Lake water, dark and cold, swallowed the car. Orion stood on the shore, feet sunk into the mud, eyes fixed on the bubbling surface. His mother had driven straight into the abyss, her hands clutching the wheel, knuckles white as bone. He had watched it all, every second etched into his mind like a brand.This is all there is, he thought. This stupid, meaningless life. People scurry about; think they're something special. Ants in a colony, thinking they're gods. They live, they die, and they leave nothing but emptiness behind.His heart should have pounded, his eyes burned, but there was only a hollow echo. Emotions drained away, seeping into the same lake that took his mother. He felt numb, detached, like he was watching a stranger's tragedy unfold. Worthless. That's what he was. That's what everyone was. Just waiting for death to claim them, to end the farce.He remembered the day vividly. The sun had been high, casting a cruel glare on the water. His mother's face, pale and determined, haunted him. She had looked at him once, through the windscreen, her eyes filled with a silent apology. Then the car had plunged, and the lake had claimed her.Orion's chest constricted. Where were the tears? The rage? The guilt? All he felt was a vast, empty chasm. He was losing himself, piece by piece. His emotions flickered like dying embers, unable to ignite the fire that should have consumed him. He was a shell, hollow and broken, standing on the shore of a lake that held more life than he did.He sighed, the breath rattling in his throat. What was the point? To live, to breathe, to feel? It was all a lie. A cruel joke played by a twisted god. He was just another insect, crawling through the muck, waiting for the inevitable end.The lake settled, mirroring the grey sky. Not a ripple now, just a slick, dark surface. It felt…clean. Too clean for what it held. My gaze drifted from it, pulled back to the house. Pine needles and hydrangeas. Sounds stupid, remembering smells. That house…it was hers. Every chipped mug, every faded photograph, a piece of her.She filled it with life, with... purpose. Books about ecosystems, pictures of places most people only saw in magazines. She wasn't just studying the world; she was *in* it, hands dirty, always buzzing with some new discovery. Dad… Dad was different. Always in his head. Dark stories, twisted characters. His office smelled like dust and regret.The walls were thin; you could hear everything. Her laugh, bright and quick. Dad's quiet humming when he was wrestling with a sentence. The clatter of dishes. That was home. I was a quiet kid, buried in books. I got her love of the natural world, his way with words. My room, a mess of stories I'd never show anyone. I thought I wanted to be a writer, create worlds like his. She'd read my stuff, her eyes all lit up, making it feel... possible.Then the lake.After that, Dad just...stopped. His eyes went hollow. His voice, barely a whisper. He *tried*, I guess. Awkward pats on the back, a mumbled "How are you doing?" But it wasn't real. It was like he was going through the motions, a robot pretending to be a father. He became a ghost in his own house.His books got worse, darker. Every new story felt like another scream. I tried talking to him, asking if he was okay. Anything. But it was like hitting a wall. He was already gone, lost in whatever darkness he was writing about.I was alone with it. All of it. The grief, the anger, the... nothingness. I cried until my eyes were swollen shut, soaked my pillows. Yelled until my throat was raw. No one heard. No one understood. It wasn't about missing her, not at first. It was about the *emptiness* she left. A hole that swallowed everything.I started building walls. Stone by stone. Shutting down. Pretending to feel what I was supposed to feel. Watching other people laugh, cry, *live*—it felt like watching a movie. A foreign language I couldn't decipher. I wanted to feel something, anything, but I was too scared. Scared of the pain, scared of falling apart completely. So I just…stopped. Existing on the edges, a ghost in my own life, heart hollowed out and cold.
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The ballroom smelled of lilies and desperation. Ornate. Excessive. A performance. I stood near a towering ice sculpture—a phoenix, ironically—and watched him. Dad. In a suit that actually fit, not the perpetually rumpled tweed he favored. He was smiling. A genuine upturn of the lips, not the practiced grimace from the past two years.She was…present. A blur of white silk and carefully arranged hair. It didn't matter. None of it did.I hadn't wanted to come. Actively resisted. But something—a morbid curiosity perhaps, or maybe just a need to confirm the inevitable—pulled me here. It wasn't about him. It wasn't about her. It was about observing the mechanics of it all. The charade.Why? I thought, the question a dull throb behind my eyes. Why bother with this elaborate ritual? Two people, agreeing to share a life, built on…what? Biological imperative? Social conditioning? A desperate attempt to fill the void?I'd gotten into Harvard, Yale, Princeton. All of them. Chose Yale. Prestige meant nothing; the coursework felt... theoretical. I aced everything, of course. Effortless. Because what else was there to do with time? I was a machine processing information. No passion, no drive, just…completion.They called it resilience. Said I was handling things remarkably well. "You're so strong, Orion." Strong? I was empty. A vacuum. There was nothing to be strong with.He raised a glass, his hand steady. His eyes met mine for a fleeting moment. No recognition. Or maybe indifference. Either way, the same.He's moving on, the thought arrived, devoid of any accompanying feeling. As if a switch flipped. As if she was…replaceable.That wasn't anger. Not even disappointment. It was an observation. Like noting the migratory patterns of birds. Interesting, perhaps, but ultimately irrelevant.What's the point of loyalty? Of grief? These concepts are self-imposed limitations. Illusions we cling to in a chaotic universe.The music swelled—some saccharine string quartet rendition of a pop song. People danced. They laughed. They felt. It was grotesque.I watched a man in a tuxedo spill champagne on his wife's dress. She shrieked, a high-pitched, performative sound. He apologized profusely, dabbing at the stain with a napkin.A ruined garment. A momentary inconvenience. And yet, the drama. The intensity. It's all so… fragile.Dad was talking now, leaning in close to his new wife. His hand rested lightly on her arm. It was a gesture, learned behavior. The script was being followed.He's re-writing the story, I thought, the concept barely registering. Replacing a character. A convenient edit. Does he remember her? Does he remember the way she used to hum while she gardened? The smell of her perfume? Does any of it matter?It didn't matter to me. I'd spent months cataloging my own memories of her, dissecting them like specimens under a microscope. Trying to understand what, if anything, had been real. The effort was exhausting, ultimately pointless. The memories remained, inert and lifeless. Like pressed flowers in a forgotten book.I shifted my weight, the polished floor cool beneath my shoes. I hadn't eaten. Hadn't really slept. Sustained myself on caffeine and a detached observation of the world around me. It was…efficient.They seek connection, these creatures. They crave meaning. They construct narratives to justify their existence. It's all a game. A self-deception.A woman approached me, her smile brittle. "Orion, darling! You're looking so well. So grown up." She was a distant relative, I think. Aunt something. Her perfume was cloying, headache-inducing."Thank you," I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue."Your father seems so happy, doesn't he?"I blinked. "He does.""It's wonderful to see him moving forward."Forward? Toward what? Inevitable decay? The heat death of the universe? The thought wasn't cynical, just…factual."Yes," I replied. "It is."
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The sterile scent of the hospital clung to everything. It was a smell I associated with loss now, with antiseptic and forced cheer. Not birth. Not…this. I leaned against the cool wall, watching my father cradle the bundled infant. A girl. He hadn't even bothered to name her yet, just kept repeating, "She's here. She's really here."It felt obscene. Like a betrayal. My mother dissolving into lake sediment while this happened. Life just…continued. No grand pause, no universal acknowledgment of the gaping hole left behind. Just relentless forward motion. People carried on, bought groceries, laughed, and now, apparently, had babies.He looked up, catching my gaze. A flicker of something crossed his face—relief, maybe? Or guilt? Hard to tell with Dad. He always had layers, a manuscript full of unwritten subtext."Orion," he breathed, his voice raspy. He hadn't looked at me properly in years, not since…well, since the lake. "Come meet your sister."I pushed off the wall, moving with a reluctance that felt physical. Each step felt weighted, like walking through thick mud. The baby was tiny, impossibly small, wrapped in a pale blue blanket. Her face was scrunched up, red and new."She doesn't have a name yet," he offered, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. "Elara—your mother—always loved the name Lyra. For a star constellation. Thought it suited a bright spirit."Lyra. A cruel irony. He was trying. I could see it, the effort etched into the lines around his eyes. But it felt…hollow. Like he was reciting lines from a play he didn't understand."She's…small," I managed, the words scraping against my throat.He shifted Lyra in his arms, his gaze meeting mine. "She is. But strong. Just like her mother."Don't. I wanted to scream. Don't compare her. Don't pretend this makes anything okay. But the words stayed lodged in my throat."I'm…happy for you," I finally said, the phrase tasting like ash in my mouth. It was the right thing to say. The expected thing. A performance.His shoulders relaxed a fraction. "Thank you, Orion." He paused, then added, quieter, "I know things have been…difficult. For both of us."He was looking at me differently now. Not with the vacant stare he'd worn for months, but with something resembling hope. Or maybe it was expectation. He'd always had high expectations."I'm proud of you, you know," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "Everything you've achieved. The university, your research…it's remarkable."My research. A shield. A carefully constructed wall of code and algorithms designed to keep everything—including feeling—at bay. "It's just…work.""It's more than that. You're brilliant, Orion. Truly. And I want you to know…I love you. No matter what. Always have, always will."The words hung in the air, unexpected and disarming. A genuine attempt at connection. A desperate plea for…what? Forgiveness? Understanding?But something else was there, beneath the surface of his carefully constructed composure. A tremor in his hands as he held Lyra, a tightness around his mouth. He was terrified.Terrified? Dad? The thought felt absurd. Arthur Blake, author of bleak, existential thrillers, afraid of something?I studied him, cataloging the subtle cues. The way his knuckles were white against the blue blanket. The shallow breaths he was taking. The way he kept glancing at the nurses, as if seeking reassurance.He wasn't just a new father. He was a man utterly unprepared for this, a man grappling with a grief he hadn't even begun to process, a man completely out of his depth."You seem…nervous," I observed, the words slipping out before I could censor them.He blinked, then let out a shaky laugh. "Nervous? Well, wouldn't you be? It's been a long time since I've held a baby."A flimsy excuse. I knew him too well."It's more than that," I pressed, carefully. "You're scared."He didn't meet my eyes. He just continued to stare down at Lyra, his expression unreadable. "Don't be ridiculous.""You are. It's okay to be scared."A long silence stretched between us, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. Finally, he sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world."Maybe I am," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "Maybe I'm terrified. I don't…I don't know what I'm doing.""You're not supposed to," I said, surprised by my own empathy. It felt foreign, this willingness to acknowledge his vulnerability. "Nobody does."He looked at me again, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. "She's going to need a good brother, you know. Someone to look out for her.""I'll…be around," I said, already knowing it was a lie. I had a life now, a carefully constructed existence built around late nights in the university lab and the comforting logic of artificial intelligence. A life that didn't include messy emotions or familial obligations. A life I intended to keep.I was building something real, something that didn't vanish when you blinked. I was researching cognitive AI, specifically, the development of neural networks capable of simulating human consciousness. It was a way to understand, to dissect, to control the very thing that had caused me so much pain.But showing that to anyone, especially Dad, was out of the question. He wouldn't understand. He'd see it as another manifestation of my detachment, another brick in the wall I was so diligently constructing.This whole visit was a performance. A carefully orchestrated display of familial concern designed to appease him, to fulfill my obligations, to allow me to retreat back into my carefully curated isolation."You'll be an excellent brother," he repeated, his voice regaining some of its earlier warmth. He was already projecting, already imagining a future that I had no intention of participating in.
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Why that dream? Why him? I hadn't consciously thought about him, not really, in years. Just logistical considerations. Birthdays, holidays… obligations. But the dream wasn't about obligation. It was about…fear. His fear, a weakness I had never seen in real life.It didn't stir anything in me, though. No empathy. No understanding. Just…data. An interesting neurological anomaly. The subconscious processing unresolved trauma. That's all. I sat up, the sheets twisted around my legs. My apartment was sterile, minimalist. Everything had its place, its function. No clutter, no reminders. Just clean lines and muted colors. Designed for efficiency. Designed to keep the world at bay.A persistent cooing drew my attention. A pigeon. Perched on the fire escape, strutting back and forth like it owned the place. Annoying. A feathered glitch in my carefully curated reality. It pecked at something on the railing, oblivious to my existence.I watched it for a moment, cataloging its movements. The jerky head bob, the iridescent sheen of its feathers. Primitive. Pointless. It was disrupting the symmetry of the view.I moved without thinking. Opened the window, stepped onto the fire escape. The pigeon didn't flinch, didn't even look up. It continued pecking, utterly absorbed in its avian existence. I extended my hand, slowly, deliberately. The pigeon finally registered my presence, cocking its head, beady eyes blinking.Then, a quick, precise movement. A snap. The sound was surprisingly crisp, a small, dry crack. The pigeon's body went limp, tumbling onto the concrete below.No remorse. No regret. Just…resolution. The view was better now. Cleaner.My phone buzzed. A text message. From him."Orion, would you be free for dinner tomorrow night? I'd like to catch up."Catch up? After ten years of silence? After I built a multimillion-dollar AI company halfway across the world specifically to avoid him? The audacity. The sheer, breathtaking…predictability.It wasn't about wanting to see him. It was about…closing a loop. Tying up loose ends. Providing the expected response. Performing the role of the dutiful son."Yes, I can make it," I typed, keeping the message concise, devoid of any warmth.The restaurant was predictably upscale. All dark wood and hushed tones. The kind of place where people came to be seen, not to eat. He was already there, sitting at a corner table. He looked…older. More fragile. His hair was thinner, streaked with grey. He'd actually bothered to shave. He stood as I approached, a tentative smile on his face."Orion," he said, his voice slightly shaky. "It's good to see you.""You as well," I replied, my tone neutral. I slid into the chair opposite him."It's been a while.""Ten years."He winced. "Yes. Well. A lot has happened."I raised an eyebrow. "Indeed.""I…I wanted to thank you. For coming.""It's a simple dinner," I said. "No great sacrifice."He cleared his throat. "Right. Of course." He glanced around, then lowered his voice. "I should introduce you. This is Lyra."And there she was. A small whirlwind of pink and ribbons. A child. My…sister. She was staring at me with wide, curious eyes. Unblinking."Orion! Daddy told me you're really smart! He said you make robots!" Her voice was high-pitched, breathless with excitement.I paused, processing the information. "I develop artificial intelligence," I corrected. "Not robots.""Robots are cool too! Can you make a robot that can fly me to the moon?""That's not within the realm of current technological possibility."Her face fell. "Oh." She looked at her father, seeking reassurance.He chuckled nervously. "Orion is very precise, Lyra. He's a scientist.""What's a scientist?" she asked, turning back to me."Someone who asks questions," I said, my tone flat."But what kind of questions?""Irrelevant questions."Her brow furrowed. "That's a silly answer.""It's an accurate one."She giggled, a bright, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. "You're funny! Are you going to play with me?""I don't 'play'," I said.Her father intervened, a strained smile plastered on his face. "Lyra, honey, don't bother Orion. He's just getting reacquainted with your old man."Lyra wasn't deterred. She leaned closer, her eyes studying me intently. "Do you like unicorns?""They're mythical creatures," I said. "Therefore, the question is illogical.""But they're pretty!""Aesthetic preference is subjective.""Do you have a favorite color?""The spectrum is continuous. Assigning a 'favorite' is arbitrary."She blinked, clearly bewildered. "Daddy, he talks funny.""He's…very intellectual, sweetie," her father said, his voice tight. He shot me a pleading look.