Time passed slowly, yet relentlessly. The memory of her parents’ death faded a little more with each day—their faces, their voices, even their scent, slowly dissolving into the fog of childhood. It’ll be the same with that man, Alice told herself. You’ll forget, just like you forgot your parents. First, the fear would vanish, then the pain, then his face—until all that remained was the hollow knowledge that something terrible had once happened. You’re only nine, she thought. You can’t be expected to remember everything. But something inside her disagreed. The fear will fade. The pain will fade. His face will fade. But you won’t forget, the voice insisted. You’ll remember. Because you owe him that. And, unfortunately, she trusted that voice more than she trusted herself.

  Everything had changed. Her worldview—if a nine-year-old could even be said to have one—had shattered. The fragile system of values, childish illusions, and half-rebuilt dreams that had begun to regrow after her parents’ death collapsed once more. Fairy tales with happy endings no longer brought comfort. A wound had opened in her small heart, one that bled daily, stripping away her childhood piece by piece. A new awareness stirred inside her: the soul of a grown-up with no hope left. She liked to think of herself that way, savoring the words as she repeated them in her mind. It had little to do with reality—but then again, what child didn’t imagine themselves as a hero? Alice, still barely understanding the world around her, played at being grown-up in her spare time.

  Her daily routine had been reshuffled to make space for one crucial addition: learning to control the dust. Two hours a day—rain or shine, sick or well—she spent under her blanket with a flashlight, training. The seasons drifted by. Frustration grew. Nothing changed. Her tenth birthday came and went without ceremony. It wasn’t until autumn that the first breakthrough happened—a fleeting few seconds when the swirling particles obeyed her will. She couldn’t replicate it for a month, but then something clicked. Her brain understood: this was possible. It would demand immense concentration, yes, but it was no longer just a fantasy. Each day, the task grew easier. The particles danced, twisting into more complex shapes. She bent them to her will, and her heart swelled with pride. But this was only the beginning.

  Not-a-Doctor congratulated her—though without warmth. He appeared in her dream, but she had the distinct impression she was inconveniencing him. She didn’t hide her disappointment; he didn’t seem to care.

  “I did what you asked,” she muttered, sulking.

  He lit a cigarette.

  “You’re killing me, kid. Look at me. Really look.”

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Alice met his gaze, fighting back the flicker of uncertainty in her chest.

  “Well?” she asked, too quickly glancing away.

  “You’re too young for grand speeches, so I’ll keep it simple. I’ve killed many people. Their blood stains my hands. I don’t remember every face or name. I don’t feel guilt. I’ve lived too long to crave forgiveness—or redemption. When you watch time pass but don’t pass with it, ideals die. Pragmatism takes their place. My heart beats differently now. Slower, Alice. That’s why I’m no fit guardian for a child. And you’re still a child. You have Helena and Walery. You have Gregory.”

  Tears streamed down the girl’s cheeks. The man watched in silence, smoke curling from his cigarette. No pity. No attempt to understand. Just cold indifference, laced with something like superiority.

  “Cry all you want. It won’t change a thing,” he said, stubbing out the cigarette. “Don’t try to be like me, Alice. You don’t want to become what I am.”

  “Then why bother talking to me?!” she shouted, curling into herself to hide her tear-streaked face.

  “I’m not bothering with talking to you, Alice. I’m protecting you. And preparing you.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she whispered as she woke.

  Despite Not-a-Doctor’s lack of praise or new instructions, Alice knew one thing: she couldn’t stop. The exercises might feel pointless, but she sensed subtle changes taking root in her mind. A few seconds of control wasn’t enough—she knew it, deep in her bones. And so, the months passed in grueling repetition.

  Eleven years. Twelve. Thirteen. Seconds bled into minutes. Minutes into hours. The dust into snowflakes, and even brittle dried leaves. With each small success, Alice grew sharper—more focused, more relentless. She threw herself into self-improvement: academics, art, practical skills. It wasn’t easy, but the difficulty only fueled her. Fight. Yes—that’s what life had become. An endless war against the world itself. If she couldn’t destroy the man who’d made her life a nightmare, she’d break the world that allowed it. That was how her adolescence began.

  Rebellion, hormones, mood swings—they didn’t spare her, but unlike her classmates, she couldn’t afford to scream her suffering to the world. And that infuriated her. The fury festered into disdain for the other kids. She stopped speaking at school entirely. She’d never had real friends—was never permitted to—but until now, she’d at least faked politeness. After thirteen, even that charade felt pointless. Her classmates didn’t understand her; she refused to understand them. Interaction was obsolete. Alice turned inward. Teachers grew concerned. The school psychologist summoned her repeatedly, but Alice lied to him with ease. She was a model student: perfect grades, zero trouble. So what if they thought her strange? She’d earned the right. When that realization struck, something dark and satisfied uncoiled in her chest. She was socially invisible—no leader, no star—yet untouchable. She reveled in it.

  Life accelerated. Her body changed. Helena explained the basics; Alice devoured medical textbooks for the rest. When her first period came, she felt neither fear nor distress—just clinical curiosity. But none of that mattered. How could she even voice her real question? The idea of going to the library made her cheeks burn. Asking Gregory to take her to a bookstore? Unthinkable.