Hi, my name is Franz Louise.
Life is weird. Sometimes it feels crushing—like a deadline due tomorrow morning. Other times it feels way too easy, to the point where you start wondering if something’s off.
I don’t really know what life actually means. And honestly, the more people ask that question, the more convinced I am that nobody really knows the answer.
If you look at it from a biological perspective, though, life is… neat. Almost too neat for something that’s supposedly random. The world feels like it was organized by someone obsessed with classification. Kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species. Everything has its place. Everything fits neatly on a shelf.
And if we—Homo sapiens—are the first species aware of that order, then there’s only one real question:
Will another species eventually reach our level of intelligence?
Or maybe surpass us… and laugh at us from a distance?
But then I caught myself.
Why am I even thinking that far ahead?
I’m just a regular student at Stanford. Not a philosopher. Not some mad scientist. I’m not even sure I’ll graduate on time.
One of my professors once said, “All living beings deserve the same chance at life.”
He said it with absolute conviction. Probably because he’s also a vegan activist. He’s a good guy. Not strict. Just… intensely serious about animal rights. The way he defends animals sometimes makes me think he’d save a cow before a drowning human.
Personally, I don’t think life has ever been truly fair. Animals are farmed for a reason. It’s not hatred—it’s a system. And honestly, I can’t imagine living without meat. If I had to choose, I’d probably give up first.
Especially goat meat.
It’s softer than beef, even if the smell is a bit… bold. But when it’s cooked right? Totally worth it. Always worth it. Just thinking about it is enough to mess up my focus in biology ethics class.
College life is… normal. Kind of boring, sometimes.
When I applied to Stanford, I didn’t actually expect to get in. I just thought, “It’d be funny if I did.”
Turns out, the universe has a sense of humor.
When the acceptance letter came, my parents reacted like I’d just won the lottery. My little brother didn’t care. My older sibling just said “congrats” in the flattest tone possible. My parents hugged me tightly—and in the middle of all that warmth, I had one thought:
“Damn. I signed up for med school.”
And now I’m here. At a dream campus. Slightly trapped.
But hey, regretting life choices doesn’t reduce the workload.
Dorm life is decent. I don’t have to walk far, and I get to pretend I’m an adult by doing my own laundry. My roommate’s name is Chase.
We’re not close. We barely talk.
Chase is basically my opposite. Star player on the college basketball team. Endless energy, like he’s been running on caffeine since birth.
Meanwhile, getting out of bed sometimes feels like a major achievement for me.
I spend most of my time in the room—either doing assignments or procrastinating doing them. And somehow, that vegan professor always manages to assign homework at the worst possible time. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything wrong in his class, but it still feels like he has a radar specifically tuned to detect my suffering.
Maybe all professors are like that.
Or maybe I just need more sleep.
For now, my life is simple. Wake up, go to class, eat, complain internally, sleep. No drama. Nothing weird.
And honestly?
I don’t mind that at all.
Ironically, I didn’t choose medicine because I wanted to save lives. I never had that dramatic childhood moment—seeing a doctor and thinking, “That’s my calling.”
No. I picked it because I’m good at biology, my parents are proud, and it seemed safe.
Safe is every adult’s favorite word.
The problem is, the more I study biology, the more it feels like life isn’t about right or wrong—it’s about who happens to be at the top of the food chain.
Biology ethics class. My vegan professor, once again playing the unofficial antagonist of my life.
That day, we were discussing animal experimentation. He went on about suffering, the right to live, and humanity’s responsibility as the so-called most intelligent species.
I took notes. Seriously. Even nodded at some points.
Then he ended the class with a question:
“If we had the option to live without harming other beings, do we still have the right to choose otherwise?”
Silence.
I wanted to answer—not to argue, but because my head was full of conflicting thoughts. About necessity. About nature. About the fact that most biological systems survive by sacrificing something.
But I stayed quiet. Like any student who knows grades matter more than debates.
After class, I had lunch alone. The menu was something labeled “plant-based alternative.” It wasn’t bad… but it wasn’t convincing either. Like food that wanted to be meat but didn’t quite believe in itself.
I ate while thinking about how strange life is. On one hand, we’re taught to respect all forms of life. On the other, we live in a system that clearly decides who survives and who doesn’t.
That night, back in the dorm, Chase actually spoke to me. Rare event.
“You taking bio ethics?” he asked while tying his shoes.
I nodded. “That obvious?”
“You look like someone who just realized life isn’t as simple as a lecture module,” he said with a small laugh.
I smiled. Chase isn’t the type to overthink. His world is simple: practice, game, sleep, repeat. And weirdly… I envy that a little.
“My dad’s a farmer,” he said suddenly.
I looked at him. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Sheep,” he added. “If your professor heard that, he’d probably faint.”
We both laughed. Not a cruel laugh—just the kind you share when you realize how different real life is from classroom discussions.
That night, I thought longer than usual before sleeping. About my professor. About Chase. About sheep. About how life can feel theoretical in one place and brutally practical in another.
I didn’t suddenly change my mind. I still eat meat. I’m still skeptical.
But something started to bother me.
Not guilt.
More like the realization that choices are rarely as simple as we pretend.
The next morning, I woke up at eight. Late—but still acceptable.
Chase was already gone. He usually wakes up at five to jog around campus, then comes back around ten before class. His routine is way too healthy for someone our age.
Campus life is weird when you think about it. Completely different from high school. Back then, you had to be at the gate by eight, neat and ready. Now? You just show up if you have class. The rest of the time feels optional.
Kind of crazy. But then again, humans are known for adapting to anything—from deserts to family group chats.
I stepped outside the dorm for some fresh air. Still in my pajamas. Honestly, I didn’t care. On this campus, the standard for “weird” broke a long time ago.
Case in point: in the middle of the field, I saw someone wearing the university mascot costume… a tree. Just standing there, waving enthusiastically at people.
Between the two of us—who’s weirder?
The pajama student, or the human tree at 8 a.m.?
The campus was crowded. Too crowded for someone who just wanted “fresh air.” I was already regretting this impulsive decision when I saw a girl handing out newspapers—probably from the journalism club. Stanford Daily.
Normally, I don’t care about campus news. It’s usually either achievements that make me feel inferior or opinions that are too heavy for this hour.
But one headline caught my attention immediately:
“Science or Myth? A Group of Sheep Found Dead Mysteriously in a Rural Village.”
Bingo.
My brain lit up instantly. Weird topic. Scientific. Slightly controversial. Perfect for assignments, class discussions… or pretending to sound smart.
And of course, the first face that popped into my head was my vegan professor.
“If he hears about this,” I thought, holding back a grin, “his blood pressure’s going up for sure.”
I grabbed a copy and sat on a bench, opening the front page.
The article was… odd.
Small rural village. No exact location. Several sheep dead. No signs of violence. No wounds. No blood.
Classic.
The local vet found no known disease. No toxins. Some sheep were even found in normal positions—standing or lying down, like they just… stopped.
I frowned.
One quote from a villager stood out:
“It feels like they died because of something you can’t see.”
I snorted quietly.
Right. Thanks for that groundbreaking scientific input.
But the more I read, the stranger it felt. Not scary—just… unsatisfying. The article was full of “unknown,” “under investigation,” and “no conclusion.”
Normally, that’s fine. Science is full of uncertainty.
But this felt different. Like everyone was avoiding the same conclusion—without agreeing on what it was.
Later, in class, I brought it up.
That… turned into a debate.
A real one.
Not dramatic, but intense.
My professor crossed his arms. “And what do you think?”
I shrugged slightly. “I think we’re too quick to assign moral judgment to something we don’t even understand scientifically yet.”
He smiled—that smile. The one that means the discussion’s about to get long.
“And history shows,” he replied, “that science has often been used to justify exploitation.”
“And morality has also been used to ignore uncomfortable facts,” I shot back, a bit sharper than I intended.
Oops.
By the end of class, he gave me an option:
“Turn that case into an additional essay. Analyze it from both biological and ethical perspectives.”
Extra work.
Extra credit.
I agreed.
At first, it was just a joke topic. Now… I had an actual reason to dig deeper.
And annoyingly, I was curious.
That night, I told Chase about it.
“Hey,” I said casually, tossing the newspaper onto the table. “You ever hear about a village where sheep are dying mysteriously?”
He stopped drinking.
Slowly.
“Why?” he asked, still casual—but his eyes weren’t.
I pointed at the paper. “This. Got assigned as an essay topic.”
He stared at the headline for a long moment.
Too long.
“That’s my village,” he said.
I blinked.
“…Wait. What?”
“My dad raises sheep,” he continued. “Has for years.”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
“How many?” I asked quietly.
“Dozens. Not all at once. Just… one by one.”
“Were they sick?”
He shook his head. “No. That’s the weird part. Fine in the morning. Dead by evening.”
“…And the vet?”
“Came. No answers. No one has answers.”
His tone was flat. Too flat.
“Why didn’t you ever mention it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I came here for basketball. Not to bring my hometown problems with me.”
Fair enough.
Annoying, but fair.
I glanced at the newspaper again. “I joked about this earlier,” I muttered. “Doesn’t feel funny now.”
Chase smirked faintly. “My mom says city people like arguing about things they’ve never seen.”
I let out a short laugh. “She sounds wise.”
“She still eats meat,” he added. “So… yeah. Irony.”
We sat in silence for a bit. Not awkward—just… thoughtful.
“You actually gonna write that essay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”
“Then don’t just read journals,” he said, looking at me. “Talk to people who’ve lived it.”
I met his gaze.
“You mean—”
“There’s a short break next week,” he said. “Come with me.”
The invitation hung in the air. Simple. Casual.
But somehow… heavy.
I swallowed.
“…Okay,” I said finally. “But one condition.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“If my essay sucks,” I said, “I’m blaming you.”
For the first time since I met him, Chase laughed—and it sounded a little heavier than usual.
“Deal.”
And that night, for the first time, the case of the dead sheep stopped being just a class discussion topic.