Kieran’s Perspective

Morning came without light. Just a dull grey bleeding through the thin curtains like it was afraid to enter. Kieran blinked into the dark, unsure if he’d even slept. His limbs ached like they’d stayed tense all night.

Then came the knock.
No—not a knock. A pound.
“Get up. You’re not sleeping the damn day away.”

Kieran sat up fast, heart in his throat. His door cracked open, and a thick shadow spilt in. His father’s voice followed. “Lazy brat”.

Before he could brace, the man crossed the room in three heavy steps. The first hit wasn’t the worst—it was the second. Open palm to the side of the head. Then the fist. Not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to bruise.

“You think you can just sulk in your room all day?”
“No, sir,” Kieran mumbled, breath catching.

Another blow. The edge of it clipped his shoulder, and he curled away instinctively.

Then silence. Heavy breathing.
“Get dressed. And don’t be late again.”

The door slammed.

Kieran sat still for a while. Breathing through the sting. He didn’t cry. Not anymore. That had dried up weeks ago. Maybe months. He wasn’t sure.

He changed out of his shirt, wincing at the raw patches blooming under the skin. The new one wasn’t much better—holes in the sleeve, a faded print of a cartoon he no longer liked. But it covered enough.

He didn’t eat. No one offered, and he didn’t ask. He just left.

The walk to school was cold, even with the sun out. A breeze kept tugging at the hem of his too-small jumper, making his skin prickle where the bruises were fresh. He hugged his arms close, head down.

The school gate came into view. Concrete playground. Clusters of kids laughing too loud, running too fast. Kieran moved past them like fog.

“Good morning, Kieran.”
Mr Alden was at the classroom door. Year 4 teacher. Mid-thirties. Smelt like pure coffee. Wore scarves in every season. I guess he liked it.

He gave him a quick once-over. His smile faltered for a moment.
Then it returned—tight at the edges.

Kieran saw his eyes drift to the edge of his sleeve, where the fabric had ridden up just enough to show a dark bruise. He saw it.

And then he looked away.

“Go ahead and take your seat.”

He did.

The classroom was warm, full of posters about kindness and friendship. Bright bulletin boards. None of it ever reached him.

Roy sat beside him again. Same as yesterday. Same quiet energy, like he existed just a step outside of reality.

Kieran didn’t look at him. Just unpacked his things, careful not to wince when his shoulder moved wrong.

There was a pause before Roy said anything. Then: “You okay?”

Kieran’s pencil scratched faintly across the desk. “Yeah.”

A longer pause.

Roy didn’t press. Didn’t offer pity. Didn’t give him that look people give when they see something broken and don’t know how to hold it.

He just nodded slightly. “Okay.”

They sat like that through the first lesson. Kieran listened to half of what the teacher said, the rest buried under the noise in his head.

And for some reason, Roy’s silence felt louder than anything else.

Midway through the second period, the lesson shifted.

Mr Alden set down the math worksheets and clapped his hands once, lightly. “Let’s try something different,” he said, moving toward the whiteboard. “A little theory. A little history. Maybe a little mystery.”

The room quieted. Even the fidgeters stopped fidgeting.

Alden tapped the screen, and it flickered to life. The title read: Origins of Prana – Speculation & Understanding . Below it, a swirl of ancient symbols turned slowly—a mix of runes, constellations, and indecipherable scripts.

“Now, I want to be clear,” Alden said, turning to face them. “What we’re about to cover is not proven fact. It’s theoretical. Speculative. But it’s worth thinking about.”

He walked slowly along the front of the class, voice lowering just a little, like he was inviting them into a secret.

“Prana. The life force. The breadth of existence. Call it what you want—it’s everywhere. In everything. Not just in people, but in animals, in water, and in air. Even in silence.”

Kieran looked up from his notebook.

It wasn’t the topic. It was the way Alden said it.

“There are those who believe Prana didn’t start here,” he continued. “That it’s older than Earth. Older than our species. That maybe—just maybe—it came from somewhere else. Somewhere far beyond.”

He tapped the board again. Images flipped past—satellite photos of strange energy patterns in deep space, cave paintings with glowing lines around human figures, ancient texts written in languages no one had ever spoken aloud.

“We don’t know how it first appeared. All we know is that it binds to living things, responds to emotion, and—under certain conditions—can be shaped. Directed.”

Kieran’s pencil hovered above the page, unmoving.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“Some researchers believe Prana is not of Earth but was drawn here—like a seed carried on a cosmic wind. Others say it’s always been here, just invisible... until someone, somewhere, noticed it. Awakened it.”

A faint whisper of excitement stirred across the room. Not fear. Not awe. Just curiosity, barely formed. Kieran felt it too—but deeper, like a string inside him had been plucked.

“Of course”, Mr Alden added with a half-smile, “we still don’t fully understand how it works, even now. Why some people can see it or shape it. Why it responds differently depending on the person.”

Roy sat still beside him, hands folded, expression unreadable. Not fascinated. Not bored. Just quietly listening, like he already knew most of it.

Kieran’s fingers curled slightly around his pencil.

There was something about the word seed that stuck with him.

A seed from somewhere else. Something ancient and watching. Something that chose to connect with everything alive.

He didn’t raise his hand. Didn’t ask questions. But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to.

He kept his thoughts to himself.