The lecture hall was a quiet, suffocating prison of boredom. The rhythmic scratching of pens, the soft shuffle of textbook pages, and the low, persistent hum of the overhead lights all blended into a monotonous symphony of academic tedium. Arjun sat hunched over his desk, his pen tracing a meaningless spiral in the margin of his textbook, a testament to his complete mental absence. Mr. Sharma's voice was a flat, persistent buzz about the War of the Roses, a conflict Arjun knew less about than he did about the dust motes (tiny particles of skin, hair, and other debris) dancing in the sunbeams that pierced the dusty windows. He was an expert on dust motes. He could tell you they were made of skin flakes, fabric fibers, and a thousand other tiny things that used to be part of something else, now floating uselessly in the air. Just like him.
He glanced around the classroom, a world of ordered purpose. Rahul in the front row, his neatly combed hair gleaming under the fluorescent light as he scribbled notes with a focus that suggested he was transcribing the secrets of the universe. Rohan, a few rows ahead, with a deep frown on his face as he wrestled with a complex equation on his notepad. They were all on a path, a destination. They had a destination. Arjun just felt like he was standing on a moving walkway, watching everyone else move past him with a sense of urgent direction while he stayed in place, an immobile anomaly. He was surrounded by people, yet felt utterly alone.
Mr. Sharma's voice sharpened, cutting through the haze. "And that, class, is the root of the entire conflict. A simple, personal grievance that became a national disaster. You see, it's never about the big things. It's about the small, personal secrets that fester until they explode."
Arjun's mind, which had been adrift, suddenly snapped back to the lecture. The War of the Roses wasn't just an old history lesson to Arjun. The old man was talking about a deep, personal argument that became a massive war, and it felt like a direct mirror of the small, unspoken problems in Arjun's own life. The professor's words felt like a judgment, a pointed accusation aimed solely at the frustrated boy in the back of the room. This was the same feeling he got at home. A silent, constant reminder that he was not enough.
The bell rang, a welcome clang that shattered the oppressive quiet. As the students scrambled to their feet, Arjun began to gather his things, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. It was Mr. Sharma. "Arjun, a word," the professor said, his voice softer than it was in front of the class, but carrying a weight that made Arjun's stomach clench.
"I'm not sure what's going on with you this term," Mr. Sharma said, his tone a mix of frustration and genuine concern. "Your test scores are a disaster. We both know you're better than this. I've seen your potential. But you're just... absent. I've already spoken with your parents about it. They're concerned, and frankly, so am I."
The words were a direct hit. He didn't have to say "genius," but Arjun heard it anyway. He just nodded, unable to meet the professor's gaze. "I'll try harder," he mumbled, the same hollow lie he told himself every day. With a final, disappointed sigh, Mr. Sharma let him go.
Arjun walked out into the busy hallway, the weight of the conversation clinging to him like a shroud. The world of other students, with their casual chatter and shared jokes, seemed miles away. He was still surrounded by people, but felt utterly alone. If he were to vanish tomorrow, he knew his absence would be a quiet void, a single seat that would eventually be filled without a second thought.
His walk home was a blur of familiar streets and the same familiar thoughts. He kicked a discarded soda can down the sidewalk, the metallic clang a small, satisfying rebellion against the world that was moving on without him. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of an impending storm, the sky a bruised purple, promising a release that felt as certain as his next lecture.
He let himself into the house. The scent of a simmering pot of stew filled the air, a scent that should have been comforting, but to him, it smelled like another conversation he couldn't escape. His mother, Meena, was in the kitchen, her back to him, her shoulders already tense.
"How was school?" she asked, without turning around. Her voice was flat, a preemptive sigh.
"Fine," he grunted, dropping his backpack with a thump by the door. It was a familiar ritual of evasion.
She finally turned, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her expression was a subtle mix of worry and disappointment. "Your father and I were just talking about your teacher's call. He says you're falling even further behind."
The knot in his stomach tightened. The storm outside began to rage in his chest. "I'm trying," he said, the words a hollow lie even to his own ears. The truth was, he didn't care enough to try.
"Trying isn't enough, Arjun," she said softly, but the words cut deep, sharper than any angry shout. "We know you're smart. Your father said you were a genius when you were little. You just have to apply yourself."
He didn't respond. He couldn't. He just walked past her and up the stairs to his room, closing the door behind him and leaning against it, his head bowed. He was trapped. In a world of expectations he couldn't meet, with people he loved but couldn't talk to. He felt his true self, the one he had buried so deep inside, screaming to be heard, to be seen, to be anything but what he had become completely different person
He slid to the floor, leaning against the door, the storm outside mirroring the turmoil in his chest. The bruised purple sky was now a churning mass of angry gray and black. He heard the first fat drops of rain splattering against his window, followed by a low rumble of thunder that shook the glass. He wasn't looking for a game or a video. He just wanted to feel something different. He glanced out the window, and a flash of lightning illuminated the yard. It was a strange, silent flash, not a jagged bolt but a shimmering web of pale blue light that seemed to stretch from the sky to the old oak tree in his backyard.
The light didn't disappear. Instead, it clung to the tree for a moment, humming with an unnatural energy. The humming intensified, and he felt a sharp, electric shock that didn't hurt but felt like a jolt of pure, clean energy. The humming grew louder, a low-frequency pulse that vibrated through the floor and up into his body. The familiar feeling of the chair beneath him vanished. The sounds of the house—the simmering stew, the distant hum of the refrigerator—faded into a muffled roar. The world around him dissolved into a torrent of light and color, a kaleidoscope of broken memories and scattered emotions. His consciousness felt like a fragile dust mote caught in an impossibly strong current.
His last coherent thought was a single word, a final, definitive declaration of his current existence.
Incomplete.
Then, everything went silent.
He opened his eyes to a new world. The air was thick with the scent of wet stone and decay. He was lying on a bed of cold, damp earth, surrounded by cracked and toppled gravestones. The sky above was a bruised, stormy purple he had only ever seen in a thunderstorm. He felt a different kind of body—lighter, stronger. He looked down at his hands, and they were not his own. The world was a vast, desolate expanse of crumbling, damaged buildings. The sky was a swirling, dark gray, and a strange, geometric structure, a spiral of black iron and glowing lines, stretched from an infinite height in the sky to the earth itself. It pulsed with a faint, otherworldly energy, and its humming was a deep, resonating hum that vibrated in Arjun's chest. He looked around. He was at the very edge of an insane cliff, and beyond the cliff, the strange structure continued down into the darkness, its end obscured by a thick, swirling mist. His mind was a blank slate, with only one single, powerful thought echoing in the void: Find the Mindrift.