Atama opened his eyes to a room transformed. Ashes drifted as drowsy fireflies, and soft embers pulsed in the shadows. The air was still, thick with the layered scent of rain-washed grass and something clean and distant—like the far-off sea. And there, in the corner of his room, stood the blue, translucent deer. Its gaze was fixed on him, calm, ancient, and quiet.
It was translucent, a creature of shimmering blue light, calm and ancient. For a moment, they both gazed at each other, their expressions fixed and collected. deep, quiet knowing. For a long moment, neither moved. Then so softly it begins to evanescence into a speck of light, lifted away as dust swayed through the air.
Atama sat up slowly. Despite being dissociated from this phenomenon, Atama felt an odd sensation. The heaviness that had pressed upon his chest was gone. His body felt light, almost new. Additionally, a memory awoke in his mind as he sat up; the rough, grizzled voice reverberated in remembrance.
"Atama, come and find me."
And then, fainter, like a whisper beneath the words.
"Go to Anapados and find Viona Caine."
It was faint, vaguely to be heard, but he understood.
He understood, but understanding brought more questions. Anapados—the ceiling world. He knew the name now, but not the place. In all the maps he'd seen, in all the lessons he'd slept through, there were only four states he knew in his country of all ten states. Plus, Atama senses there's a connection between that translucent deer and that grumpy old voice.
Was it even real? And who was Viona Caine?
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet meeting the cool floor. His muscles trembled, weak from days of stillness, still carrying the ghost of the creature's curse. He took one step, then another.
Plakk.
He stumbled, his body giving way. His cheek met the concrete with a dull thud, pain blooming across his chest.
"Damn," he muttered into the floor. "So this is what a week in bed does to you."
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up, holding onto the bedframe for support. His muscle fibers trembled, weak and strained. Through the window, the world was still dark. He glanced at the clock: 03:15 AM
Carefully, he made his way outside, while making sure he didn't fall by adjusting his balance.
The night air was cool against his skin. He sat on the ground beside the house, not caring about the dirt, and leaned back against the rough wall. In a distant place where Atama is from, looking from afar, a way, where only his house stands.
Atama can only ponder within that silence. Upon that, Atama gazed toward the curving sky and thought how Beautiful. Terrifying. His to reach, if he dared.
Atama lay with his head against the dirty wall, eyes closed, trying to summon the world above—the colossal roots, the inverted forests, the cities hung among clouds. But every time the images began to form, they dissolved back into the voice, the deer, the name he couldn't place.
If I just stayed… he thought, grasping for an anchor in the ordinary. If I dropped out, worked, helped Father and Mother… would that be enough?
But even as he wondered, he knew the ceiling world would still be there, waiting, watching—a truth he could never look away from again.
A hand touched his shoulder—gentle, warm.
"Atama?"
He opened his eyes. His mother knelt beside him, her face pale in the predawn light. Tears traced paths down her cheeks. For a moment, she just stared, as if afraid he might disappear again.
Then she pulled him into a tight embrace, her body shaking with silent sobs.
Finally, she could see her flesh and blood move again.
"You're awake," she whispered into his hair. "You're really awake."
"Oh… my son," Through her tears, she muttered, "don't leave me, you were my only son, and I don't want you to go.
Atama hugged her back, his own eyes stinging. "I'm sorry, Mom. I was so scared."
"Shh, it's alright. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." She stroked his hair, the way she had when he was small. "Atama?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you like to go to the market with me? We could buy groceries… together."
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. There was a softness there, a hope he hadn't seen in weeks. He managed a small, tired smile.
"Sure, Mom."
* * *
They rode through the quiet streets on the old blue bicycle, The frame creaked with every turn of the wheels, but neither of them minded. Atama pedaled slowly, his mother holding lightly to his sides. as the early morning breeze brushed against their faces.
"Atama," she said after a while, "what if we fixed up your bicycle? You've been walking to school for so long. You must be tired."
He was quiet for a moment, watching the road unwind ahead. The bicycle—more rust than blue now—had carried them through countless mornings. It held memories in every squeak and scrape, a thought that lingered softly in his mother's mind.
"I don't mind walking," he said finally. "And… I don't want you and Dad to spend money on something that might not last."
She rested her chin lightly on his shoulder. "But one day," she said softly, "you might need to move faster. Especially if you're chasing something big."
He didn't answer. His thoughts were already far ahead—upward, toward the ceiling. Who is Viona Caine? Why can't I stop thinking about her, and where the hell is Anapados?
He thought of asking his mother then and there, but the moment felt too fragile. Later, he decided. When we're home.
* * *
The market was lively. As the vendors had already set up their stalls, makeshift wooden tables, plastic crates stacked with produce, every stall lined the streets, vibrant with color and scent. Tomatoes glistened beside pale cucumbers; bundles of mint and cilantro perfumed the air. Atama's eyes wandered until they landed on a familiar stall—an old woman sitting behind trays of homemade sweets, including milk pies.
Atama glanced toward one of the merchants, a hunched old woman sitting cross-legged behind her stall. Her hands moved with practiced grace, arranging them neatly in rows while calling out softly to anyone who passed by. There was a warmth in her face, wrinkled but serene, as if she'd seen a thousand mornings like this, and never grown tired of them. She sold snacks: rice crackers, fried banana fritters, and sticky sweets wrapped in banana leaves. But most of all, she sells milk pies.
Atama's eyes were fixed upon the milk pie, and his mouth was drooling profusely, looking at his mother pleading written in his face, knowing well that his son always liked the milk pie when he was a kid and always bragging about it. Of course, she smiled softly and nodded gracefully.
Atama's mouth watered. He glanced back at his mother, who smiled and nodded.
"Go on," she said.
He didn't need telling twice.
The old woman looked up as he approached. Her face was a map of wrinkles, but her eyes were bright and knowing.
"Hello, young man. See something you like?"
"hehe… eh… how much The milk pie?"
"Three Haispur."
He dug into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled bills—the fern leaf of the one, the five-petaled lily of the two, the intertwining roots of the five. As he handed them over, he noticed the tattoo on her wrist: a sun cradled in a hand, a star at its center, surrounded by what looked like bone.
"Cool tattoo," he said without thinking.
She glanced down, her expression softening. "This old thing? It meant the world to me once. A symbol from my adventuring days. A reminder of friends… and times gone by."
Atama felt a pang—a memory of his own friends, of woods and laughter. "It's beautiful," he said quietly.
"Ah… thank you," he added with a polite nod. "I should get going now."
He took the pie and turned to leave, but her voice stopped him.
"You know," she said, her tone dropping, almost confidential, "the ceiling world is real."
Atama froze momentarily. His eyes widened as he slowly turned back to face her, a look of stunned surprise on his face.
"How did she know, so… there are others? People like me… who see it. Who believes in it? Who aren't just imagining things? The ceiling world is real." In that single question, more and more questions. But among all the questions has emerged: "Does she know the place of Anapados and Viona Caine?"
She smiled, and it was not the smile of a kindly grandmother. It was the smile of someone who knew secrets. "Join the Solaris Seeker," she said. "You'll find the haven you're looking for."
Solaris Seeker? Atama was startled, confused about what Solaris Seeker is about.
He hesitated, then blurted out the question that had been haunting him. "Do you know where Anapados is?"
For a moment, she just looked at him. Then her smile returned, deeper this time. "Anapados," she said, as though tasting the word, "is the ceiling world, dear."
Before he could ask more—about Viona, about the seekers, about how she knew—his mother's voice called from across the market.
"Atama? Ready to go?"
He looked back at the old woman. She gave a slow, deliberate nod, her eyes never leaving his.
"Thank you," Atama mumbled, and hurried back to his mother's side.
On the ride home, he was silent, lost in thought. His mother noticed.
"What's on your mind, sweetie?"
He almost told her. Almost. But the words stuck in his throat.
"Nothing," he said softly. "Let's just get home."
And as they pedaled away, he couldn't shake the feeling that the old woman was still watching, still smiling, as if she had just set something in motion—something he could not stop