Life is uncertain, isn’t it?

You believe you’ve mapped the constellations of your days, until suddenly the stars rearrange themselves into patterns you’ve never seen before.

You reach your hands into the current, fingers spread wide to catch and hold, but the water only spills through, catching light as it goes.

The mystery of life …… I don’t ever think I want to solve it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunlight filters through the castle windows like honey, casting golden trapezoids across stone floors. Time seems suspended in the dust motes that drift and swirl through these beams. . A gentle breeze carries the scent of distant roses, rustling tapestries and setting the ivy trembling along the castle’s ancient walls. I find myself wearing a buttercup-yellow silk dress that whispers against my skin, its full skirt swaying as I stand bewildered in the center of the cavernous medieval hall. The scene before me wavers like heat rising from summer pavement—half-tangible, half-dream. I am excited and I want to explore this mysterious place. But strangely, I try to move my body, it remains still. I command my arm to lift—it refuses, then suddenly moves of its own accord.

Huh? Am I the puppeteer or the puppet?

My heels crack against stone, each echo both announcing my presence and betraying my own will. I seem to have no control over this body here. There is a massive gilded frame flickers in my peripheral vision—I strain to turn toward it but my neck remains fixed, my body following some predetermined path. Statues line the corridor, their blank eyes following me, surrounded by flowers too vibrant to be real, antiques too pristine to be authentic. Everything is alive with falsehood.

There, I keep walking toward the grand staircase that spirals upward in a sweeping curve, its marble steps worn smooth by centuries of noble footfalls. The golden banister catches fragments of sunlight that dance across its polished surface.

Through the haze of my dream-vision, I see two maids descending, their starched white aprons crisp against dark uniforms, faces pale ovals beneath their caps. Their lips move in greeting, but the sound dissolves before reaching me. They pause mid-step, eyes downcast, and perform synchronized curtsies so deep their skirts bloom like dark flowers against the marble—a gesture reserved only for those who are in a higher position. And then suddenly, I see myself rushing downstairs, drawn forward by some force I don’t understand.

A figure emerges from the distance—a woman in a pink dress so vibrant it hurts my eyes, adorned with golden jewels that both captivate and repulse me. Her face remains a blur, but I notice two shadows flanking her, wearing the same uniforms as the maids I’d seen earlier.

My body bows before my mind can protest. Part of me wants to stand tall, to meet her gaze with defiance, yet I remain bent, my spine betraying my pride. When she approaches, I fixate on the embroidery of her gown, wanting desperately to look up yet unable to bear what I might find in her eyes.

“Remember,” she says, her voice like honey laced with venom, “whatever you do, you cannot outdo me. Know your place, Athene.”

Her laugh follows me even as she walks away. I want to scream back, to challenge her, to run—all at once. Instead, I stand frozen, my chest so tight I can barely breathe, hating her almost as much as I hate my own weakness.

Who the hell are you anyway?