate about them, both in real time and in historical records. For instance, the Padre Ruiz hurricane struck the island of Dominica in 1934, reportedly killing 230 people. The San Felipe Segundo hurricane of 1928 claimed the lives of over 2,500 people in the United States, mainly in Florida and around Lake Okeechobee. Hurricane Katrina will forever be known as when the levees of New Orleans failed, and when Kanye West said that President Bush doesn¡¯t care about black people.

    Instead of saying, ¡®a category 5 Atlantic hurricane with wind speeds as high as 165 mph threatens to make landfall in the Bahamas, Florida, and Louisiana,¡¯ you can simply say ¡®Hurricane Andrew is coming, and he¡¯s a dick.¡¯

    What allows meteorologists and sailors the opportunity to name storms is that most large weather phenomena form over extended periods of time. They can be tracked with tools and satellite imagery. Scientists can predict their general landfall areas and issue warnings and alarms. Mayors and Governors and Presidents can order evacuations. We know when a big storm is coming and we can take measures to diminish the impact on our daily lives.

    But the weather system that struck globally in the early days of 2025 was different. It gave no warnings, sounded no alarms, appeared on no instruments, and was tracked by no scientists.

    Only after surveying the wreckage, counting the lives lost, and estimating the economic damage did humanity give a name to the weather phenomena.

    In the Spanish-speaking world, it was called La Tormenta. In the Middle East, it was almost exclusively referred to as Aleasifa. In Indonesia, it was named Badain, and in Japan, Arashi.

    Each language bestowed its own name, each culture told their own stories about it. Yet all the names can be translated to the same thing: The Storm.

    Because how else could you refer to a weather system that struck every nation in the world simultaneously, caused untold loss of life, created global economic devastation, and changed human society in unimaginable ways we still struggle with defining today?

    There are days in history which stick in the mind of everyone who experiences them. The JFK assassination, 9/11, the day the Cubs won the 2016 World Series and exercised the Curse of the Billy Goat.

    Everyone remembers where they were the day The Storm hit. In telling their stories, some try to downplay their experiences, offering sparse details and glossing over the larger events in hopes that they can forget what occurred. Others embellish their stories, gradually transforming their accounts slowly over time until their version of events barely resembles what actually happened.

    Some narrate their experiences truthfully, simply stating the facts as they lived them, believing the extraordinary events of the day need no embellishment. Others remain silent, haunted by the psychological trauma that lingers years after the fact.

    And then, of course, there are those rare events that we might never fully understand; either because no one was there to witness them, or no one survived to tell the tale. In those cases, we can only make educated guesses about what happened, never truly knowing what occurred there.

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    Like so many others, I have my own story to tell about what happened on the day of The Storm.

    I was one of the fortunate few, spared the horrific experiences later detailed in news reports and courtroom proceedings. Nobody was racing to interview me about what I experienced, nobody was hoping to learn what I saw.

    It started when I was driving home from my parent¡¯s house, speeding along the freeway in the early morning hours, when the sky turned pitch black.

    Rain poured down on the highway, slowing traffic and cutting visibility in half. Every car around me slowed to a crawl as we inched forward, nervous about the sudden deluge we found ourselves in. My windshield wipers were on full blast, but it made almost no difference against the torrent soaking my car. Like most of drivers on the freeway, I decided to pull off to the side of the road and wait for the storm to die down. I pulled off to the gravely shoulder of the freeway, turned up the radio to pass the time, and waited.

    Then, a flash of lightning lit up the sky for miles in every direction ¨C a brilliant blue-grey that seemed to capture a snapshot in time. Through my windshield, with the wipers furiously swiping away the raindrops, I saw the figure in the sky.

    I only caught its outline, and only for a brief moment. But what I saw will forever be etched into my memory. It was several miles tall, silhouetted against the sky like some great eldritch god. I couldn¡¯t tell what creature it was, only that it was massive, terrifying, and completely alien to anything I had ever seen before. Enormous tendrils stretched from its body for miles in every direction, glowing yellow eyes pierced the darkness, seeming to stare into my very soul. To this day, if I close my eyes, the imagery of the creature can be seen as clear as day.

    I was one of the lucky ones on the highway in that I had already pulled off to the side and had parked. Despite the torrential rain, there were still cars pushing forward heroically ¨C or perhaps foolishly. And as soon as the lightning flashed and the creature was unveiled, it set off panic in those cars. A few hydroplaned, a few stopped in the middle of the highway, and a few had the presence of mind to sneak off to the shoulder and park their car.

    Feeling a mixture of awe and curiosity, I opened my door and stepped outside. The rain that was pinging off my car¡¯s windshield acts as a opaque shield, blocking my view, disrupting my sight of the creature in the sky. Something deep inside compelled me to try and get a better look at whatever it was I had seen in The Storm.

    Others on the freeway had the same idea. Up and down the side of the road, people left their cars and stood in the pouring rain, unable to believe what they had seen and desperate to catch one last glimpse of the impossibility that had been laid out in front of them. Even the few drivers who had continued to brave the roads eventually dragged themselves out of their cars, hoping to catch sight of the apparition that had appeared in The Storm.

    Once more, a flash of lightning lit up the sky. And once more, I saw it.

    To me, it looked like an elephant striding through the clouds, its thick legs powering it forward, its trunk split into four horrible tendrils that flapped wildly in the wind.

    All sound in the world seemed to vanish after the singular flash of light revealed the massive creature for a split second. It was as if the entire world had fallen silent, like all the sound was sucked out of the air so that those of us on the freeway could fully absorb the awe-inspiring sight. Moments later, sound rushed back with a thunderous crack that I felt deep in my chest.

    Cars screeched to a halt, spun off the road, and crashed into each other. Those of us who had pulled over to the side of the highway had our eyes fixed on the sky when we saw the creature. The same was true for those who had been driving. Some drivers jerked their hands in fear, twisting their car steering wheels and causing their cars to hydroplane along the freeway. Crashes piled up and cars slammed into guardrails. Yet none of that caught my attention. All my focus remained skyward to the creature that was no longer visible.

    Everyone saw something different.

    ¡°I think it¡¯s swimming this way,¡± said the man closest to me. His entire family had piled out of their minivan to stare up at the sky in shock and horror. When he spoke, his wife looked at him incredulously.

    ¡°Swimming? What are you talking about?¡± I later asked her what she had seen, and she claimed that it was a massive pillar of darkness that stretched upwards to the heavens.

    Her oldest daughter insisted that she hadn¡¯t seen a creature at all. All she saw was a hazy, darkened form that terrified her. She claimed that she could feel it staring at her, its gaze piercing her very soul. When I later asked her to explain and expand on her feelings, she simply shook her head and shut down, as if horrified at the very idea that some unknown entity could learn everything about her with a single look.

    Their youngest child, an eight-year-old boy, said he saw glowing eyes in the darkness, shifting through various hues. When he talked about it, he clung to his father, seeming to never want to let go of his hand.

    As the rain slowed to a drizzle and the sky brightened, revealing nothing in the sky like what we had all seen, everyone on the freeway seemed to snap back to reality. People rushed to help pull victims from wrecked cars, administer first aid, and clear the road. I, meanwhile, ran among the groups, desperately collecting stories of what happened and asking people what they had seen.

    What few were willing to share their experiences echoed what the family next to me said: they all described different things they had seen in the sky.

    Everyone who got caught in The Storm on the highway and left their cars to witness the being in the sky saw something unique and personal to themselves. No two stories were the same. Some, like me, saw a weird eldritch entity that defied all comprehension, but their description of the creature differed from my own. Some people saw beams of light that stretched from a single point. Some saw what they described as feelings. No two descriptions were the same. The only thing that was similar was the feeling of unease that the being had left in each of us.

    No matter what we all saw, no matter what we took from the experience, none of us on that freeway will forget where we were when The Storm came.

 Chapter 2 - The Storm pt. 2

    <u>Chester, England</u>

    Excerpt from The Day the Rain Fell: an oral history of The Storm by Natasha Silvio and Francisco de Manion.

    Ted and Loretta are a British couple from Chester, England, close to the Wales/England border. We¡¯re sitting in a pub in Chester, drinking beer and having lunch, as they tell the story of how they were caught out in The Storm and what happened.

    Ted: Blimey, that was some storm, wasn¡¯t it? Never seen anything like it. Probably never will again.

    Loretta: Absolutely bonkers. We were up in Chester when it happened. For you lot (she points to the two interviewers) that¡¯s up near Wales.

    Ted: Babe, we¡¯re in Chester right now. They¡¯re in Chester. They¡¯re interviewing us in Chester. They know where Chester is.

    Loretta: Well, I¡¯m just trying to help. There might be a lot of Americans listening to this. They¡¯re not going to know where we¡¯re on about.

    Ted: (nods his head as if conceding the point.) Every American we talk to when we go on holiday always asks the same question when we tell them we¡¯re from England: where in London are you from?¡±

    Loretta: (laughing) The country¡¯s more than just London.

    So, about The Storm. You guys were in Chester. Do you remember how it started?

    Ted: We were heading down to the pub to get a nice pie. It was a little after lunch, but we hadn¡¯t eaten yet, so I was craving a pie. We get to the pub, and it starts pelting down.

    Loretta: There¡¯s this awning there at the pub. It started once we got there, and we stayed outside because it was truly bizarre. Just parked by the awning, watching the rain. One moment it¡¯s nothing but clear skies, the weather report telling us it¡¯s gonna be nice and sunny, and the next everything is falling down on our heads.

    Ted: Yea, so we¡¯re standing outside, ready to go into the pub, when I smell it. It was strange, I remember thinking.

    Loretta: (pokes Ted in the side and gives him a beaming smile.) Tell them what it smelled like for you.

    Ted: I was just about to babe. It¡­it smelled like Chinese food.

    Loretta: Wow, you¡¯re so bad at telling a story.

    Ted: When I first asked her out, I took us to a Chinese food restaurant out in London. It was this small hole-in-the-wall place. Don¡¯t think most of them spoke English, so when we got there they seated us at this table in the back and brought out a menu with pictures and the like, and I just pointed to a couple dishes.

    Loretta: For Americans, you have to know that our Chinese food is different. We¡¯ve got chips, we¡¯ve got curry sauce that comes on everything. There¡¯s this one place that opened up near us that even does a nice chip butty.

    Ted: Yea, but this tiny shop we went in didn¡¯t have anything like that. It only had a few dishes we could order. I remember getting a chicken dish, not even knowing what I ordered. And it¡¯s our first date and Loretta and I just talked. I think we closed the place down.

    Loretta: Tell them about The Storm.

    Ted: So, we¡¯re at the pub and the rain¡¯s coming down and I sniff and it smells exactly like that Chinese place all those years ago. Like, exactly. We¡¯re outside the pub, and I just go quiet because I¡¯ve been transported back to that hole-in-the-wall Chinese shop where I first fell in love. I remember us sitting at this table in the back, next to the kitchen. Whenever one of the servers would walk by, the door would swing open and you¡¯d hear all the clamor coming from back there. I didn¡¯t think much of it at the time because I was just so focused on Loretta and listening to what she was saying. But, The Storm brought it all back to my mind. Smelling the rain, I can remember the taste of my meal. She ordered a shrimp thing. I had my chicken. We¡¯re out at the pub, miles from London, ages from our first date, staring at the rain, and it¡¯s like I could remember the entire evening as if it happened yesterday.

    Loretta: (smiles as she listens to Ted¡¯s tale.) When he told me that, I¡­I melted.

    What did it smell like to you?

    Loretta: Yorkshire pudding.

    Ted: (laughs) Mine was our first date, hers is Yorkshire pudding.

    Loretta: No. It was what my nan used to make at Christmas. It brought back memories of when we¡¯d drive out to her house in the country ¨C the slightly peeling linoleum floor tiles, the frayed carpet, those silly paper hats she¡¯d make us all wear around the dinner table. She loved it.

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    Ted: It wasn¡¯t just us affected by The Storm. Couple moments later, the whole pub is outside because they smelled the rain; they smelled what we smelled.

    Loretta: But¡­you know, different.

    How different?

    Loretta: Everyone smelled something different. I had a chat with Sam who told me it smelled like an old car. His dad had this old green Hillman Hunter. On the weekends when he was a kid they¡¯d pack a thermos of tea, some sarnies, and the whole family would drive out to the country for a picnic. When it rained or was too nippy, they¡¯d sit in the car and eat their sarnies and cat.

    Ted: Max.

    Loretta: Yea, Max.

    What happened with Max?

    Ted: Well, we¡¯re all outside in the rain, everyone is lost in their own memories. I remember looking over, and Max is just breaking down crying.

    Loretta: Max is this kid in town. Early twenties. His dad just passed, and I thought he was over it. But the rain reminded him of the woods. They¡¯d go out birding in the spring. Max never really liked it. Thought it was boring or something. But his dad loved birding. He¡¯d go out with his binoculars and everything. He had a notebook that he¡¯d jot down which birds he¡¯d seen. They¡¯d go walking some trails out in the countryside, Max dutifully shuffling along beside his father. And they¡¯d stop and his dad would look through the binoculars and say something like ¡°oh, a red-crested nuthatch¡± or something like that.

    Ted: He didn¡¯t tell us what memory popped up when he smelled the rain, but he did say that it was about his father. And when the rain stopped and we all went inside, wondering what just happened, he started telling stories about how he used to go birding with his dad.

    Loretta: It was only later when we heard about The Storm and twigged that¡¯s what happened to us. I didn¡¯t know what exactly it was. Maybe it was our minds playing tricks on us or something. What do you think?

    Ted: I don¡¯t know. I prefer to think it was magical. Moments like that where we connect deeply with our past, they don¡¯t come around too often. Maybe it¡¯s the universe¡¯s way of reminding us what is truly important. Maybe those memories are always with us, waiting to be awakened by something as simple as a scent in the air.

    Loretta: (takes a moment to look at Ted) What the hell are you on about?

    <u>Appalachian Trail</u>

    Alan was a northbounder.

    That was the title given to hikers who attempted to hike the entirety of the Appalachian Trail from Springer Mountain, Georgia to Mount Katahdin, Maine.

    When he¡¯d first set off on his grand hike, each night saw him broken and exhausted from the day¡¯s activities. He¡¯d cook his food, crawl into his tent, and try to sleep away all the pain and soreness that wracked his body. That was the price of having lived a sedentary life for the previous four years. He¡¯d spent his days sitting in a cubicle, working on a computer, doing data analysis for the city of Macon, Georgia. Weekends were filled with the occasional date or hanging out with friends.

    Alan had no qualms with that kind of life: socializing with friends, finding a spouse, watching Netflix, reading books, or finding other ways to entertain himself. It was the same kind of life that all his parents, friends, and coworkers lived.

    But something inside him yearned for more. Every relationship he found himself in seemed stilted because he wanted something better. Every time he started dating, an overwhelming fear of being trapped overcame him. He felt like his life was on guide rails that would lead him twenty years down the line to something he never wanted.

    So, he left it all behind. He sold most of his possessions, bought a lightweight tent, a pack, and some hiking boots, and set off to hike the Appalachian Trail.

    The first few weeks were a blur of challenges. His legs, unused to such a relentless activity, screamed in protest with every step. Blisters formed on his feet, and his shoulders ached from the weight of his pack. Every night, he¡¯d huddle in his tent, the sounds of the forest a stark contrast to the hum of the city he¡¯d grown up in.

    Alan¡¯s transformation wasn¡¯t immediate. Each day was a test of resolve, pushing him to his physical and mental limits. Yet, with each passing mile, with each night spent under a canopy of stars, he felt himself change. His body began to adapt. His muscles strengthened, blisters turned to calluses, and those few extra pounds he¡¯d packed on had slipped off him. The exhaustion that once overwhelmed him at night began to feel like a badge of honor; a testament to his perseverance.

    With every state line he crossed, Alan felt a greater sense of accomplishment than any work promotion or social achievement. The simplicity of travel ¨C the rhythm of walking, the clarity of purpose, the direct connection he felt with everything around him ¨C brought with it a profound sense of peace. He yearned to experience life in its rawest, most unfiltered form. And he got it through travel.

    Those few hikers he met along the way each had their own stories to tell. Some, like him, were seeking something they couldn¡¯t quite define. Others were hiking for the health benefits, or for the story, or for the adventure. He shared meals, campfires, and stories with the hikers, forming a temporary community that held a deeper bond than any he had formed in his past life.

    And then The Storm hit.

    As the first few raindrops began to fall, Alan ran to an old, dilapidated cabin set back from the trail that he managed to spot. It was abandoned and barely looked habitable, but it was better than nothing. He rushed inside and slammed the door shut just as The Storm reached a crescendo.

    Lightning flashed, casting eerie shadows through the cabin¡¯s dilapidated walls. Rain poured in through gaps in the roof, offering Alan little shelter from The Storm outside. He huddled in a corner, trying to make himself small against the onslaught of wind and rain.¡¯

    As he curled in the corner, a sharp pain twisted in his stomach. It crept up through his throat, and his mouth started watering as if he¡¯d eaten something sour. He tried to push his body up, but a wave of vertigo struck, forcing him to press his head to the floor to stop the room from spinning.

    He didn¡¯t want to puke inside the cabin, knowing The Storm would last well into the night and not wanting to share the cramped space with a pile of his own vomit. Forcing himself upright, he sprinted for the door, hoping to get outside before he puked.

    He opened the door and was just about to step out when a powerful gust of wind tore through, slamming the door shut and knocking him back. He tried to force the door open again, only managing to open a small crack that he tried to squeeze through. The wind roared again, pushing Alan back into the cabin and slamming the door closed.

    The fury of The Storm turned into a roar; the wind sounded like it was chanting a language he couldn¡¯t understand but could feel deep in his bones. His mind was filled with fleeting images and sensations; flashes of memories that weren¡¯t his own.

    Blood. The smell and taste of it in the air. It was on his tongue. A waterfall. Mud squished under his feet as he walked barefoot through a forest, the calluses on his feet a better protection than any shoe could afford. Climbing a mountain while wearing light linen pants and rags as a shirt, not feeling the wind ripping at his skin.

    The Storm continued and Alan started to understand he¡¯d be unable to leave the cabin. He crawled to the far corner, hoping to keep his vomit contained there. When he finally began to puke, it wasn¡¯t the expected bile that forced its way out of his mouth.

    Strange sounds erupted from his throat. They sounded like discordant notes that scratched at his ears, the fragment of songs he¡¯d heard long ago, and snippets of barely remembered conversations. His mother recounting her day, his friends joking about his fashion sense, his first crush dropping hints he only understood later.

    The Storm outside intensified, and with every crash of thunder, Alan vomited. Each time he did, more and more bizarre things erupted from him. Glowing symbols and runes spilled from his mouth, danced in the air, and dissipated into mist. Vomit that splashed to the floor morphed into butterflies that sang like birds. They fluttered through the cabin before vanishing in puffs of multi-colored smoke.

    Finally, when Alan felt like he¡¯d purged his entire being onto the cabin floor, his body retched one last time. Blackness filled his mouth, absorbing every bit of light that filtered through the dilapidated cabin walls until the entire cabin was pitch black. Yet somehow, Alan could still see. The darkness coalesced into a figure that stood hunched in the middle of the cabin, and something blared in Alan¡¯s mind. The only word that was discernible was: dangerous.

    Alan stared at the figure, his heart pounding. And outside, The Storm continued to rage.

    Over the next week, forest rangers scoured the Appalachian Trail, seeking hikers who might have been harmed by The Storm. They found Alan¡¯s tent and his pack in the corner of an old, dilapidated cabin set off the main trail.

    But there was no sign of Alan himself.

 Chapter 3 - The Storm pt. 3

    <u>Tokyo, Japan</u>

    Excerpt from The Day the Rain Fell: an oral history of The Storm by Natasha Silvio and Francisco de Manion

    Akio is a young man attending Tokyogeidai, one of the most prestigious arts universities in Japan. We catch up with him on his lunch break where he leads us out to a picnic table and starts in on prepackaged sandwiches and an iced tea that he bought from a FamilyMart. About twenty feet from the picnic table stands a bronze statue of a dancer, a red ribbon tied around her right wrist.

    I¡¯ve wanted to be an artist since I was a little kid. Most kids don¡¯t really know what they want to be when they grow up, or if they do it¡¯s always superhero or wizard or something from a manga. Not me.

    My mother took me to the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum when I was young. I can still remember the entire day. We wandered among the exhibits, listened in on tour groups, took in the paintings, and as we left the museum we walked through the gift shop there. She bought me my very first art book. I still have it on my desk in my dorm room. It¡¯s tattered and worn, and I spilled some stuff on it over the years, but it¡¯s still my most prized possession.

    When I got to high school, I was accepted into the Tokyo Senior High School of Fine Arts. That¡¯s where I met Kamiko. I don¡¯t know if her parents knew what they were doing when they named her.

    (In Japanese, Kamiko means Little Goddess)

    She was a prodigy; the kind that puts other prodigies to shame. As a kid, her parents enrolled her in a music class. Within two years she¡¯d mastered the violin. There were rumors that conductors and composers would visit the school, begging to teach her, giddy about what she could accomplish.

    Then, her parents put her in ballet. One year in and everyone was talking about when, not if, she¡¯d become the prima ballerina of the Tokyo Ballet. By the time she was ready to graduate high school, art had become her new obsession. She started with the traditional Japanese art we¡¯re all taught in school, then she moved to watercolors, and finally oil paints. She had this pattern ¨C master something with ease to the point where her ability far outstrips that which everyone else around her could do, then move on to the next challenge.

    There was¡­a lot of jealousy that surrounded her. When she quit the violin, I think a lot of the music students let out a sigh of relief. They would no longer be compared to her. Same thing when she left the ballet. The other dancers wouldn¡¯t be forced to look like uncoordinated children on their first day of class while dancing on the same stage as her. I kind of understood the feeling. She started focusing on art and you¡¯d see her creations and then look at your own and naturally compare the two. Her skill was enough to make you want to snap your paintbrush in half.

    Did she brag about her skill? Did she ever make people feel like they¡¯d never be good enough?

    No. Nothing like that. The opposite really. She had this way of asking you questions about your work. I remember one day in class, she came over to where I was painting and started asking why I was choosing certain colors, what was the meaning behind the composition. At first, I was closed off. I thought she was mocking me or something. I think that¡¯s how everyone felt. ¡®Is she poking fun? Is she looking down on my work?¡¯

    But after a while, I started getting really invested in the conversation. She made me¡­confront my art. Made me think about how I was painting and how I was creating in a way that I¡¯d never done before. By the end of the conversation, I felt energized, like she¡¯d unveiled something for me. It turned into, without a doubt, the best painting I¡¯d ever done. And it was all due to that conversation.

    (There¡¯s a pause as Akio tries to find the words to describe what happened next)

    There was something at the end though. It was like¡­she was disappointed. It was just this flash in her eyes, like she was sad I couldn¡¯t see art in the same way that she did. Or maybe I¡¯m just imagining it.

    You were with her in Tokyo on the day of The Storm?

    Yea. End of January is when you do the entrance exams for TUA. (Tokyo University of the Arts) It takes place over a couple days. There are two ways people get in: recommendations or the general exam. The general exam was my route. They give you a subject and a time limit with which to paint. Kamiko, from what I heard, was offered the recommendation route where she¡¯d meet with a bunch of the professors and show her portfolio and walk them through why she painted what she painted. But instead of doing that, she chose to sit for the  general exam with the rest of us.

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    It was the end of the day. There were a few of us still around campus, sitting and talking about all sorts of things, trying to figure out what to do next. Some of us were smoking, some were trying to organize a night out at a restaurant. Kamiko didn¡¯t really talk a lot, but I think she enjoyed being around the conversation.

    The rain started coming down and we all retreated to this awning to stay dry. This girl, Haru, was smoking under the awning and I remember her hanging her hand out to let the rain pass through her fingers. That¡¯s when we knew something was different. She jerked her hand back in surprise and¡­her hand left a trail in the rain. Like an echo of it. Within moments the rain washed away the echo, but all of us sitting under the awning had seen it.

    All of us were too stunned to completely understand what had just happened. Haru puts her hand out in the rain, an echo is created that momentarily hangs in the air. It¡¯s unnatural and we were all stunned silent. Everyone except Kamiko. I heard her gasp next to me before she started barking out orders.

    It was so unlike her. She was always so quiet and reserved in class. Almost detached. But she demanded we all get our phones out and then she led us into the rain and organized us into a wide circle. She had this red ribbon in her bag that she tied around her right wrist, and then she walked into the middle of the circle, told us to start recording, and waited until the rain had washed away all her echoes.

    And then she danced.

    I can¡¯t really describe it. It¡¯s better if you just watch.

    (He hands his phone over, opened to the video he had taken the day of The Storm. The clip begins with Kamiko in the middle of a wide circle of students, all with their phones pointed at her recording. The soft lighting from the campus light poles mixes with the rain to cast an almost dreamlike haze over her. The red ribbon tied around her wrist flutters in the breeze as she holds herself perfectly still. When she starts dancing, her body seems to transcend the physical, transforming every movement into a stroke of paint on the surrounding canvas. She leaps into the air, pirouettes and performs a pas de bourree. Her body sings a melody, translated into a physical medium. Every movement of the dance is captured in the rain which creates echoes that hover in the air alongside her. The rain ripples with her motion, creating a living oil painting. The dance lasts for two minutes, and as Kamiko comes to a stop, her earliest movements have already been washed away by the rain.)

    She titled it ¡°Incomplete¡±

    How did it make you feel?

    (Akio struggles with the answer, as if worried that whatever he says will somehow take away from the beauty of the performance)

    Like I said, there was always jealousy surrounding her. But after watching her dance that day¡­we all understood.

    Whenever Kamiko played the violin, or danced in the ballet, or painted a picture, we all saw perfection that was far beyond what any of us were capable of. We¡¯d look at what she created and understand the size of the gap between her skill and our own. But to Kamiko, all of her successes tasted of ash. Everything she created felt incomplete to her.

    In music, she was desperately trying to convey the full symphony she heard in her mind. But whenever she played, there were missing notes ¨C silent, elusive tones ¨C that rendered what she created janky and broken. Every song she performed was only a half-formed echo of what it could be.

    When she danced, despite the genius evident in her movements, it was as if she were struggling against some unseen force. This invisible barrier imposed limitations that kept her from moving the way she needed to, preventing her from bringing out the full beauty of the performance.

    When she painted, she was unfulfilled. The colors she needed to fully express her art weren¡¯t there. Every brush stroke she made felt like a compromise. Every completed masterpiece was like a photocopy of a photocopy of the image in her mind, each one deteriorating with reproduction until eventually it becomes a blob that no longer resembles the original.

    Watching her create that masterpiece in the rain, we all finally understood that there had been something missing in her act of creation. Every success she had was bittersweet. Everyone who saw her praised her genius, but none of us had been capable of understanding that she wasn¡¯t proud of any of her creations. I mean, how could she be? Everything she made was incomplete.

    Art is about capturing how you see the world. Whether it¡¯s a performance or a painting or¡­whatever, it¡¯s about showing the world your perspective. Kamiko couldn¡¯t do that. She couldn¡¯t explain to others how she saw the world because there were always missing colors or silent musical notes. There were always limitations placed on her, and she could never break free. It must have been exceedingly frustrating.

    I still can¡¯t understand how she was able to pack all of that into her creation of ¡°Incomplete.¡±

    Did she use ¡°Incomplete¡± as her portfolio submission for TUA?

    No. Well, yes but no. Someone submitted it. A bunch of us knew exactly what she had created. We¡­sometimes you see something that is so astounding, so awe inspiring, that you¡¯re happy just to have witnessed it. None of us could have matched what she did in the rain that day, but instead of jealousy that we might have all normally felt, it was replaced by awe.

    It''s hard not to be jealous when everything she creates is perfect. But I think after watching her performance in the rain, after watching her create her art, you can¡¯t feel jealous. You understand her a little more, understand the troubles she¡¯s faced with. And also, I think you¡¯re happy just to have seen it.

    A bunch of us posted it on Instagram and group chats and wherever else. It was like ¡®oh man, look at Kamiko and what she made.¡¯ We wanted people to see it. We wanted everyone to understand her a little more. The TUA people got hold of it immediately and offered her a scholarship.

    (He pauses again, seemingly lost in the memory of her dance.)

    When she finished, she smiled. It wasn¡¯t¡­I want to say it wasn¡¯t a happy smile. Maybe it was. I don¡¯t know. It was more the smile of¡­I¡¯m saying it wrong. It was like she had finally found what was missing in her art. She had come to some kind of realization or something.

    How are the people in the class towards her lately? Are they still jealous of her talent? Do they still feel less than when they compare their artwork to hers?

    (Akio looks visibly confused about the question)

    She¡¯s not in class with us. TUA offered her a full scholarship but, nobody¡¯s seen her. We don¡¯t know where she went.

    As far as whether people are jealous or not, I don¡¯t think so. She made something that is so far beyond perfect that I don¡¯t think you can feel jealousy towards it.

    (Akio looks at the sculpture of Kamiko near the picnic table, the red ribbon flapping in the breeze)

    They got all our videos from that day. I heard a rumor that TUA is going to try and stitch them together to create some 3D form of her dance or something. That might be good. I think some of the beauty is lost when you see it in video form.

 Chapter 4 - The Storm pt. 4

    <u>Australian Outback</u>

    Excerpt from Wrath of the Heavens: The Dichotomy of The Storm by Elder Maxwell Forrester

    In the vast emptiness of the Australian Outback, a tempest raged with divine fury, witnessed by no mortal eyes. Pillars of lightning struck relentlessly, each bolt a celestial hammer smashing into the sands. Rather than forming the usual small piles of silicon dioxide that are created when lightning mixes with sand, these monumental strikes wrought something miraculous.

    Massive towers of glass ascended from the desert floor. Each lightning strike birthed another architectural marvel, each column of lightning a divine architect crafting a holy edifice.

    The heavens flickered with continuous flashes, each a moment of divine creation. Over the course of twenty-two minutes, the once barren landscape was transformed into a shimmering city of glass. Hundreds of thousands of lightning strikes converged to sculpt a celestial metropolis, a beacon to the faithful.

    As The Storm subsided, an entire city of glass stood tall amidst the red sands of the Outback. The intricate and ethereal structures glistened under the sunlight, casting rainbow reflections across the desert. This miraculous city was destined to remain unnoticed for the next month, hidden in a remote section of the Australian Outback while the rest of the world grappled with the aftermath of The Storm.

    While cities and towns across the continent assessed the damage, counted the losses, and began the arduous process of rebuilding, the glass city of the Outback stood untouched. The world remained unaware of its holy creation, a testament to the divine¡¯s unpredictable artistry, lying in wait for the faithful to stream into its borders. This shimmering beauty awaited an unsuspecting traveler or an adventurous pilgrim to discover its sacred splendor, heralding the dawn of a new faith.

    <u>Avore Bamba, Gabon</u>

    Loic was truly horrible at football.

    That wasn¡¯t Tarik¡¯s opinion, it was pure fact. He was sure all the other kids would agree with him if the topic were ever brought up. That was the only comforting thought in Tarik¡¯s head as he trudged the couple hundred meters from the pitch over to where the ball had rolled.

    Loic was the biggest and fastest boy in town. His speed let him catch up to anybody on the pitch, and his physicality pressured the younger kids into always making mistakes and allowed him to snatch the ball back for his team. But it was his strength that was the problem. He couldn¡¯t kick the ball accurately to save his life, always trying to smash it as hard as he could instead of adding a little finesse to his touch.

    Tarik had tried to convince the older boy to switch to centre back. It would have been a natural fit for the larger kid. But Loic had brushed him aside easily, saying he was going to play forward or nothing.

    Tarik was the youngest and smallest of the local boys. And when everyone was out on the pitch, there was no spot for him. They had all convinced him to be the team manager, to come up with the strategies, to run the practice. But that was only because he was small and young and easily manipulated into standing aside and not threatening the spots of any of the other players on the team.

    All the other boys had told Tarik that the manager was the most important person on the pitch. Klopp, Ferguson, Guardiola. All those were big and important names in the world of football. It was because the manager was so important that he was the only one on the touchline who was allowed to wear a suit and tie. The other boys had all raided their fathers¡¯ closets and come up with a mismatched ensemble that they had claimed made Tarik look like a true manager. And when all the fathers, wondering why they were suddenly missing shirts and ties, came down to the pitch, they all laughed and took pictures of Tarik in his ill-fitting clothes and told him he looked important.

    What could he do after that?

    He¡¯d wear his oversized suit and tie, stand on the sidelines shouting encouragements and instructions to the other boys, and try desperately to get them to play in specific formations. And whenever he complained that he wanted to play football and not just pace the sidelines managing the team, the other kids ¨C and sometimes even their fathers ¨C would all say that the manager was important and vital and one of the most well-respected people on the team.

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    But that didn¡¯t mean anything to Loic. Whenever he had the ball and tried for a goal and inevitably kicked it too hard and inaccurately and the ball soared through the air and rolled away from the pitch, Tarik was always the one pushed to go and retrieve it.

    Today was an even longer walk than normal for Tarik. Loic had really put all his growing power into the shot and the ball had rolled far into the overgrown grass by the field, forcing Tarik to spend time looking for it. With the shouts of the other boys ringing in his ears, he eventually found the ball nestled next to a chunk of grass.

    Rain began to fall in a gentle drizzle, the kind that hardly bothered Tarik. He knew the game wouldn¡¯t be called off for something as small as a few raindrops. He stared up at the sky, trying to determine if the slight misting was a precursor to a much larger storm, when the ground gave way beneath him. Tarik startled out a cry and plunged into the earth, swallowed by a massive sinkhole.

    Tarik¡¯s panicked screams drew all the other boys who came running. When they saw the massive sinkhole that had swallowed their friend it was Loic that acted first. He yelled for all the other kids to stay there before running off to find an adult.

    The closest building to the pitch was the local concrete factory and Loic quickly returned in a jeep driven by the factory foreman with several adults all crammed in the backseat of the small beat-up vehicle. Minutes after the ground had opened and swallowed Tarik, the place was swarmed with adults who were worried they couldn¡¯t help the boy, already thinking through what they could say to console his family, feeling horrible for the unbidden thought that crept into their minds of ¡®at least it wasn¡¯t my son.¡¯

    Tarik¡¯s cries were lost in the darkness. He landed with a splash in a cavern far below the surface, the chill of the underground river shocking him into silence. For a moment, he lay there stunned and disoriented. Then he spotted the small tunnel he had fallen through.

    Driven by a mixture of fear and determination, Tarik climbed. His hands were scratched raw by the dirt and rocks and roots as he pulled himself upwards inch by inch. The climb was endless and all his attempts to lift himself seemed thwarted by the weight of his soggy suit dragging him back down.

    Tarik heard shouts and saw flashes of light coming from above as he continued climbing. He screamed for help, hoping someone would hear. A rope was tossed down the hole, and Tarik managed to grip it with as much strength as he could muster. He was pulled out of the sinkhole, his ill-fitted suit getting drenched with dirt and grime along the way. When he finally emerged, his lip was split and a cut had opened above his left eye, the blood dripping onto and staining his dirty, ripped clothes.

    Tarik looked around, searching for whomever had thrown him the rope. His gaze swept across the children and adults gathered around the sinkhole, and his eyes widened in shock.

    A man, over six feet tall, wore the jersey that Loic had received for his birthday a month ago. It was tight around his torso, and the shorts he wore were much too small. Next to him was Patrick, one of Tarik¡¯s closest friends, now with grey hair, wrinkles around his eyes, and a hunch as if standing upright was too much of an effort.

    Everywhere Tarik looked, something was wrong. Alain, the foreman of the local cement factory and his father¡¯s boss, was young again. His clothes hung off him, much like Tarik¡¯s ill-fitted suit did. Mr. Ondo was tiny, smaller than Tarik now, with even less hair on his head than before. He stared up at everyone around him, having shrunk to about three feet tall and regressed to looking like a toddler.

    Loic was the first to speak, his voice trembling. ¡°What happened to us Tarik? Why are we like this?¡± The pleading in his voice matched the fear in the eyes of the crowd that had formed around them. Tarik could only glance at them, his own confusion and dread mirrored in their faces.

    <u>Pacific Ocean</u>

    Excerpt from Wrath of the Heavens: The Dichotomy of The Storm by Elder Maxwell Forrester

    At a staggering 100 feet long and weighing up to 200 tons, the Blue Whale is the largest known creature to have ever graced God¡¯s green Earth.

    These magnificent leviathans, with their immense size and divine grace, command the depths of the ocean as the silent giants of the marine world. Yet on the day that night blanketed the Earth and vanished the Sun from the sky, even these colossal beings were not spared from the wrath of The Storm that sought to corrupt all that was righteous.

    In an unexplored stretch of the Pacific Ocean, The Storm gathered its fury, far from the path of sailors or ships. Towering waves crashed violently, and lightning split the skies, casting stark flashes of light across the ink-black waters. At the heart of this malevolent tempest was a blue whale cut off from its pod. Smaller than many of its brethren, it measured only 80 feet in length and weighed nearly 250,000 pounds.

    As The Storm reached its climax, a massive waterspout formed, a spiraling vortex that connected the ocean to the heavens above. The blue whale, caught in the violent currents and disoriented by the underwater chaos, was inexorably drawn towards the heart of the waterspout. With a force that defied comprehension, the vortex lifted the immense creature from the depths, swirling it within its watery grasp.

    Suspended in the maelstrom, the whale underwent an unholy transformation. As it was hurled through the air by The Storm¡¯s fury, it began to grow. What had once been a relatively small representation of its species turned into a gargantuan beast, like a wandering mountain flung into the sky by The Storm¡¯s cruel power. The blue whale, now an awe-inspiring giant, was carried for miles until, with a crash, it was slammed onto the shores of an uninhabited island in the Pacific.

    The impact left the whale stranded; its colossal body sprawled across the sand. Yet, it continued to grow. What had started as an 80-foot whale slowly stretched until it reached an astonishing 300 feet in length. Its weight doubled and then doubled again until it weighed 500 tons. This sudden and inexplicable growth, combined with the abrupt change in environment, left the whale stunned, vulnerable, and in fear. It had evolved to thrive in the cool, vast ocean depths, not on a scorching, desolate beach.

    As The Storm slowly dissipated and the sky turned from dark grey to clear blue, a grim and unnatural phenomenon began to unfold. The whale¡¯s immense form, lying exposed under the harsh tropical sun, started to decay at a supernatural rate. Despite its continued, labored breathing, the whale¡¯s skin cracked and blistered, and a foul stench of rot began to emanate from its body. It was as if the very life of this giant creature was being forcibly drawn out, its body unable to cope with the rapid transition and unnatural growth.

    Had there been any witness to this unholy miracle, they would have been struck by the sight of the enormous whale, a symbol of the ocean¡¯s deepest mysteries, and the tragic spectacle of its rapid decay. They would have called the entire situation both awe-inspiring and deeply tragic. The enormity of the whale, grown much larger within the waterspout, served as a humbling reminder of His power and the untold secrets the oceans hold. The accelerated decomposition of the still-living beast would have puzzled scientists the world over.

 Chapter 5 - The Storm pt. 5

    <u>Sao Paulo, Brazil</u>

    Excerpt from A Life of Color: The Autobiography of Pedro Souza

    It¡¯s impossible to recount my early life without mentioning A Tempestade. This event that defined the lives of so many worldwide, and influenced countless significant events for years to come, played an important part in my early life. For many of us, our lives can be divided into antes and depois ¨C before and after.

    At the time, my family was living in the favela of Heliopolis. On the morning of A Tempestade, life carried on as usual, with a vibrant energy pulsating through the narrow streets. The other children and I played futebol with a makeshift ball, our laughter echoing off the tightly packed houses of the favela. Street vendors shouted their goods, music blared from open windows, and a strong sense of community prevailed. At least, that¡¯s how I always remember the neighborhood.

    There was much to despise about growing up in the favelas ¨C the crime, the drugs, the feeling of entrapment, and the hatred that radiated off the wealthier residents living just half a kilometer away who all wished we would just disappear. But there was also community. Despite the challenges ¨C and there were many ¨C there were still smiles, joy, and happiness.

    It was noon when A Tempestade hit. I remember the sun beating down on the corrugated rooftops. It wasn¡¯t unusual for the sky to darken suddenly; storms were common, and we were all used to sudden unannounced downpours. But there was something different that day, and those of us playing futebol were the first to notice it.

    ¡°Olha! Look!¡± I shouted to the others, pointing excitedly to the sky.

    Instead of the expected rain, tiny glistening bubbles began to fall. They were not the usual, transparent, rainbow-hued bubbles we¡¯ve all seen in the past. Instead, they were solid and came in an array of colors ¨C a cacophony of reds, blues, greens, oranges, and purples ¨C floating gently to the ground. They shimmered in the sunlight, and before long, we were all watching the artistic storm that had struck our tiny section of the world.

    Our eyes widened with wonder as the bubbles descended. When they popped against the ground or our outstretched hands, they stained everything with their vibrant colors.

    ¡°Bolinhas de sab?o!¡± Maria, my younger sister, shouted in joy. I watched as she ran around the field, trying to catch the delicate orbs. The other kids quickly joined in, their giggles filling the air as we all chased the bubbles through the labyrinthine streets of Heliopolis.

    As more bubbles fell and we continued to shout in happiness and joy, adults paused their daily routines and joined us. Our neighbor, Dona Rosa, who had been hanging laundry, came to the window to see what was happening. I can still remember her staring at the sky, her face agog. She shouted to her husband, ¡°Jorge, venha ver isso! Come see this!¡±

    Soon, everywhere I looked was abuzz with excitement. People stepped out from their homes, craning their necks upward to watch the spectacle. The bubbles were everywhere, drifting lazily through the air, unleashing a myriad of colors on the poorest of Sao Paula, as if trying to brighten our lives. It was as if the sky itself decided to play a whimsical game with us.

    Astounded by the beauty, the adults couldn¡¯t resist joining in. Grown men and women, who normally bore their struggles with stoic faces, were now laughing and playing like children. It was a sight I doubt I¡¯ll ever forget. They caught bubbles on their fingertips, blew them gently to watch them float away, and danced through the streets, reveling in the unexpected joy.

    Everyone was soon stained with a rainbow of colors. Our hair was transformed into a mixture of purples and greens. The streets were dyed blue, orange, and red. The walls of the ramshackle buildings were covered in a multi-colored hue, revealing the natural beauty of our world.

    Even the toughest in the neighborhood couldn¡¯t help but marvel at the rain. Groups of teenagers, who usually roamed the streets with an air of indifference and whom my mother always told me to avoid, were now laughing and popping bubbles with the younger children. Mothers carried their babies outside to see the spectacle, the infants reaching out with chubby hands to grasp the beautiful spheres.

    Over the course of half an hour, A Tempestade transformed the favela into a place of pure enchantment. For a few precious moments, the troubles of daily life were forgotten, replaced by a sense of wonder and community. Even when the bubbles began to dissipate and people slowly returned to their homes, they found their hearts lighter, and their spirits lifted.

    If you want to understand the beginnings of my story, to comprehend why I did what I have done and how I struggled to change Brazil, you don¡¯t need to look much further than that day.

    <u>Huettar, Idaho</u>

    Ezekial Sanz hated almost everything and everyone.

    He hated the government for getting involved in his affairs and trying to tell him what he could and couldn¡¯t do with his own land. If he wanted to build a house, why would he need to file dozens of forms with someone hundreds of miles away to get approval? If he wanted to dig a well, why would he need the permission of local authorities?

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    He hated the voters of his state and his country for continuously falling for the honeyed lies of politicians and electing stupid and immoral people. Nothing a politician ever said was true. But people kept buying the bumper stickers and shouting the slogans and rooting for their team and electing the dumbest assholes around. Anyone arrogant enough to believe they should be making decisions for over 300 million Americans was too arrogant to be allowed to make decisions for over 300 million Americans.

    He hated the talking heads on TV who manufactured crises, built rage and anger with meaningless issues, and ignored all the stories that actually mattered. He hated the troll political leaders, the ¡®debate show hosts¡¯ who argued contrarian and hypocritical opinions, and the rest of the people who cluttered up his television set whose sole aim was to create fear in their audience and keep them watching.

    He hated the billionaires for seeking money and doing nothing with it except ¡®keep score.¡¯ He hated the investment bankers for ¡®creating wealth¡¯ out of thin air. He hated the insurance companies who profited off the pain and suffering of millions.

    He hated the landlords who contributed nothing to society and benefited off the work of others. He hated the people who committed violence to make themselves feel big. He hated the racists and sexists and the bigots who lorded their beliefs over others. Why did it matter if a person was white or black, Asian or Hispanic, male or female or transgender? Everyone was equally disappointing, regardless of any superficial characteristics.

    He hated the 8<sup>th</sup> season of Game of Thrones for ruining a franchise. He hated Gamefreak for putting out the same Pokemon game every single generation. He hated Zack Snyder for ruining the DCU. He hated Disney for not developing a concrete story for the Star Wars sequels and instead relying on a ¡®mystery box¡¯ style of storytelling that eventually created a convoluted mess. He hated how ¡®Palpatine somehow returned.¡¯

    He hated people who called it ¡®sports ball¡¯ as a way to shit over the entertainment choices of others. He hated the people who would say ¡®ahkctually¡¯ whenever someone expressed an interest. He hated the people who despised others who had found a new piece of entertainment and, instead of welcoming them in, tried to bully them to leave. He hated the gatekeepers, the true believers, the assholes and bastards who permeated so many toxic fandoms.

    He hated cats for not knowing how adorable they were and not understanding how much he loved them. He hated how they watched him scoop their poop out of a litter box with an almost smug expression on their face. He hated that he would never know the simple pleasure of falling asleep in a sunbeam.

    He hated himself. He hated his name, given to him by his mother who swore that everyone had a purpose in this world and his would be of biblical proportions. He hated that she had stuck him with a stupid name and then left him to fend for himself.

    He hated that his life was passing him by with nothing to show for it. He hated that his friends and family members, acquaintances and enemies, were all growing their careers, having children, seeing success in their lives, and he was sitting at home trying to retreat from the world he so hated.

    But what most drew his ire today was the massive storm that had struck Idaho with no warning whatsoever, and the gigantic forest that had sprung up in his cornfields.

    He hated that it was an eyesore. He hated that dealing with the sudden forest would dominate the rest of his day. He hated that the whole thing had ruined his early morning contemplations and that he¡¯d be forced to navigate the forest instead of sitting back and watching the world pass him by.

    Ezekial finished his cup of coffee and groaned as he stood up from his chair on the porch. He wandered back to his house to change, putting on jeans and a flannel shirt, shrugging on a pair of old work boots, and grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch.

    He stepped back out onto the porch and stared at the dense, sprawling forest that had taken over acres of his farmland. The only silver lining was that it was mid-January and he had long since harvested all the corn. He refused to plant potatoes in his fields because he hated to continue the stereotype that all Idaho farmers grew potatoes. He gazed out at the forest, its sudden emergence so astonishing that, for a brief moment, Ezekial¡¯s hatred turned to awe.

    With a deep scowl, he grabbed a hatchet from his tool shed and trudged towards the newly established forest. His irritation mounted with each step as he crossed the tree line and plunged into the woods. After several minutes of hiking, he paused to get his bearings, realizing he had lost sight of his farmhouse. Disoriented, he leaned against a tree and noticed the oppressive humidity for the first time. The air was thick and sticky, so he slipped his jacket off. The sounds of birds and insects foreign to Idaho filled the air.

    He turned to his left and right, searching where to go, until he found a small path through the forest. Following it for several hundred feet, he came across a fallen tree leaning against another, creating an arch over the path. He pushed at the tree, making sure it wouldn¡¯t shift as he walked under it, then stepped through the archway.

    Towering ferns, vibrant flowers, and the calls of exotic wildlife greeted him. He took a tentative step forward, the ground squelching beneath his boots.

    ¡°What the hell?¡± Ezekial muttered, looking around in bewilderment. Panic set in as he realized that none of his surroundings should exist. He was in the middle of his farm, not a rainforest. He turned back the way he had come, slipped under the tree archway, and chose a different path.

    The massive trees lining the path began to thin out. The sunlight, once filtered through a thick canopy, became blinding. The underbrush grew less dense, and patches of open ground appeared, where grasses and a gentle breeze whispered through.

    Eventually, the grass became more dominant, their tall stalks swaying in the breeze. Acacia trees began appearing, and soon enough, the forest gave way to a savannah. A vast sea of golden grass stretched out before Ezekial, shimmering under the sun.

    A lone lion stretched out, basking in the sun. Ezekial hated how lions looked in nature documentaries, with flies clinging to them and their fur matted. He hated how they were called the King of the Jungle and yet they never lived in jungles and¡­he sprinted back in the direction he had come, through the plains of grass and into the forest. The lion had seen him, raised its head and sent a bolt of fear through Ezekial. Safely back in the forest, he shuddered out a breath and kept walking.

    He continued his journey, moving through landscapes that defied explanations. There was a frozen tundra where the cold bit through his clothes, a serene meadow where wildflowers bloomed in riotous colors, a pampas grass field where the stalks rose to tickle his hands as he walked.

    Eventually, Ezekial¡¯s wandering led him to a woodland oasis. Exhausted, he sat on a moss-covered rock, staring up at the waterfall that poured its crystal-clear water into a pond filled with koi fish. He dipped his fingers in the water and thought about the events he¡¯d just experienced.

    He hated that nothing that had happened since he woke up this morning had made sense. He knew his farm didn¡¯t have a woodland oasis, towering waterfalls, or koi-filled ponds. It didn¡¯t lead to a savannah housing a hungry lion, or an icy mountain that threatened frostbite after mere moments. His mind raced as he tried to understand what was happening.

    A flash of light from behind the waterfall caught Ezekial¡¯s attention, forcing him to investigate. He spotted a tunnel behind the cascading water and ventured inside, following it for several hundred feet until it emerged onto an uninhabited island. As his feet sank into the sand, he gazed up at the cloudless blue sky and took a deep breath, nearly collapsing from the overwhelming stench.

    He looked around and noticed it: a massive, beached whale lay rotting under the sun, its horrendous odor making Ezekial stumble and gag. After a few minutes to get his body under control, he managed to stand and breathe without vomiting, taking in the full scene before him.

    An island, a colossal decaying whale, and sand that climbed into his boots and grated against his skin. Only one thought crossed his mind:

    God, I hate the ocean.

 Chapter 6 - The Storm pt. 6

    <u>Amazon Rainforest</u>

    The camp buzzed with activity as Luis stared at what he had built. Sure, there were laws against logging in the Amazon rainforest, but a few well-placed bribes and a crew of young men indifferent to government warnings had allowed Luis to establish a thriving logging camp deep in the heart of the forest.

    Towering trees, centuries old, fell with thunderous crashes. The air was thick with the scent of fresh-cut wood and diesel fumes. The songs of birds and the calls of wildlife were drowned out by the relentless roar of chainsaws and the shouted orders of the site foreman. Luis stood back and grinned, knowing that each felled tree meant more money making its way into his pocket.

    The camp, a ramshackle collection of tents, sprawled throughout a clearing the crew had carved into the forest. Heavy machinery roared, ready to devour more of the jungle. Luis walked among the loggers, tents, and bulldozers, excited about his future. It was a beautiful sight, marred only by the dark clouds rolling in.

    Luis wiped sweat from his brow and glanced up at the sky. The morning¡¯s blue sky had quickly darkened, and the first drops of rain began to splatter around the camp. The drizzle wasn¡¯t too bad yet, but the dark clouds promised a deluge was coming. That was the only serious problem about logging in the Amazon, besides the locals who constantly menaced his workers. ¡°Keep going,¡± he shouted over the din. ¡°We need to finish this section before the rain hits.¡±

    As the loggers redoubled their efforts, a strange silence descended on the jungle. Birds took flight, and monkeys chattered anxiously in the treetops before fleeing. The jungle around Luis fell eerily still. A shiver ran down his spine as he glanced up at the sky again. He moved towards the camp foreman to ask if they could complete the day¡¯s work before the rain halted everything when he stumbled. His foot had sunk deep in the mud, and Luis looked down in surprise.

    That shouldn¡¯t have happened. The workers had been all throughout the camp, their heavy steps having packed the ground together until it was stable enough that his foot shouldn¡¯t have sunk. He glanced around and noticed the ground beginning to bubble. Pockets of earth darkened and turned into viscous mud.

    The rain, which had started as a slow drizzle, turned into a flood. Everywhere it hit, the earth in the camp turned into a thick mud. The heavy machinery was the first to sink, the massive tires of the trucks disappearing into the muck, followed quickly by the rest of the vehicles. Drivers jumped from the cabins of their bulldozers, fearing they¡¯d be taken deep into the earth as well. Panic rippled through the camp, with workers abandoning their tools and fleeing the spreading mud.

    Luis shivered in fear, torn between saving the machinery ¨C his costly investment ¨C and running for his life. The mud was relentless, consuming the camp faster than the workers could flee. Tents collapsed, sucked into the earth as if the jungle itself was trying to reclaim what had been stolen.

    ¡°Run! Get out of here!¡± Luis shouted, but no one could hear him over the torrential downpour. Men cried out in fear and desperation as they ran from the creeping mud. Luis watched as one of his loggers tripped over a tree root, his muffled shouts of panic cut off as he sank deep into the mud until nothing remained of him.

    Keys jingled in Luis¡¯ pockets as he ran, reminding him of the trucks and motorbikes parked in a corner of the camp. He changed direction and sprinted towards them, thinking ¡®if only I can get to my truck, I can escape.¡¯

    The rain intensified, somehow adding more water to the chaos. Mudslides surged, washing away the remnants of the camp and leaving a churned, desolate landscape. The tents and heavy machinery that had filled the clearing moments before were gone.

    Luis heard panicked screams behind him as he raced towards the trucks and motorbikes. He ripped the keys from his pocket to be ready for when he finally reached them. There, on the outskirts of the camp, was his truck. The mud hadn¡¯t claimed this area of the camp yet, so he jumped in, started the engine, and peeled out of there.

    His foot jammed on the gas as he tore away from the camp, leaving behind the screams of his former employees. He raced to stay ahead of the jungle that had come to reclaim its territory.

    <u>Nazare, Portugal</u>

    Excerpt from Echoes of the Past: The Hunt for the Puppeteer by Francisco Abreu

    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    Tiago Costa lived a solitary life. When the pandemic swept through the world, he was one of the few who welcomed the opportunity to stay shut in his apartment. His small one-bedroom, perched on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, was a sanctuary of peace and quiet. His only interaction with the outside world was the occasional trip to the corner store or letting the delivery man inside to drop off his packages.

    It wasn¡¯t that Tiago hated people; he simply saw no need to interact with them. He felt much more comfortable surrounded by his books, TV, and computer. His social battery was always in the red, and he found it easier to stay at home than deal with others.

    When A Tempestade hit Nazare, Tiago was at his computer desk, typing away at emails for his boss. A Tempestade started small, with wind howling through the streets and a drizzle of rain pelting the windows. Tiago got up from his chair, crossed the apartment, and closed the window to prevent the rain from soaking his room. On his way over, a tingling at the back of his neck started, which Tiago shrugged off as another sign that he was getting older.

    In the mornings, he¡¯d wake to find new aches that tracked his growing age. Occasionally, when he ventured outside for air, brief pains would strike at his joints, reminding him he wasn¡¯t a teenager anymore. While these aches and pains were probably due to his sedentary lifestyle, Tiago preferred to think of them as the consequences of growing old.

    As soon as he closed the window, a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder sounded. Tiago leapt back in panic, steadying himself on an end table near the window, his hand instinctively reaching out to grip the worn wood.

    Once his hand made contact with the end table, a flood of memories pierced Tiago¡¯s mind. He saw an oak tree in a vast forest, watched it get cut down and loaded onto a truck, saw it arrive at a carpenter named Raoul. He watched as the carpenter carved the wood into a table and saw it change hands from family to family, each of whom left their mark on the worn surface ¨C the father who never used a coaster left the ring stains, the child playing with his tiny action figures left the dents. Tiago watched as the table ended up at the Feira de Ladra in Lisbon, where he had picked it up for his college dormitory.

    Panicked, he moved away, his feet landing on the rug in the middle of the room. A torrent of images shot into his mind; every step taken across the rug¡¯s surface flashed before his eyes like a sped-up highlight reel. He stumbled again, his hand landing on the futon couch, half on the cushion and half on the blanket draped across its back. The memories were mixed and jumbled this time ¨C a market stall, an old woman spinning yard with an antique spool. The constant barrage of images wore on him.

    He jerked his hand back as if it had been burned, afraid to let it touch anything else. Every time he touched something new, he saw every moment of its past pulsing behind his eyes. His once comfortable and safe home had become a minefield of memories.

    He needed to get out of his apartment. Tiago glanced at the windows he had just closed to check on the status of the storm, finding that the rain was hitting the city harder. It didn¡¯t matter. Tiago just wanted to escape the apartment and find somewhere safe to figure out what was happening to him. He reached for his red Converse shoes tucked under the futon.

    The moment his hand touched one, he was inundated with memories. He saw the factory in Indonesia where they were stitched together, being shipped to Vietnam, placed into packing crates, the ocean transport, and finally, the arrival at the shoe store four blocks from his apartment.

    He let out a scream and hurled the shoe across the room, deciding to go barefoot instead. He raced to the front door, his bare feet slapping against the linoleum kitchen tiles as he ran. Each step brought a barrage of memories: every time someone had walked the floor, every dish made in the kitchen, every midnight trip for water. He slipped, his knee crashing against the refrigerator, and was bombarded with its history. He saw the factory in Ottawa, Ohio, the assembly line, and its shipment to Portugal.

    When he finally snapped out of the memories, he was crying, overwhelmed by the sensory onslaught. He reached for the front door, and the moment he grabbed the doorknob, the memories surged again. Every time he had opened the door, every entrance and exit of previous tenants, flooded his mind. He wrenched the door open, desperate to escape.

    He bolted out of his apartment, stumbling and smashing against the wall as he turned the corner to sprint down the stairs. Visions of carpenters, electricians, plumbers, and every person who had built the apartment building and used those stairs filled his head. He witnessed the lives of every tenant who had ever rented a place there. Each memory wormed its way into his consciousness, leaving him disoriented and frantic.

    Tiago finally burst out of the building, whipping his head left and right, desperate to find somewhere, anywhere, to escape the flood of memories that turned every touch into an unbearable cascade of history. Rain soaked him instantly as he stepped out of the apartment building, his foot making contact with the concrete steps, and he passed out.

    It was the massive influx of memories that finally did it. His left foot touched the concretet steps, revealing their construction, the tenants who climbed them daily, and the neighborhood kids who lounged on them after school. His left hand, in an attempt to steady himself, grasped the metal railing, showing him the blacksmith who had built it, the elderly tenants who used it for support, and the delivery men who leaned on it while waiting to be buzzed up. The rain that coated his body revealed even older memories, stretching further back than anything he had seen before.

    The memories began with a single raindrop, formed high in the atmosphere amidst the dark, brooding clouds. Tiago traced its descent through the sky, watching as it landed on a leaf in a dense forest. The raindrop rested there, shimmering in the sunlight, until it slipped off the leaf and joined a tiny rivulet trickling down the mountainside. It flowed over rocks and roots, gathering speed as the rivulet grew into a stream. The stream joined a river, which carried the raindrop through a countryside that Tiago somehow knew was Romania. The river flowed into the Danube, traveling westward, passing through Serbia, Croatia, Hungary, and Austria. It eventually spilled into the Danube Delta, merging with the vast waters of the Black Sea.

    The raindrop was carried by the currents of the Black Sea before eventually turning into water vapor that rose high into the sky, joining a wisp of a cloud that drifted westward. The cloud traveled across Europe, floating over the Balkans, crossing the Italian Peninsula, and sailing over the Pyrenees. Eventually, it reached the skies above Portugal and began to darken, The Storm commanding everything in the sky to obey its wishes. With a clap of thunder, the raindrop was released, descending once more to the Earth. It landed on a panicked man who had collapsed on the front steps of his apartment.

    Every raindrop that hit Tiago told a similar story, overwhelming him with a torrent of memories. He drifted into unconsciousness, unable to withstand the relentless barrage of images. When ambulances arrived, they found him drenched to the bone, bleeding from where he had struck his head against the ground, and unresponsive.

 Chapter 7 - The Storm pt. 7

    Excerpt from A Kaleidoscope of Life: The Story of the 218 by Marie Driscoll

    For most people, the dream of climbing Everest begins in childhood. For me, it began three weeks before I reached Everest Base Camp, in a dingy hostel in Hungary.

    After graduating high school, I had no real set plan to head off to college. All my friends were scattering throughout the United States; some to the east coast, some to the west. They were entering college to study political science or chemistry or economics or¡­whatever. But I didn¡¯t want that. To me, escaping the prison of high school meant I had earned a modicum of freedom. It would have been foolish to trade that away for the shackles of college.

    I wanted to travel.

    Life was short. There were too many places in the world I wanted to see. I didn¡¯t want my entire life to be lived within 25 miles of the place I had been born. I wanted to be able to watch a movie, point to the screen and say, ¡®hey, I¡¯ve been there.¡¯

    During my last half year of high school, I spent countless hours in the library, poring over Lonely Planet travel guides and books about exotic locations, jotting down a list of destinations I wanted to visit.

    I¡¯d had a job since sophomore year and never spent much money on unnecessary things, so my bank account was decent by the time I graduated. When I told my parents I was planning on skipping out of college and traveling the world for a few years, they weren¡¯t exactly thrilled. My dad worried about my safety, concerned it was too dangerous for a single woman to wander the world alone. My mom wanted me to jump straight into college, fearing for my future and where I¡¯d be when I reached my mid-twenties.

    It took a while, but I was finally able to convince them I had planned it all out and everything was going to be fine. And everything was fine, until I got to Hungary. I was having my adventures, wandering the world, enjoying life without a concrete plan. I¡¯d wake up in one country, pick up my backpack, head to a train or bus station, and get the first ticket to elsewhere. Eventually, I ended up in a hostel in Hungary.

    It was a corporate place, part of a chain profiting off backpackers and young gap-year travelers. There was a bar on the ground floor of the hostel where I parked myself and started chatting with the people around me. That¡¯s where I met Adam. He must have been in his mid-forties, working at a hostel bar, with a big bald head that made him look like a tanned egg. But despite his appearance, he was one of the coolest people I¡¯d ever met.

    We talked for hours. He regaled me of tales of his life in the circus, and I regaled him with stories of my life as a retail employee. He told me about how he¡¯d been a clown traveling throughout Europe, a club DJ on the Amalfi Coast, and a volunteer in Madagascar working with turtles. Seemingly everywhere I wanted to visit, he¡¯d already been there and done that and got the commemorative t-shirt. His life was a tapestry of wild and wonderful experiences, making my little jaunt through Europe seem tame in comparison.

    As we talked long into the night, occasionally bringing in other backpackers to our corner of the bar to regale us with their own tales of adventure and travel, I decided to take on a challenge I¡¯d never considered before: climbing Everest. Adam had mentioned it in passing. A friend of his had done it, and something about the idea had stuck with me. I wanted to do something grand, something that would push my limits.

    When I voiced my idea aloud, Adam instantly threw some cold water on it. Did I know how expensive it was to climb Everest? That was something only the uber rich got to do. They¡¯d helicopter up there, pay a couple sherpas to haul their gear, and then start climbing. It was nearly impossible for a young girl, just out of high school, to have the money to try and climb the tallest mountain in the world.

    Adam wasn¡¯t just a Debbie downer though. He gave me some advice. He claimed that while summiting Everest would cost me multiple thousands of dollars, reaching Everest Base Camp was relatively affordable. All I needed was to fly into Kathmandu, book a flight into Lukla, and start walking. I mean, there was a bit more to it, but that was the basic plan.

    Before heading to Nepal, I devoured every book on Everest I could find, including Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer and Dark Summit by Nick Heil. I meticulously planned my journey, jotting down every single detail in a small notebook. As I slowly crawled through Europe and then North African and then the Middle East ¨C which is not at all inviting to a young single woman ¨C I hyped myself up for my eventual trek up Everest.

    Three weeks later, I arrived in Kathmandu and immediately started regretting my decision. The bus ride into the city was a nightmare. The bench was an abandoned milk crate the driver bolted into the vehicle and covered with a ragged blanket. Every time we hit a pothole, which was whenever we were moving, I was launched into the air and came down hard on the ¡°seat.¡±

    As we approached the city, we crossed a river choked with trash. People had turned the stream into a dumping ground, and old buildings that lined the road served as makeshift garbage heaps. When we stopped at an intersection, waiting for our turn to zoom forward a couple dozen feet, I legit saw a kid, no older than ten, drop trou and poop in the middle of the street.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    When I finally reached my hotel, I began questioning every decision that brought me here. I had always wanted to prove my toughness, to show that I could do whatever I set my mind to. It was probably why I so often walked down dark streets at night, oblivious to the danger. But lying on top of the covers of that dingy hotel room bed, too afraid to pull back the sheets to see what lurked underneath, I started to reconsider what I was doing with my life.

    Thankfully, I didn¡¯t focus too much on my bad decisions. I booked a flight the next day to Lukla, often dubbed the most dangerous airport in the world. It was named that for a very good reason. The airport is a tiny landing strip carved into the side of a mountain. If your plane overshoots the runway¡­you die. So, tiny plane, tiny runway, terrifying descent that promises death if the pilot screws up.

    From Lukla, my trek to Everest Base Camp began. The first steps reminded me why I was doing this: adventure. The air was crisp and thin, the landscape was breathtaking and daunting. I joined a small group of trekkers, and we headed off through the Khumbu region.

    The trail wound through several villages like Phakding and Namche Bazaar, each step taking us higher into the mountains. The first few days were relatively easy, with the path gradually ascending through the forest and crossing suspension bridges that swayed over rivers that weren¡¯t packed with garbage.

    Over the next several days the landscape transformed. We had to pick our way over rocky terrain, and the air grew colder and thinner. The altitude made every step a struggle and the cold started to get to me, forcing me to bundle up even more and try and suck my body into itself to defend against the harsh climate.

    Despite the physical toll that left me drained every night, I was ecstatic. I had fallen into an easy camaraderie with the other trekkers, and at night we shared stories about our lives and marveled at the sights we had seen.

    When I finally reached Everest Base Camp, I definitely didn¡¯t tear up a little. Nothing like that at all.

    But standing at the foot of the world¡¯s highest mountain, surrounded by trekkers from all corners of the globe, I felt like I had finally accomplished something real. Suck it Adam. I reached Everest Base Camp. The trek to the camp had sucked horribly and was one of the most gruelingly difficult things I¡¯d ever done, but every step had been worth it.

    The Sherpas called it ¨¡m?dh¨©. It hit us the next day.

    I was sitting in a cramped tent, my breath visible in the frigid air. Outside, The Storm raged. Unlike in the rest of the world, The Storm didn¡¯t bring rain. Instead, it brought sound and wind, filling the camp and settling into every fiber of our being.

    Beside me, a fellow trekker named Jacob was huddled under his sleeping bag, shivering uncontrollably. He hadn¡¯t fully acclimated to the altitude and was suffering from acute mountain sickness. His face was pale, his lips tinged with blue, and he clutched his head in pain. Plans to move him down the mountain to get him acclimated to a lower altitude had been thwarted by The Storm¡¯s sudden appearance, and we had no choice but to bunker down.

    The Storm trapped us all in our tents for hours. The wind battered against tent walls and the temperature plummeted. But the most striking thing about The Storm was the sound it made as it ripped through the camp. It was almost¡­musical. I can still remember the tones of it, even though I can¡¯t entirely describe it. It was like a song you can¡¯t quite remember. You know it¡¯s beautiful, but every time you sing it, it comes out wrong.

    The only word that comes to mind when I try to describe The Storm is: ephemeral. It was an ephemeral sound. But even that doesn¡¯t do it justice. It sounds¡­too high brow. Too pretentious, as if I were putting on airs.

    Ineffable. That¡¯s what it was. I can¡¯t describe the song I heard, and every time I try, I recoil at how much I¡¯m butchering the description.

    The next morning, we all slowly emerged from our tents to find that The Storm had finally subsided. I left my tent as soon as some trekkers arrived to help Jacob and bring him down the mountain. As the camp started to wake up, we all wandered about, eager to tally the damage The Storm had wrought. There was a hesitancy about everything though, especially among the Sherpas who had been on the mountain much longer than the rest of us. They had never experienced a storm like the one from the previous night, and they were all huddled in conversation, trying to decipher its meaning.

    I remember standing at the edge of the camp, staring up at the towering peaks of Everest. I knew that I¡¯d be leaving soon, unable to afford the thousands of dollars it would cost to hire a team to take me to the summit. As I sat there, lost in thought about all that had led me to Base Camp, something caught my eye. Far up on the mountain, where the path from Camp Four wound its way down towards Base Camp, a group of figures were descending.

    People gathered around me, pointing and murmuring in confusion. Were these climbers pushed off the mountain by The Storm? Were they retreating, fearing they couldn¡¯t ascend in peace? There were way too many of them though.

    The descending hikers were a kaleidoscope of colors, their gear bright and varied, reflecting the sun like a moving rainbow. They walked in a slow, steady procession, their steps deliberate and almost synchronized. There were dozens of them. Dozens of dozens of them, filling the trail leading to Base Camp.

    As they neared the camp, the murmurs grew into gasps of astonishment. ¡°Look at their clothes,¡± someone whispered. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen gear like that in years.¡±

    When the first hikers reached the camp, there was a collective intake of breath. Their faces were pale, but their eyes were clear and alive. An understanding rippled through everyone at camp, even though none of us wanted to give it words. Taking in the older gear, the shocked faces, and the fact that there shouldn¡¯t be nearly this many hikers descending the mountain, we all realized the truth that none of us wanted to voice: these were the bodies of the climbers who had been left on the mountain for years. And they were all alive.

    One of the climbers, a man with a thick beard and weathered features, stepped forward. He looked around, his expression a mix of confusion and relief. ¡°Where are we?¡± he asked, his voice hoarse but strong.

    ¡°Everest Base Camp,¡± I replied, stepping forward to meet him. ¡°What¡­what happened?¡±

    The man shook his head, a bewildered look on his face. ¡°I don¡¯t know. One moment, we were trapped in a storm, certain we were going to die. The next, we woke up and decided to head back down.¡±

    The camp buzzed with activity. People rushed to help the returning climbers, offering them food, water, and warm clothing. The climbers shared their stories, themselves confused about what was happening. They spoke of the moments before their deaths, the harsh conditions that had claimed them, and the strange, dream-like state they had experienced during The Storm.

    I watched as the camp came alive, the returning climbers mingling with those who had come to conquer the mountain. It was a reunion of sorts, bridging the gap between generations of hikers. I moved among the returning climbers, offering a shoulder and an ear, talking to them about the years they had missed while they were stuck on the mountain.

    As I moved through the camp, listening to the stories and marveling at the miracle that had occurred, I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that Everest wasn¡¯t done doling out the mysteries. The mountain had always been a place of challenge and discovery, but now it seemed to possess and almost mystical power.

 Chapter 8 - The Storm pt. 8

    <u>Thuringia, Germany</u>

    Excerpt from The Day the Rain Fell: an oral history of The Storm by Natasha Silvio and Francisco de Manion

    Alfred M¨¹ller is a national partk warden in Hainich National Park in Thuringia, Germany. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site that is renowned for its vast, contiguous deciduous forest ¨C the largest in Germany. We catch up with him at the park¡¯s visitor center in Bad Langensalza

    Alfred: Most people think my job is incredibly boring. Maybe they¡¯re right, but I absolutely love it. I get to spend all my time outdoors, surrounded by nature. When I was a kid, I used to go hiking with my father. We¡¯d travel to different national parks across Germany, but the one we visited the most was Harz National Park. That¡¯s near where I grew up, in Herzberg am Barz. It¡¯s where my love for the outdoors began.

    Most of my day is spent dealing with conservation of the park¡¯s natural resources. I give tours to visitors, explaining the park¡¯s history, its flora and fauna, and the importance of conservation. I also maintain the trails and monitor the wildlife. However, one of the most crucial parts of my job is dealing with wild campers to ensure the park¡¯s ecosystem remains undamaged.

    Wild campers? Like people leaving behind beer cans and throwing parties?

    Alfred: Not exactly. I guess it doesn¡¯t translate well for Americans. In Germany, camping in a national park outside of designated areas is prohibited. We have specific campgrounds for visitors and sometimes designated spots for camper vans that allow a 24-hour stay. But you can¡¯t just walk into the park and pitch a tent and camp out. Those who do are referred to as wild campers.

    They¡¯re a big problem for us because they can have a significant negative impact on the park. They often start fires where they shouldn¡¯t leave trash behind and damage the area around their tents. It¡¯s quite the hassle. When we find them, we pack them up, issue a 500-euro fine, and ensure they don¡¯t try to sneak back in.

    Did you have to deal with wild campers the day The Storm hit?

    (Alfred looks down at his hands in his lap before clearing his throat and nodding.)

    Alfred: Like everyone everywhere, Der Sturm hit us without warning. Normally, we get a five-day weather forecast and make sure to pin up any information we have for our visitors, letting them know what to expect. If there are rain warnings or anything similar, we make sure everyone in the park is informed and do our best to keep everyone safe. But that day, it was supposed to be nothing but sunshine. Instead, we were hit with liters of rain.

    Der Sturm didn¡¯t cause damage everywhere it hit. Most places around the world were untouched except for having a bit more rain than usual. Most locations didn¡¯t experience any of the¡­unusual events. In Germany, of all the national parks, ours was the only one to witness such an event.

    At the park, we have these elevated canopy walkways that stretch throughout the forest. Our visitors love them because you can walk among the trees and get sightlines for kilometers. I was leading a tour group when Der Sturm hit. One moment it was sunny, the next, rain was smashing into us.

    It didn¡¯t last very long, maybe about half an hour. I had ushered the tour group to one of the towers connected to the walkway and then radioed the other park rangers to check in on them. One of them, a young kid named Friedrich who had just joined us, got on the radio. His voice was quivering, like he didn¡¯t know how to explain what had happened and was worried we wouldn¡¯t believe him.

    He called us out to a remote area of the park. Almost nobody goes out there. When we arrived¡­

    (Alfred pauses, seeming lost in thought.)

    Alfred: January isn¡¯t the best time to visit the park. It¡¯s cold, wet, and chilly. The trees aren¡¯t in full blood. It¡¯s still beautiful, don¡¯t get me wrong, but it¡¯s much more impressive during the spring or summer months. A lot of the trees lose their luster in January. They look¡­anemic.

    (He pauses again, trying to find the right words.)

    This wasn¡¯t the normal January cycle of death though. The forest in a several-kilometer radius was just gone. Dead. It was like all the moisture in the area had been sucked out. The trees were withered husks, the grass decayed and dead. The few animals I saw¡­they were nothing but bones and dust. Friedrich called me out there, and I was stunned by what I saw. An entire chunk of the forest was no longer alive.

    I caught sight of something far in the distance. It was a faint flash of grey. With everyone around us broken and decaying, it stood out. I brought up my binoculars to get a better look and saw that it was a tent. It wouldn¡¯t have been noticeable if the forest was¡­normal that day.

    Friedrich and I went out to investigate. I already had a feeling about what it was ¨C a wild camper who had set up in a remote part of the park we rarely patrolled. When we finally reached the area, we searched around, calling out and searching for any sign of the camper or campers. There was no response. The entire area was eerily quiet, as if the whole world had stopped to watch Friedrich and me in this small section of a national park in Germany.

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    We assumed whoever had set up the tent had taken shelter inside when Der Sturm hit. So, we called out again, telling the campers to exit the tent. When there was no sign of activity, I walked over to unzip the tent flap and pull them out.

    Once I unzipped it¡­

    (Alfred pauses, pursing his lips before starting again.)

    I unzipped the tent and a flood of water poured out. The weatherproofing on the tent was good enough that it had kept it all inside until we got there. It soaked my shoes and the ground all around us. Friedrich jumped back in surprise. I wish I had done the same. It was¡­a lot of water.

    How much?

    Alfred: About 90 liters. Maybe a little more.

    That¡¯s a pretty exact figure. How did you come to that measurement?

    Alfred: The human body holds about 45 liters. We¡­found two wild campers inside the tent. They had tried to take shelter from Der Sturm. And when all the moisture in the area was sucked up into the sky, like a reverse rainstorm, the campers were trapped inside. All the water¡­

    We found their bodies in the tent, is what I¡¯m trying to say.

    <u>Kansas City, Missouri</u>

    J¨¢nos had been dreaming about this vacation for years. When the small company he worked for in Slovakia secured a contract to support an American business, J¨¢nos was part of the team facilitating communication between the two companies. That was where he learned the most about American culture. And the more he learned, the more he dreamed of traveling through the country.

    He''d saved up for years before he finally took the plunge and purchased a plane ticket to New York. He got to see the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, he walked through Central Park and watched a play on Broadway. When he was finished with that, he bought a Greyhound bus ticket that was good for a month¡¯s worth of travel, picked a random spot on the map, and set off.

    He traveled to Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, Columbus, Ohio, and South Bend, Indiana. He walked through the campus of the University of Notre Dame and scored tickets to a college football game, all while thinking about the movie Rudy he had watched several years earlier. He visited random cities and soaked up the diverse landscape and culture of America. Every new city brought with it a sense of excitement, fulfilling the vacation he¡¯d long ago planned in his head.

    From Indiana, he wandered to Chicago ¨C the Windy City, Michael Jordan, and Ferris Bueller. Then, we traveled down to St. Louis, which he didn¡¯t like at all. Finally, he ended up in Kansas City, Missouri.

    The fact that there was a Kansas City, Kansas, and a Kansas City, Missouri blew his mind. Everyone he spoke with told him that the Missouri side was much more fun, giving him recommendations on where to visit. Everyone he¡¯d met so far on his vacation seemed friendly and more than willing to share the best spots he needed to check out. They¡¯d all been incredibly nice to him ¨C with the sole exception of the guy he named Osol.

    Osol was a trucker, often found hanging with the other truckers J¨¢nos had met during his trip. J¨¢nos was interested to learn that many American truckers didn¡¯t own their own trucks. They¡¯d ride a Greyhound bus through the country, stop in an area where their company had rented a truck for them, hop in, drive the truck and its load to another city, and get paid. Most truckers he¡¯d met on his travels throughout America had been incredibly welcoming, sharing tips on which cities he should visit and which he should avoid. But Osol was the exception.

    He was a dick.

    What¡¯s worse, he¡¯d been on the same bus as J¨¢nos ever since leaving St. Louis. When they stopped at a rest stop, Osol was there. When J¨¢nos tried to spark up a conversation with the other truckers about the cities they were passing through, Osol was there with a snide remark or a sneer. And when J¨¢nos tried to nap on the ride to Kansas City, Osol woke him with his loud and boisterous conversations.

    J¨¢nos had grown tired of the man, and it only got worse the closer they reached Kansas City. The turning point started in Joplin, Missouri.

    When the bus pulled into the depot at Joplin, Missouri, J¨¢nos had been excited to get out and stretch his legs and, hopefully, never see Osol again. He¡¯d planned to stay in town for a day and visit the Joplin History and Mineral Museum ¨C rocks were an odd passion of his ¨C but when he arrived at the museum, he found it was closed on Sundays and Mondays. He had no interest in getting stuck in a random city for several days, especially one with nothing much to visit, so he raced back to the bus station in the hopes that the bus to Kansas City hadn¡¯t left yet.

    It hadn¡¯t. Well, not entirely.

    He reached the bus depot just as the Greyhoud was getting ready to pull out of the station. A flash storm hit the city and, when the bus driver caught sight of J¨¢nos racing alongside the bus, trying to catch his attention, the drenched J¨¢nos seemed to have played on the bus driver¡¯s heartstrings. He pulled to the side and let J¨¢nos on.

    J¨¢nos had been the only passenger to get drenched by the rain as everyone else had already boarded. When the bus had finally pulled off to the side to let J¨¢nos on, he was soaked to the bone. His shoes were drenched and make loud squelching sounds as he walked down the aisle of the Greyhound, and he dripped over everything. Thankfully, he had a towel in his backpack. On his way to a seat in the back of the bus, Osol had made a remark that got a few laughs and made J¨¢nos¡¯ cheeks flush with embarrassment.

    Things only went downhill from there.

    Once in his seat, a wave of nausea hit him, made worse by the bus rocking down the highway. It got so bad that all he could do was lean his forehead against the bus windows,hoping the cold seeping through them would take his mind off things.

    When the bus finally rolled into the Kansas City depot, J¨¢nos was one of the first to get off. He rushed to the bathroom, knowing he was about to be sick. When he got to the restroom, he noticed he was the only one there. He raced to a sink and dunked his head under the faucet, letting the cold-water splash over his head in a desperate bid to make himself feel better.

    With his head soaked in cold water, J¨¢nos splashed some across his face and stared up at the mirror in front of him. His reflection showed a pale, sweaty face with eyes that seemed darker than usual. That was odd. He¡¯d known what his eyes looked like his entire life. He¡¯d seen them stare out at him from behind mirrors for as long as he could remember. So, how could they have gotten darker?

    As he wondered that, his stomach churned. A strange feeling of emptiness stabbed through him. It was a feeling of hunger but¡­so much more. It was like a profound and insatiable need; a need to devour. Panic set in as nausea wracked his body. What had he eaten to cause all this? He clutched the edge of the sink, trying to steady himself and keep himself from passing out, but his vision blurred, and his limbs felt heavy.

    As the minutes ticked by, the nausea turned into something far worse. It felt like every bone in his body was shifting and cracking under his skin. J¨¢nos looked down at his arms. At the skin. The skin. The skin that had become sallow and stretched.

    He tried to scream, but all he could do was hold back the urge to vomit. He gripped the sink tighter, and the porcelain started to crack under his fingers. The sound of breaking got his attention, and he pulled his hands away from the sink and stared at them. His fingers had elongated, growing almost twice as long as they should have been. His fingernails had become jagged and sharp. J¨¢nos clenched his fists, desperately trying to hide his fingers and nails in the misguided belief that maybe they would somehow change back to what they had been before.

    The restroom door slammed open and J¨¢nos looked back up at the mirror, catching the reflection of Osol as he strode into the restroom. He¡¯d started unbuckling his belt as soon as he entered, and when Osol caught sight of J¨¢nos a look of distaste washed over his face. He turned his back and slipped into a stall, muttering something under his breath.

    J¨¢nos was on him in a heartbeat. He didn¡¯t even feel in full control over his body. All he knew was that he was lunging and attacking Osol with a ferocity that was fueled by hatred and anger and a ravenous hunger. Osol didn¡¯t even have time to scream as J¨¢nos bit into his neck, releasing a warmth from the body that J¨¢nos luxuriated in.

    When it was finished, J¨¢nos was in command enough to know that he needed to get out of there. A small voice in the back of his brain was freaking out over having killed someone, but another part of him was in control. He had just killed someone, and though it had temporarily calmed the hunger, he knew he needed to run. He needed to hide. He needed to come to grips with what had just happened.

 Chapter 9 - The Quiet after The Storm

    <u>Guiuan, Philippines</u>

    Nilo strolled along the beach, breathing in the crisp night air as the cool breeze caressed his skin. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver sheen over the dark waters. He tossed back his head, closed his eyes, and let the sound of the wind rushing off the ocean and rustling through the palm trees wash over him.

    The beach was his sanctuary. It was a place he came to whenever he could, seeking the solace of the wind. There was something about standing there, alone on the beach, that calmed him, as if he could feel the pull of the tides on his soul ¨C a connection to the ancestors who¡¯d fished these shores for generations.

    Tonight, the beach was perfect. No tourists, no managers, no vendors hawking their wares ¨C just Nilo and the ocean. It was just him and the ocean.

    And then, Ang Bagyo struck. One moment he was enjoying the feel of the ocean breeze on his face, the next he was staring up at a mass of swirling clouds that formed almost instantaneously. Nilo stumbled back in shock, but his legs refused to budge. All he could do was stand and stare in awe as the massive typhoon drew closer. It advanced with an eerie silence, offering no warning to the unsuspecting people of Guiuan.

    Ang Bagyo was vast, its edges glowing with a strange light that Nila had never seen in a storm before. Lightning forked through the clouds in dazzling displays, but there was no thunder. There wasn¡¯t any sound at all.

    Only silence.

    Nilo¡¯s heart raced and the only thing he could do was stand there and watch as the storm approached the shore. He braced himself for the fury of the typhoon to break upon the land. He shut his eyes, waiting for the inevitable carnage of the storm.

    But nothing happened.

    He blinked, confused. He felt the wind on his face and the salt in the air, but there was no rain. There was no thunder. The typhoon passed over him like a ghost, enveloping the beach in a ghostly shroud. He glanced around, expecting to see devastation, but everything was calm. The waves lapped gently at the shore, the palm streets stood unmoved, and the sand beneath his feet remained dry.

    He blinked again and watched as ghostly apparitions manifested before his eyes. Trees were uprooted, waves crashed violently against the shore, and houses crumbled under the weight of the storm. But none of it was real.

    They weren¡¯t physical events that he was seeing. They were more¡­spectral echoes, like memories replaying themselves in the air. Nilo recognized the scenes unfolding before him. It was Typhoon Haiyan, a catastrophic storm that had devastated Guiuan years ago. He¡¯d been a child then, huddled with his family as their home was torn apart by the relentless wind and water. But now, the damage he saw didn¡¯t match the reality around him. The beach was untouched, the houses in the distance stood firm, and the trees were unbroken.

    Nilo stumbled along the beach, his hands reaching out instinctively to block aside the phantom debris kicked up by the storm. His fingers passed through it like mist, the illusion continuing on regardless of what he did to try and stop it.

    Eventually, the apparitions faded, leaving the beach as serene and undisturbed as it had been just minutes before. Nilo stood there for a moment longer, his mind reeling from what he¡¯d just seen. Finally, the weight of it all crashed over him, and he fell to his knees in the sand, a shuddering sob escaping him.

    His cries as he relieved the fear and helplessness that he¡¯d felt that night echoed through the silence that reigned on the beach.

    <u>Dhaka, Bangladesh</u>

    Naira always felt at home in the city. The streets were a living, breathing entity, filled with all the noise of life. The honking of cars, the chattering of people, the cries of the street vendors, and the distant hum of constructions ¨C it all combined into a symphony that she found endlessly comforting. It was a constant background song that followed her as she went about her daily routine.

    She walked through the crowded streets, the sun having dipped below the horizon long ago, so she knew she was expected to be at home. Weaving between the rickshaws and the pedestrians, her ears filled with the familiar din of the city. But a sudden crack of thunder made her stop and look up at the sky.

    Something about the noise frightened her, but she couldn¡¯t explain why. When she looked up, despite the city¡¯s light pollution, she could see thick, swirling clouds forming overhead, blotting out what little sky was visible. And then, the first drops of rain began to fall, and Naira let out a gasp. But her gasp was swallowed up by the start of Tuph¨¡na.

    It was as if someone had flipped a switch and muted the entire world. The constant noise of Dhaka had vanished, replaced by an oppressive, unnatural quiet. Naira glanced around, desperate to figure out where the noise went. She watched as a bus sped down the street, its horn blaring silently. Pedestrians gestured and shouted at each other, but no sound escaped their lips. Babies cried in silent distress, and street vendors opened their mouths to call out, but nothing reached her ears.

    Naira took a few hesitant steps forward, fear gripping her. Even her footsteps made no sound on the sidewalk. The rain was falling harder now, but the droplets hit the ground in complete silence. Panic was rising in her chest and her mind was spinning out of control. What was happening? What was going on with her? Where did the sound go?

    She reached out to touch the shoulder of a man standing nearby, his face a mirror of her own confusion and fear. He turned to her, his lips moving in a question she couldn¡¯t hear.

    Without thinking, Naira started running, desperate to reach her family and make sure they were safe. She only got half a block before she realized she couldn¡¯t even hear her own breathing. The silence was so disorienting that she stumbled and fell, scraping her hands on the rough pavement. She crawled to the nearest building, hoping the surety of something solid to lean against would calm her down. She tried focusing on her breathing, but when even that made no sound, she started panicking even more. All she could do was watch in horror as the city around her descended into a silent frenzy, everyone reacting to the sudden, terrifying loss of sound.

    And then, just as unexpectedly as it began, Tuph¨¡na retreated. The clouds above began to disappear, and Naira felt a strange pressure in her ears, like the sensation of being deep underwater. Then, with a force that nearly knocked her over, the sound came roaring back.

    The honking of cars, the cries of children, the rush of water in the gutters ¨C all of it came crashing over her at once in an overwhelming, deafening explosion of noise. People around her clapped their hands to their ears, wincing at the sudden tonal onslaught. The city itself seemed to shudder as the pent-up sounds that had vanished in the storm were unleashed in a single, thunderous wave.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    <u>Cheyenne, Wyoming</u>

    The Storm lashed at the windows of the Denny¡¯s attached to the truck stop. The rain had come out of nowhere, a sudden deluge that forced everyone milling around the parking lot in the early morning hours to rush inside. As the rain smashed against the restaurant windows, nobody noticed as it quietly whispered to the diners and staff, enhancing the emotions that already lay close to the surface.

    In the kitchen, the cook methodically made his way through the flurry of orders from those who decided to ride out the storm in the diner. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he flipped a pancake with flourish, glancing over at Lizzy ¨C the one waitress on duty this morning. She caught his gaze and returned it with a shy smile. After months of nervous hesitation, Jake had finally asked her out on a date, and she¡¯d said yes. The rain outside seemed to tap out a joyful rhythm in sync with his mood: ¡®She¡¯s perfect,¡¯ it seemed to say, ¡®You¡¯ve finally found the one.¡¯

    In the booth near the back, a couple sat in tense silence. Sarah and Tom exchanged worried glances; their hands tightly clasped under the table. Sarah¡¯s eyes welled up with tears, and Tom squeezed her hand tighter, trying to offer what little comfort he could. Their bills were piling up, and uncertainty about their future creeped into their thoughts, amplified by the rhythmic slap of rain on the windows. It seemed to whisper their fears back to them: ¡®How will you make it through this month?¡¯ ¡®What if you lose the house?¡¯

    At the breakfast counter, a middle-aged man stared at his phone, his face a mask of disappointment. Mark had just received another rejection email, another missed opportunity in his seemingly endless job hunt. He read through the useless pleasantries of the form letter telling him that ¡®despite his obvious qualifications, the company has chosen to move in another direction.¡¯ The plinking drops of rain outside seemed to mock him, each drop a reminder of his failures and the growing sense of hopelessness he felt: ¡®You¡¯ll never find a job,¡¯ it whispered, ¡®You should just give up.¡¯

    In a corner booth, another man sat alone, his eyes dark with bitterness. Duke was in the middle of a bitter divorce, and The Storm inside him seemed to mirror the tempest outside. The rain¡¯s whispers drumming against the diner stoked his resentment, reminding him of the love he lost and the betrayal he couldn¡¯t forget. He glared at Jake and Lizzy, their buddy romance a painful contrast to his own crumbling marriage. The Storm fed his dark thoughts, whispering: ¡®You¡¯ll never find happiness again,¡¯ and ¡®It was only a matter of time before she left you.¡¯

    By the window, a man sat quietly, waiting for his breakfast. Alex didn¡¯t notice The Storm¡¯s whispers as they slid past him, unheard and unfelt. He sipped his Dr. Pepper and gazed out at the rain with a sense of calm, appreciating The Storm¡¯s beauty and not picking up on the emotional undercurrents affecting the others.

    When Lizzy dropped off his scrambled eggs and pancakes, he looked up and gave her a warm smile and a nod of thanks before unwrapping the silverware at his side. She signed a quick ¡°enjoy your meal¡± before turning back to the counter. She¡¯d been practicing it for the past few minutes, having searched for how to make the signs on her phone. When she caught Jake¡¯s eyes through the kitchen window, her cheeks flushed. The rain pattered out a ¡®thank god he finally asked, I was about to drag him to the movies myself if he hadn¡¯t.¡¯

    Both Alex and Duke noticed the brief exchange between Lizzy and Jake. Alex smiled at them, pleased that the waitress had learned a small bit of sign language and happy to see the spark of new love between her and the cook. Duke merely glared, The Storm whispering dark thoughts: ¡®Why should they be happy?¡¯

    As The Storm¡¯s whispers intensified, so did Duke¡¯s anger. His hand tightened around the silverware on the table, and he pulled out a fork before standing, his face twisted in a snarl as he stalked towards Lizzy. His heart pounded with rage and The Storm¡¯s dark suggestions urged him on.

    Mark was the first to react. As he slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket, saddened by yet another job that realized he was never going to be good enough, the flash of motion caught his attention. He saw Duke lunge towards Lizzy, fork raised, and without thinking, he rushed forward and shoved Lizzy out of the way just as Duke struck. The fork stabbed into Mark¡¯s shoulder, and he cried out in shock and pain. Lizzy screamed, Duke snarled, and Jake shouted.

    The motion jolted Alex into action. He leaped from his booth and tackled Duke to the ground, pinning his arms. Tom rushed over to help, and together they held Duke down. Sarah, her hands shaking with adrenaline, fumbled for her phone and dialed 911, while Jake and Lizzy tried to stem the blood flowing from Mark¡¯s shoulder.

    By the time the police and paramedics arrived, The Storm had abated, leaving a quiet hush in its wake. The rain stopped whispering, and the diner was filled with the sounds of sirens and the low murmur of concerned patrons, all trying to make sense of the chaos that had just unfolded.

    <u>Danjiangkou City, China</u>

    Li Wei stood at the base of the Golden Summit in the Wudang Mountains, staring up at the steep path that twisted and turned through the darkness above. The ancient stone steps, worn smooth by the passage of countless pilgrims, led to a temple perched at the mountain¡¯s peak, a place where legends said enlightenment awaited those who sought it.

    Li Wei¡¯s entire life had been a cascade of worries. He worried about his marriage prospects, about keeping his job, about his aging parents. But more than anything else, he worried that he simply wasn¡¯t enough. He tried everything to ease his anxieties and live a better, happier life, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, in a moment of desperation, he decided to turn to the wisdom of those who came before him and set out on a pilgrimage to the Golden Summit.

    With a deep breath, Li Wei began his ascent. The wind picked up almost immediately, howling through the trees as dark clouds gathered overhead. Halfway up the trail, F¨¥ngb¨¤o hit, drenching him to the bone in an instant. Fierce winds whipped around him, and the rain stung his skin like icy needles. Each step forward felt like a battle against the elements. The rain was relentless with each cold drop seeming to whisper, ¡®it¡¯s okay to quit. It¡¯s okay to release your burden.¡¯

    But Li Wei pressed on. Each step forward was an act of defiance against F¨¥ngb¨¤o. The path grew steeper and more treacherous as memories of his worries flooded his mind ¨C his uncertain future, the weight of his family¡¯s expectations, the crushing load of his own insecurities. As he climbed higher, the rain seemed to seep into his very soul, washing over him not just physically, but emotionally. The doubts and fears that had grabbed hold of his mind started to lift. Each step along the path was a step away from all the burdens that had weighed him down for so long. The rain made the steps slick, and Li Wei stumbled from time to time. His legs ached with the repetitive motion of the climb, but he felt lighter with every stride.

    The summit was still hidden, cloaked in darkness and rain. Li Wei¡¯s legs burned with exhaustion, and his lungs ached for air, but he refused to stop climbing. F¨¥ngb¨¤o redoubled its efforts, the wind howling louder and the rain slashing harder. It felt like the elements themselves were testing his resolve.

    As he neared the top, his back bent and his arms pushing against his legs and he willed himself forward, F¨¥ngb¨¤o unleashed its full fury. The wind roared in his ears and the rain lashed against him with a renewed fury. But Li Wei pressed on. And he felt something shift inside him. All his anger, all his disappointments, all his fears seemed to dissolve in the torrential downpour.

    Finally, Li Wei set foot on the summit, and the rain stopped. Standing before the temple, he looked back over the valley below. F¨¥ngb¨¤o retreated, leaving behind a serene, almost otherworldly landscape. It was the middle of the night, but as he stood there, drenched and exhausted, Li Wei felt like the sun was dawning for the first time.

    He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling peace settle through him. The temple, silent and majestic, was the only witness to his transformation. For the first time in his life, Li Wei felt truly unburdened, as if F¨¥ngb¨¤o had washed away not just the dirt and grime of the world, but the heaviness that clung to his soul.

    And for the first time in his life, all the worries, disappointments, and anxieties were silent.

    <u>The House</u>

    The House watched with interest as Everything started shimmering with an energy it hadn¡¯t felt in ages. The Storm had stretched itself, transforming the world in ways The House hadn¡¯t imagined possible.

    Each gust of Wind whispered secrets, each flash of Lightning revealed glimpses of the possible, each splash of Rain unveiled long dormant energies.

    In bustling cities, the Rain spoke to those huddled inside their homes, drawing out their deepest fears and greatest hopes.

    In the countryside, Animals moved with an strange grace, momentarily endowed with the wisdom of Old Spirits.

    In the Forests, Trees swayed with rhythms long forgotten, as if remembering the dances of times long past.

    The House watched as The Storm wove through the lives of people far and wide. In a small town, a young girl discovered she could talk to the Wind, her laughter blending with the breeze. In a crowded street market, a merchant found his goods glowing with a mysterious light, drawing in customers with an almost magical allure. In the heart of a dense Forest, a hidden spring bubbled with newfound vitality, its waters offering visions to those brave enough to drink.

    The House felt a surge of power ripple through the world, seeping into Everything. It was as if the Earth itself was waking from a long slumber, stretching and shaking off the chains of mundanity that had bound it for so long.

    Nestled atop a quiet hillside, the House absorbed the energy, feeling its own consciousness expand and strengthen. The sensation was familiar and comforting, a distant echo of the day it had first awakened to the world.

    As the Storm¡¯s fury began to peter out, its power spent in a short but intense burst, the House sensed a shift. Everything felt more vibrant, more alive, more like how the world had been when the House was first born. It was as if The Storm had peeled back the layers of Time, allowing ancient powers to seep back into existence.

    The House knew it was time to move once more. It gathered its essence, letting the energy guide it. A faint whisper of power led the House towards a small island, still tinged with the remnants of The Storm¡¯s magic. As it nestled itself into the landscape, seamlessly blending with the natural beauty of the Island, it shaped its outer shell to match the surrounding Forest and dug its roots deep into the Earth, tapping into the primal energy that lay beneath, ready to embrace whatever came next.

 Chapter 10 - The Newsroom

    Transcript of In the Newsroom with Sarah Collins. Interview with Dr. Weaver, Dr. Richardson, and James Martin.

    Sarah Collins: Good evening, and welcome to In the Newsroom. I¡¯m Sarah Collins, and tonight, we have a special segment on the unprecedented meteorological event that has taken the world by storm ¨C quite literally. Joining me tonight are Dr. James Weaver, a meteorologist with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration; Dr. Emily Richardson, head of the theology department at Stanford University; and Senator James Martin, who served over thirty years on Capitol Hill. Thank you all for being here.

    Dr. Weaver: Happy to be here, Sarah.

    Dr. Richardson: Thanks for having me, Sarah.

    Senator Martin: It¡¯s a pleasure.

    Sarah Collins: Dr. Weaver, let¡¯s start with you. The world has been captivated by reports from various countries about what happened yesterday. This event, commonly referred to as The Storm, encircled the globe and brought about some truly bizarre phenomena. We¡¯ve heard of bubbles raining down in Sao Paulo, the scent of baked goods wafting through parts of England, and unsettling reports from Pucon, Chile, where an entire town was reportedly driven mad. Can you tell us what might be causing these occurrences?

    Dr. Weaver: Certainly, Sarah. This storm is unlike anything we¡¯ve experience before. Our initial observations suggest it might be caused by a combination of unique atmospheric anomalies and environmental factors that we¡¯ve never encountered before.

    Sarah Collins: I¡¯m sorry, Doctor. Could you explain that for the people at home?

    Dr. Weaver: {chuckles} Of course. Take the bubbles in Sao Paulo that you mentioned. They could be the result of specific pollutants in the air reacting with moisture, creating a natural foaming effect. As for the scent of baked goods in England, that could be linked to volatile organic compounds being released from vegetation or soil. In short, there are logical explanations for all these things. But, in truth, we¡¯re still in the early stages of understanding what¡¯s happening here. We need a lot more data to pinpoint the causes behind these phenomena.

    SC: And the reports coming out of Pucon? How could a storm cause an entire town to go insane?

    Dr. Weaver: That¡¯s by far one of the more perplexing aspects we¡¯re running into. While we can hypothesize scientific explanations for most of the phenomena we¡¯re observing, Pucon presents a particularly challenging case. It¡¯s possible the storm carried toxic substances that affected the neurological functioning of the residents. We¡¯ve seen instances where pollutants have entered rainwater and spread over large areas due to meteorological events. We¡¯re exploring various possibilities, including chemical pollutants or even fungal spores that might have been carried by the storm. However, I have to reiterate, these are just hypotheses at this stage, and we still need to collect more data.

    SC: People are asking if this could happen again. Is this the new normal? I¡¯ve seen a number of people on social media linking this storm to global warming and climate change and wondering if this is going to be a recurring event. What are your thoughts?

    Dr. Weaver: It¡¯s a valid concern, Sarah, but the honest answer is we just don¡¯t know yet. Good science takes time. We need to gather data, develop hypotheses, and test them against the facts and figures we collect. It will take time to understand what caused this storm. It will take time to understand what its long-term effects might be. It will take time to figure out what this means for future meteorological events. Right now, we have far more questions than answers.

    SC: Senator Martin, you¡¯ve spent years on Capitol Hill. What sort of government response can we expect to see in the wake of this storm?

    Senator Martin: I¡¯ve been on the phone all day with people from both sides of the aisle, and what I¡¯m hearing is that both houses are trying to come up with a plan to present to the President. I¡¯d say that an emergency funding bill is going to move through the House as early as tomorrow and then it¡¯ll quickly pass through the Senate and land on the President¡¯s desk by the end of the week.

    SC: That¡¯s¡­fast. What will be the focus of the bill?

    Senator Martin: Well, people are scared. And they want to see that their government is working for them. I expect that the bill is going to release funds to make sure emergency services are mobilized. Congress is going to be spending a bunch of money on the areas of the country that were most affected. Some regions, like my home state of Missouri, came through relatively unscathed and won¡¯t need as much help. And that actually poses a problem for Congress.

    SC: How so? Shouldn¡¯t it make passing the bill easier if not everyone needs funding?

    Senator Martin: It¡¯s because not everyone is getting money that makes it a problem. We¡¯ve seen it with other natural disasters; some Senators and Representatives will ask why their tax dollars should go to states hit by tornadoes or hurricades, and they grandstand and try to stall the bills. You¡¯re also going to see Senators and Representatives try to make a big deal about runaway federal spending, just to get their faces on TV. We¡¯ve seen it time and time again.

    SC: So, if this bill does pass, what¡¯s going to be in it? Have you heard any specifics?

    Senator Martin: Besides funding for emergency responders? There¡¯s also talk about earmarking money for various studies. As Dr. Weaver pointed out, science takes time. Some of my former colleagues are talking about bringing in scientists from all over so we can analyze all this data that¡¯s being collected. You also have people out of work because of the storm, so the bill could include money for people whose lives were disrupted by the stomr. And you¡¯ve got mental health resources that are being talked about. There was a lot of stress and anxiety caused by all these stories we¡¯re hearing about. But I wouldn¡¯t hold out much hope for either of those two things to make it through the working groups.

    SC: Dr. Richardson, there are people who are viewing these events through a spiritual or religious lens. We¡¯ve reported on several groups claiming that this is a warning from God. What are your thoughts on that?

    Dr. Richardson: The Storm has certainly sparked a lot of spiritual reflection, Sarah. Throughout history, unusual natural phenomena are often seen as the sign of a higher power. Storms, in particularly, are deeply connected with religious symbolism ¨C think of Rembrandt¡¯s Christ in the Storm on the Sea of Galilee, which depicts Jesus calming a tempest.

    SC: Do you believe this storm was caused by a higher power?

    Dr. Richardson: Raining bubbles, the events on Everest, reports of strange figures in the sky, the madness in Pucon ¨C all those phenomena are reminiscent of stories of divine interventions. Many people see The Storm as a way to urge us to reconnect with our spiritual roots.

    SC: Then, how do you respond to those who say this is a purely scientific phenomena with no spiritual implications at all?

    Dr. Richardson: Well, I don¡¯t believe that spirituality and science are at odds at all. Einstein famously believed in a higher power. Johannes Kepler saw his work as a way to understand God¡¯s creations. Norman Borlaug, who devoted his entire life to feeding others, was a believer. Science can help us better understand these events; spirituality can help us find meaning and purpose in them. It¡¯s about keeping an open mind, recognizing the scientific explanations and being open to the possibility that a deeper, spiritual meaning can compliment that.

    SC: But what happens when the spiritual and religious gets misused by governments?

    Dr. Richardson: Unfortunately, there are plenty of examples where people have misused religion and spirituality. What we need right now is for scientists to gather the data, politicians to make informed decisions, and religious and spiritual leaders to help people better understand the ethical and moral issues we face.

    SC: We¡¯ve seen a few religious organizations claim that this is the end times. What would you say to them right now?

    Dr. Richardson: It¡¯s understandable that, the more we learn about all the events that took place, the more people are thinking about apocalyptic scenarios. It¡¯s something that was bound to happen. But we¡¯ve seen all this before ¨C throughout history, natural disasters have been mistaken for the end times. But humanity has endured them. The Storm is mysterious, but it doesn¡¯t necessarily mean an impending apocalypse.

    Dr. Weaver: Consider in¡­I think it was the 1780s or 1790s, up in New England. The sky went pitch black in the middle of the day to the point that everyone needed to use candles at noon. People thought it was the end of days. But, we know that it was caused by the smoke from forest fires in Canada mixing with a thick New England fog. The more we learn about this storm, the more data we can collect and analyze, the less panic and concern it¡¯ll cause.

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    SC: So, you believe we should be studying this storm solely from a scientific perspective.

    Dr. Weaver: Science doesn¡¯t operate in isolation. A field like climatology has deep roots with the Greeks and the Chinese. The British used to study it for reliable trade wind data. Now, the field is interconnected with agriculture, political science, manufacturing, and many more fields besides. No field of science is completely separate. Understanding this storm is going to require a multidisciplinary approach, combining scientific research with insights from many different fields.

    SC: Dr. Richardson, we¡¯re seeing fractures within some religious communities, each with their own different interpretation of what has happened. How are you seeing this division?

    Dr. Richardson: You do often have interpretations of religious texts that depict the end times, but these texts are often symbolic and open to interpretation. You need to understand the historical and cultural context they were written in and approach them with a nuanced understanding. Yes, they can offer wisdom and guidance without necessarily predicting future events.

    Senator Martin: America has a long history of end-of-days fears. Remember Y2K? That was all people wanted to talk about back in 1999. Or what about when Sputnik launched and people thought the space race was over and everyone in America thought the Soviet Union would be launching nukes soon after. But we¡¯re all still here.

    Sarah Collins:  You can¡¯t deny that there¡¯s a lot of fear out there. We¡¯ve reported on riots and widespread panic in a lot of places.

    Dr. Richardson: Fear is a natural response to everything we¡¯re learning. The Storm is something that is so unprecedented that fear is natural. But, I would also tell people that it¡¯s a time to find comfort in something greater than themselves. It doesn¡¯t have to be faith, although that can help. They can find peace in their communities or by learning more about what¡¯s happening. It¡¯s important that we keep educating people on The Storm. We need to support one another and being patient and kind to one another. Look to spiritual leaders, scientists, and experts. Humanity has had challenges before, and we¡¯ve overcome them. We¡¯ll have challenges ahead of us, and we¡¯ll overcome those too.

    &&&&&

    Malcolm wasn¡¯t happy at all with the interview that had just aired. The biggest news story of the century, possibly of all time, and his anchor was stuck talking to people who had no charisma or screen presence. He could understand the scientist and theologist not being great on tv, but how had Senator Martin ever gotten elected when he was that dull?

    In J-school, one of his professors said that a reporter only ever gets to use one exclamation mark in their entire career. Moon landing! Manned flight! War! Those three guests that he was forced to put on the air were ruining his exclamation mark moment with their dullness.

    He strolled into the conference room and took his seat at the foot of the table, looking out at all the reporters and producers he called together. ¡°Okay everyone, that was¡­not great.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re telling me,¡± complained Sarah. ¡°I had to carry all three of them through that interview.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll look to get better guests but, at the moment, everyone we can call up is still trying to come to terms with what happened. We¡¯ll need to lean on the stories themselves,¡± announced Malcolm. ¡°We should have been doing that from the start. I need photos, videos, interviews with people who experienced these events. We¡¯ve already been on the phone with local news agencies and wire services. AP is sending out their reporters to every confirmed event, and we should be getting good quotes soon. What we need are pitches. Give me some stories to chase, people.¡±

    Terry, one of the older producers Malcolm had brought along with him from his previous news show, pulled out his notepad and started reading from it. ¡°I¡¯ve got one. United Airlines 1170. It was going from LAX to Honolulu. Flew through one of The Storm clouds, and everyone inside blacked out for a second. All of them, including the pilot.¡±

    ¡°What happened? Did it crash?¡±

    ¡°Nope. They came to a moment later. But nobody on the plane knew how they got there,¡± Terry explained. ¡°The Storm wiped out the last three weeks of their memories. People were freaking out because, one moment they¡¯re at home or work or wherever, and the next they¡¯re on a plane flying over the Pacific. I spoke with someone at the FAA who says they¡¯re listening to the black box now, but they¡¯re not releasing any information on it.¡±

    Malcolm nodded. ¡°Good, stay on that. Who do we have in Hawaii? Get them to do some interviews with the passengers. We can cut it together and get five minutes out of it. Next.¡±

    Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw one of the interns holding up his phone to try and get everyone¡¯s attention, but he was cut off by the next producer at the table. Gotta be quicker than that, intern.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been talking with the London bureau,¡± said another producer. ¡°An old ship pulled into London harbor late last night.¡±

    ¡°And why is that interesting?¡± Malcolm asked. ¡°I assume a bunch of ships pull into the harbor every night.¡±

    ¡°Old ship. Like¡­really old. Sails old. But that¡¯s not the most interesting thing.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like it when people keep me in suspense,¡± Malcolm said with an eyeroll. ¡°Being mysterious doesn¡¯t work in a newsroom.¡±

    ¡°Nobody is talking about it. Everyone we¡¯ve got at the London bureau has been reaching out to their sources. Military, government, royal family, they¡¯re all quiet. Nobody is saying anything. It¡¯s like it didn¡¯t even happen, even though there were a few dozen witnesses to the thing pulling up to the harbor.¡±

    ¡°Okay¡­that¡¯s odd, I¡¯ll grant you that. Keep talking with the London bureau and keep me updated. Next.¡±

    ¡°I think we should dig into something Senator Martin mentioned about the government bill. He said they were looking at mental health services to help people cope with The Storm. We could do a few stories on that.¡±

    Malcolm swiveled his chair to the producer who suggested it ¨C Carol. He always suspected she was a day drinker. Her work was a little sloppy. He often found himself minutes away from firing her, but Carol had an uncanny ability to develop sources that others couldn¡¯t. ¡°Hmm, check back on that next week. Right now, we¡¯re still focused on figuring out what actually happened during The Storm. Darren, what do you have?¡±

    Darren was seated next to Carol, and he perked up at being called upon. He opened his notepad, a pained expression crossing his face. ¡°Not much. Something happened in Lesotho.¡±

    ¡°Something happened in Lesotho,¡± Malcolm repeated in a flat voice. ¡°You¡¯re a reporter, and the best you¡¯ve got is ¡®something happened in Lesotho¡¯?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to decipher their social media posts, but they speak Sesotho, Xhosa, and about five dozen other languages there, none of which we have a translator for. I¡¯m stuck using Google Translate, and it¡¯s not all that great.¡±

    ¡°Well, what did you find out so far?¡±

    ¡°The Storm hit them and did something to their farmland, which could be really good or really bad. Most of their population are subsistence farmers.¡±

    ¡°Okay, keep me updated.¡± Malcolm turned to the next reporter down the line. Jeremy was a new guy eager to prove himself and Malcolm had parked him in front of a computer early in the morning to trawl through social media posts. ¡°What do you got?¡±

    ¡°Uh, it could be big,¡± said Jeremy. ¡°A Russian town was¡­moved. One moment they¡¯re in Russia, and in the morning they¡¯re not.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve got to be kidding,¡± Malcolm said, stunned. ¡°An entire town was moved?¡±

    ¡°Yea. Not only that, but it was moved to Kazakhstan. The town is now near¡­Zhalualy. I think I¡¯m pronouncing that correctly. It¡¯s a big lake inside the Kazakh borders. The people went to sleep, The Storm hit, and they woke up in a completely different country.¡±

    ¡°Oh man. That¡¯s¡­potentially catastrophic. Russia and Kazakhstan used to be close allies, but their relationship has been strained ever since the invasion of Ukraine.¡±

    Jeremy nodded. ¡°Yea. I¡¯m already reaching out to people at the Kazakhstan embassy in DC for comment. I was about to head over to the UN to see if I can get some reactions there. An entire Russian town inside Kazakh borders is going to be talked about. Kazakhstan is already wary of Russian interest in Northern Kazakhstan. There¡¯s a large Russian minority in the region, so there are probably concerns that Russia might use this as a pretext for invasion or something.¡±

    ¡°Keep an eye on it. See if we¡¯ve got anyone in the region who can get to the village. Next.¡± Malcolm¡¯s eyes flittered to the intern struggling to join the conversation. Come on, kid, this is a newsroom. You¡¯ve got to speak up if you want to be heard.

    ¡°There¡¯s that guy in Brooklyn,¡± said Hailee, the next producer in line. ¡°He¡¯s been posting all morning saying The Storm made his apartment come alive and it tried to eat him. It¡¯s been all over social media.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve already sent someone over there to check on it,¡± Malcolm said, his eyes drifting towards the conference room door as it opened. ¡°Speak of the devil. Tell us what you know, Matt.¡±

    Matt, one of Malcolm¡¯s most trusted reporters, strode into the conference room and tossed his bag on the table before easing into one of the chairs. ¡°I know that I hate going to Brooklyn. I checked on that guy¡¯s story. There¡¯s nothing suggesting it¡¯s true.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°I looked around, talked to some of the neighbors, found nothing. My guess, he saw everything that was being posted on social media and decided to get in on it by claiming he was involved in an event or something. Best I can tell, he¡¯s lying out his ass.¡±

    ¡°Shit,¡± said Malcolm. His attention was once more drawn to the intern in the corner, holding his phone out. He was trying to make eye contact with¡­whomever so that it would give him permission to speak. Malcolm was about to berate him for not speaking up when Matt cut in.

    ¡°Yea, but you¡¯re going to love what I did find. In the Uber back here, I started chatting with a couple sources out in the 72<sup>nd</sup> precinct. They cover the area around Sunset Park. They say they¡¯ve got three people in custody for crimes committed yesterday ¨C a shooting and two robberies.¡±

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°All three of them blamed The Storm for driving them mad enough to commit the crimes.¡±

    Malcolm leaned back in his chair, taking in the information.

    ¡°I¡¯m still not getting it,¡± Sarah said, looking between Malcolm and Matt. ¡°What¡¯s the significance?¡±

    ¡°It means Matt still loves to bury the lede for dramatic effect,¡± Malcolm said, shaking his head with a hint of a smile. Matt grinned and closed his notebook.

    ¡°You wanna fill the rest of us in?¡± asked Sarah.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been checking on a few stories in New York, and none of them hold up. They all seem iffy. I wouldn¡¯t run any of them because there¡¯s not enough evidence that they¡¯re true. That, combined with Matt¡¯s guy in Brooklyn who, if Matt is right, is making up a story about his apartment trying to eat him¡­¡± Malcolm trailed off, piecing it all together. He leaned forward and pointed at Matt. ¡°Do some more digging. Try reaching out to other precincts to see if they¡¯re seeing the same thing.

    ¡°We start with the big stories. There¡¯s one down in Pucon, but we need footage from someone down there. I know AP has a reporter heading to the town, but right now it¡¯s only Chilean news sources. We can wait until the AP guy gets there. Then there¡¯s the story in Wyoming I¡¯ve been hearing about. Some guy flips out and tries to attack people in a diner, claiming The Storm told him to. That¡¯ll grab attention.¡±

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that a little¡­macabre?¡± asked one of the younger producers. ¡°There are tons of stories out there. Do we really want to elevate the Wyoming or Pucon one?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you understand? There¡¯s more to it than just the events themselves,¡± Malcolm said, his mind racing at the implications of Matt¡¯s findings. ¡°Cheyenne PD released a statement this morning saying they¡¯re charging the guy in the diner with assault and attempted murder. What¡¯s his defense going to be? Temporary insanity is nearly impossible to prove, but we just had a storm that caused ridiculous events. A town being teleported from Russia to Kazakhstan is going to make it much easier to convince a jury that The Storm made this guy attack people.¡±

    ¡°Malcolm, I swear to God¡ª¡± grumbled Sarah. ¡°Get to the point.¡±

    ¡°My point is that New York probably wasn¡¯t hit by The Storm,¡± said Malcolm. ¡°Think about it ¨C we¡¯ve got a bunch of stories that all seem fabricated. No one has any videos of these supposed events. If New York wasn¡¯t affected by The Storm and people are just lying for social media attention, that undermines the defense of the three guys in Brooklyn who claim The Storm made them commit their crimes.

    ¡°How many other crimes happened yesterday with people blaming The Storm? Matt already dealt with one guy claiming his apartment tried to eat him. There are bound to be more like him. In a city of several million, there will be plenty trying to use this event as an excuse for their actions. That¡¯s their defense: ¡®The Storm made me do it.¡¯

    ¡°First person to find a case where a murder happened after The Storm and the perpetrator uses it as an alibi gets a Snickers bar.¡±

    The intern finally mustered the courage to raise his voice. ¡°Uh, Malcolm?¡± he called out, his voice shaking slightly. Malcolm turned his gaze towards the intern, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

    ¡°Yes?¡± Malcolm asked, slightly impatient.

    ¡°I think I¡¯ve got something interesting,¡± the intern said, trying to project confidence. It wasn¡¯t going well because he had finally noticed everyone else in the room looking at him. He stepped forward and placed his phone on the table, showing a picture. ¡°I, uh, I¡¯ve been combing through social media. This picture was taken by an elderly couple on Tsushima Island. It¡¯s near Japan. Or¡­it¡¯s Japanese. Uh, the couple was out walking today and captured this.¡±

    Malcolm squinted at the photo. ¡°Okay, what am I looking at?¡±

    One of the other producers, who had been glancing over Malcolm¡¯s shoulder, piped up. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s probably Iki island.¡± When Malcolm raised an eyebrow at the remark he added, ¡°my nephew played a lot of Ghost of Tsushima. Part of it takes place on Iki island.¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s not Iki island,¡± the intern insisted, shaking his head. ¡°Iki island is further away. This island wasn¡¯t there before. It popped up overnight.¡±

    Malcolm¡¯s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ¡°A new island just appeared out of nowhere?¡±

    The intern nodded fervently. ¡°Yes, and it¡¯s not just this one. I¡¯ve been searching social media for mentions of islands, and I think I¡¯ve found at least three others. That includes one that popped up off the coast of Manhattan.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re saying, an island appeared just off the coast of Manhattan,¡± said Malcolm, turning to the producers in the room. ¡°And nobody in this room caught it because they didn¡¯t think to look outside?!¡±