He had been a pilot since the days when ships flew under the banner of the Central City Warehouses of House Althväntë. Following the distribution reform, he went independent, acquired a mid-class cargo ship named Jälûs, and began flying on his own account. He had plenty of contracts, and he gradually built a reputation founded on sheer reliability.

Yet, some losses cannot be balanced by labor.

After his wife’s death, he spent more time on the space routes than at home, and some evenings ended more quietly than they should have. Even so, he raised Arëvin alone. Unostentatiously, stubbornly, and in his own way.

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⟢⟡⟣ First Time in the City ⟢⟡⟣

The restaurant at the metro station was filled with sounds Arëvin had never known before. Metal clinked against ceramics, steam hissed somewhere, and the air was heavy with a mixture of food, coffee, and the cold draft that crept into the room every time the doors from the station hall slid open.

She sat on a high stool, her feet barely reaching the floor. A bowl of soup sat before her, the spoon resting beside it, untouched. Arëvin watched the people around her and the entirety of the restaurant. Many did not stay long; they simply picked up their food at the counter and immediately headed onward with certainty, bags slung over their shoulders.

Her father sat opposite her. His broad shoulders and confident facial expression felt safe, almost comforting. He held a mug with a hot drink in both hands. For a while, he remained silent, looking from the restaurant toward the escalators, from where the deep, rumbling sound of an arriving train echoed.

“So,” he said at last.

Arëvin raised her eyes to him.

“This is where we are going to live,” he continued calmly. “In Bärinar.”

He paused for a moment and took a sip. “It is a grand city. A beautiful city. You will get used to it.”

Then he added more softly: “I have work here… a lot of work.”

Arëvin nodded. For a moment, she gazed past him at the wall, where several framed pictures hung, and in the center was a shelf with paperweights stacked so tightly they could barely fit next to one another.

“You will go to nursery school,” her father continued. “You will make new friends. It will be good.”

It sounded more like an reassurance than a promise. For a split second, it appeared as though he himself doubted it, but then he gave her a warm smile.

The floor trembled slightly as the metro train rumbled beneath them. The glasses on the table rang softly. Arëvin started and instinctively looked around.

“That is the metro,” her father explained. “The underground railway. It carries people all over the city.”

Arëvin stared at the door. People came and went fluidly, without hesitation. She had never seen so many people gathered together. It felt strange to her that they did not greet each other, that they did not even look at one another. They merely passed by and vanished.

“Where is everyone rushing to?” she asked quietly.

“To work, my dear. Would you like some bread with that soup?” an older woman with a kind smile asked from beside them. Arëvin had not noticed her approach at all.

“No, thank you,” she replied politely, offering a small smile.

“You are a beautiful and well-mannered girl,” the woman said, stroking her light brown hair woven into a thick braid. Arëvin looked up at her, gently blinking her blue-green eyes.

“Eat up then, before it gets cold,” the woman urged and walked away.

Arëvin took her spoon and tasted the soup. It was already lukewarm. Beneath them, the metro rumbled once more. This time, she did not flinch. She began to eat, and questions started to gather in her mind. Where they would live. What the nursery school would be like. Whether there would be more toys than in Ost Jômil. Surely yes, after all, it was the city.

And while she ate, swinging her little legs beneath the table, her head whirled with thoughts of everything she might experience here.

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Yet, this did not mean Arëvin grew up lonely. Her father rented an apartment near the central city warehouses in a quiet residential district, inhabited mostly by people working in the warehouses and the nearby docks.

The buildings were three stories high, with long, quiet corridors and doors positioned close together. Opposite their apartment lived a girl named Iräna with her mother, Düvine. Düvine worked in civil clearance at the docks and was a woman capable of handling many things—and gradually, she took care of Arëvin’s childhood as well.

Düvine had known her father for years, and it was she who had helped him secure the apartment. When he was away on voyages, Arëvin often stayed with them. It was not an explicit rule, but rather a silent understanding between the doors facing each other.

Thus, Arëvin grew up between two worlds. Between the serenity of Düvine and the restlessness of her father, who coped with his loss in his own way. Yet, she lacked nothing essential. Their home was modest, but her father’s work provided them with stability.

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⟢⟡⟣ A New Home ⟢⟡⟣

Her father pressed his hand with the bracelet against the panel in the middle of the door. It glowed blue, and the lock clicked softly. The door automatically slid into the wall, and Arëvin beheld her new home for the first time.

“So, this is where we will live now,” he said, gently patting her back and gesturing for her not to be afraid to step inside.

The little girl was enthralled. It was not as spacious an apartment as the one she knew from Ost Jômil, but at first glance, it possessed its own charm. She took a few steps inside, looking around. An L-shaped sofa, a large window, a dining table, and behind it, a kitchen separated by a low counter. Everything was new and empty. No pictures, no trinkets. Just the essential furniture.

“So, what do you think?” he stood beside her, lightly tapping her shoulder.

“It is not fully furnished yet, but we will manage. Together. What do you say?”

“It is beautiful, Dad,” she breathed. “That window is as grand as a shopfront display. And where will my room be?”

Her eyes darted across the apartment from side to side.

“Right here,” he led her into a short corridor next to the stairs. He opened the door at the end.

“This one is yours.”

The room was small but bright. A large window, a bed, a small table, and a writing desk beneath the window. Nothing more.

“I know,” her father began, “it is not like Ost Jômil.”

“I like how tiny it is,” she interrupted him.

He embraced her tightly.

“Everything will be fine, my girl.”

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Her father patted her hair once more and left for the door. Arëvin remained in the room alone. She sat on the bed, touched the coverlet, and looked out the window. Tears welled up in her eyes on their own.

She sat in the silence for a while, alone with her thoughts. Then came a knock on the door. She quickly wiped away her tears and straightened up.

A girl her age entered the room.

“Hi, I’m Iräna.”

“Hi, I’m Arëvin,” she replied, offering her hand.

“We live right across the hall,” Iräna looked around the room and sat on the bed. “You don’t have much here, but I can easily lend you something.”

“Thank you,” Arëvin smiled. “Dad said we will buy things gradually.”

“Will you go to nursery school with me?” Iräna asked.

“I think so,” Arëvin shrugged. She smiled. Perhaps… perhaps this could be her new friend.

“It’s huge,” Iräna beamed. “Full of toys. And the teachers are very kind.”

She grabbed Arëvin’s hand. “I’m glad you moved here.” And she hugged her.

Her father entered the room with Iräna’s mother. They paused for a moment and exchanged a look upon seeing the two girls holding onto each other.

“I am glad you two get along,” the woman spoke softly. “My name is Düvine. I am Iräna’s mother.”

She stepped closer and gently stroked both girls’ hair.

“We will do everything we can to make you feel at home here,” she added with a calm smile. “And whenever you need anything, our door will remain open for you. Besides, you will be going to nursery school together.”

Arëvin sensed a kindness in her voice that felt intimately familiar. It reminded her of her mother. And that was more than she could bear. Tears rolled down her face once again. This time, however, they were not born of sorrow. They were born of happiness.

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Before Arëvin reached the age of six, her father tried to take shorter routes to be home more often. On his days off, they flew longer routes together, and Arëvin watched from the cabin as the landscape of Mâr Bärinar slowly unfolded beneath them. From high above, the city seemed smaller, the borders further away, and the world more open.

After she started Primary School, her father’s voyages grew longer. He was away more frequently, sometimes overnight. Arëvin, however, was never left alone. Düvine accepted her without distinction, as naturally as her own daughter.

Evenings in the apartment had a different rhythm. As soon as she learned to read, she began to fill them with books. Her favorite choices were the exploratory short stories by the writer Hälsen. During the day, she and Iräna ran through the city, discovering new corners and inventing their own adventures. And somewhere in the midst of it all, a quiet need to look even further was born within her.

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⟢⟡⟣ An Evening with Hälsen ⟢⟡⟣

The light in the kitchen was sharper than in the other rooms. Arëvin turned it on only halfway, just as she was accustomed to. She opened the cooling unit, rummaged through it for a moment, and finally pulled out something that could be prepared quickly. She wasn’t hungry enough to take great care. It was just that kind of evening hunger—calm, quiet, and still.

The pan hissed, and the air momentarily filled with a familiar aroma. Arëvin stood leaning against the kitchen counter, lightly swinging her legs as she waited. She knew precisely when it was done. Her father might have left it for a little longer, but she had her own way.

She sat at the table and ate slowly. She was in no rush. Occasionally, she raised her eyes to the window. Outside, the city was submerging into the evening. The lights turned on one by one, as if the houses were quietly conveying something to one another. Arëvin imagined what was happening behind those windows. Who was laughing, who was alone, who was making food just like her.

When she finished, she placed the plate into the automated washer without hesitation. She closed the door and looked at it briefly to ensure it had truly clicked shut. Then she ran across the corridor into the bathroom. Toothbrush, water, foam. She did it quickly, almost automatically. The evening had its order, as usual, and she liked it.

The room was in twilight. She turned on only the small lamp on the table. The light spilled across the walls, leaving the rest of the room in peace. She took off her socks, climbed onto the bed, and leaned her back against the wall. The book was already waiting for her, exactly where she had left it that afternoon.

She opened the book Beyond the Borders of the Known World, one of Hälsen’s short stories.

She knew the exploratory stories almost by heart. Yet, every time, she opened the book with the exact same feeling. As if entering a space where everything is grander, more open, and at the same time, clearer than at home.

She read. And when she raised her eyes from the lines for a moment, she looked toward the window again. The city was still there. Noiseless, yet alive. Her father was away, she knew that. She did not ask when he would return. She had learned not to count time. She only knew that he would come.

She immersed herself in reading once more.

The hero in the story stood on the threshold of an unknown territory, deciding whether to turn back or go further. Arëvin paused at that sentence. She ran her finger along the line, then closed the book for a moment. Not because she was sad. Rather because something had stirred in her mind for a split second.

One day… perhaps.

But not just yet.

She opened the book and continued reading. The lamp shone silently, the city breathed outside the window, and Arëvin, tucked away in her own evening, was exactly where she wanted to be.

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As time passed and the choice of a Specific School approached, Arëvin already knew her mind. She chose the vocational field of structural repair technician, so that she could later pass her piloting exams and draw closer to the dream that had remained with her since childhood. She moved through school calmly and without variance. She was not among the most prominent students, but neither was she among those who lagged behind. She was reliable, and she always delivered her share of the work.

With adolescence, however, something shifted. She and Iräna continued to explore the city, attend parties, and experience the world in their own way. Attention was not foreign to them, but both maintained their own boundaries.

Arëvin learned not to venture too deep. Encounters were brief, light, and without commitments. As soon as she felt she was expected to stay longer, she stepped back. Not abruptly, but rather quietly.

Toward the end of her studies, she became increasingly contemplative. People around her sought certainty and continuation, but she preferred space. Freedom was closer to her heart than promises.

Perhaps her childhood played a role in this. Her father was away more frequently than before, and home had an irregular rhythm. Arëvin grew accustomed to relying solely on herself. To the outside world, she showed a calm, composed face, but she kept her distance as a form of protection.

Not even Arinûs breached this distance. She liked him, just differently than he would have wished. What drew them together was light and fleeting. And she had felt it that way from the very beginning.

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⟢⟡⟣ Dock G37 ⟢⟡⟣

The apartment was still in twilight, and the city outside the windows was only just awakening. Arëvin stood under the shower, letting the warm water cascade over her. The drops slid down her shoulders and back, washing away the remnants of sleep and the thoughts that had clung to her mind from the night. She closed her eyes and stood still for a moment, sensing the steady rhythm of the water.

When she turned off the shower, the bathroom was already shrouded in steam. She threw a towel over her shoulders and stood before the mirror. She did not examine herself long. Just briefly. Enough to realize that she had changed. It was no longer the body of a child, yet not quite the body of a woman. It was somewhere in between. And she was only just learning to live with it.

She dressed, pulled her hair back, and left the apartment with a light step. This morning felt different than usual. The city held a peculiar serenity within itself, one that it lost during the day. At the main entrance, she held the door for an elderly lady hauling two large bags, and then she headed toward the metro station.

The metro train was more half-empty than full. It was no surprise—today was lûsrim, the first day of rest. Even though there were places to sit, Arëvin remained standing. She leaned against the pole, holding on with one hand, and watched the reflections in the windows.

When she disembarked at the docks, she headed straight for the escalators of civil clearance. She walked past the familiar restaurant, and at that exact moment, she saw him.

He stood a short distance away, leaning against the railing, holding a bulky stack of flyers in his hand. As soon as he caught sight of her, he smiled. She knew that smile.

“Good morning, milady. Would you care for a new blouse, or perhaps an embroidered shirt?” he jested, straightening up and kissing her cheek.

“You are full of wit so early in the morning,” she smiled faintly. “What are you even doing here?”

“What do you think,” he shrugged. “Handing out flyers to passersby. Only there aren’t many today, it’s still too early.” He looked at her more closely. “Where are you rushing to, anyway?”

“I’m going to see my father. I’m flying with him to Ost Hûsan,” she replied. For a split second, a memory of yesterday flashed through her mind—of something that had remained unspoken between them.

“So you won’t be around,” he said, giving her a brief look. “A pity. I thought we could head out somewhere again.”

Arëvin smiled. Calmly. Without embarrassment.

“Not this time. I must run now.”

They said their goodbyes, and she continued toward the escalators. She did not quicken her pace out of haste. Rather because she did not wish to be detained by questions she had no desire to answer. She did not want to bind herself. To her, freedom held greater value than promises.

At the civil docks, she turned right toward the entrance to the cargo areas. She presented her badge, the guard offered a brief smile and opened the door for her. Entering the corridor, she headed straight to the left, toward dock G37, where her father awaited her with the cargo already loaded.

As soon as she ran up a few steps, the space opened up before her. The noise amplified, the air filled with metallic echoes, and a familiar silhouette appeared among the ships. Jälûs. She stood there as she always did—sturdy, reliable, and a little weathered by time.

Her father stood by the ramp, and when he caught sight of her, he raised his hand. Arëvin waved back, feeling a familiar warmth somewhere deep within her chest. She quickened her step with a light smile on her face and a quiet thought that they had another beautiful rest day to spend together ahead of them.

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She was only legally permitted to fly independently from the age of sixteen. Yet, circumstances brought her to independence much sooner. Her father’s returns began to grow irregular, schedules fractured, and contracts accumulated. And Arëvin found herself alone in the cabin more and more frequently.

At first, she merely observed. Then she helped. And ultimately, she took the helm.

According to the regulations, she was not prepared. Life, however, had prepared her differently. She flew routes she knew by heart, handled formalities, and spoke with dispatchers and loading crews. Her father was present at least in body, locked away in his cabin. Where he slept off the nights that were never meant to continue into the following day.

She matured sooner than was customary. The people around her knew it. They did not treat her with indulgence because she was young, but because she could be relied upon. She worked quietly, without ostentation. And she worked well.

The contracts that had originally belonged to her father began to subtly transition to her name. Her name began to echo among the warehouses and dispatchers with increasing frequency.

What began amidst the warehouses and docks of Bärinar was merely the beginning.

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