Sometimes, destiny is like a gift sent from the past to the future, wrapped in ribbons woven from prophecies. No one can ever tell what lies hidden inside until the day it is opened: a blessing, a curse, or a dance of the two.

  For both Luther Ravenswood and Aaron Attenborough, the night of August 31st, 2028, would forever be etched into their memories.

  “Ringggg!”

  “Yayyy!”

  “Finallyyyy!”

  “Everyone, stay seated! Just five more minutes so I can finish explaining this equation!”

  The final bell of Lincoln High School rang through the halls, and its sharp peal was drowned out by the roar of jubilant cheers rising from the crowd of students. The sound marked the long-awaited end of a long and boring school day.

  In Mr. Bryce’s classroom, at the back-right corner by the window, a guy slowly lifted his head from the desk.

  Luther Ravenswood had been asleep for two entire periods, and now, at last, it was time to go home. The side of his cheek bore faint redness and swelling from resting too long on the hard wooden surface. He stuffed his books into his bag at a slow pace before rising to his feet and stepping out of the classroom amidst the chaotic flood of departing students.

  “Bye, Tucker!”

  “See you tomorrow!”

  “See y’all!”

  His classmates chattered as they said their goodbyes.

  As for Luther, he neither greeted anyone nor did they speak a single word to him.

  The golden glow of the late afternoon sun draped itself across the ivy-covered brick walls of Lincoln High, casting a brilliant hue over the scene at the school’s main gates.

  Students of all grades poured out of various buildings, filling the walkways within minutes. The air was saturated with a sense of relief and exhilaration, the kind that always followed liberation from dreary classes and monotonous lectures that could lull a person into sleep quicker than a bottle of Nyquil.

  Close-knit groups of friends clustered together. The school courtyard became a sea of people overflowing with retold stories and animated discussions of plans for the evening.

  It was like a miniature universe, encapsulating the lively spirit of youth, a place where every group and every clique had its own space and importance.

  As Luther walked, he could overhear a group of students discussing their plans for the night, Halloween. (Author’s note: in this universe, Halloween is celebrated on August 31st.)

  “Did you guys know that tonight there’s going to be a blood moon?” one student asked in a hushed yet excited tone.

  “A blood moon? What’s so special about that? I remember we just had one a few years ago,” another student replied, didn’t sound too impressed.

  “But this time it falls exactly on the Day of the Departed, and that only happens once every five thousand years! That’s why this year’s Halloween is being celebrated so big everywhere! There’s even the Parade of the Dead downtown starting at six o’clock. I heard there will be more than a hundred floats.”

  “Wow!”

  “My cousin and I are going trick-or-treating in Petersburg tonight. The people there only hand out fancy candies.”

  “Yeah, right, as if they’d let strangers into that neighborhood.”

  “I’m not lying at all! My cousin has a friend who lives there, and they’re going to take us inside,” the guy answered with a wide grin.

  “Wowwww!”

  “Trick-or-treating? Seriously? How old are you guys again?”

  A guy wearing a soccer jersey walked past and burst out laughing.

  “It’s Petersburg we’re talking about! Do you even realize how hard it is to get into that place? The people living there are all celebrities, wealthy business magnates, key political figures, and even the governor’s family,” the first student retorted, clearly not happy about the attitude.

  The guy in the soccer jersey scoffed.

  “What a coincidence. I’m also going to Petersburg tonight, but I’ll be attending a party.”

  “Oh, please, if you’re going to make something up, at least be creative. Don’t just copy me word for word like that,” the other shot back.

  “Why would I need to copy you? Did you guys know that today also happens to be Aaron’s birthday? His family is throwing a huge party. He invited his entire homeroom class, along with everyone in the soccer team!”

  “Aaron? You mean Aaron Attenborough??? Are you serious?”

  There were plenty of students named Aaron at Lincoln High, but only one lived in Petersburg and also played for the school’s soccer team: Aaron Attenborough.

  It was safe to say that very few people at the school were unaware of him.

  “Talk about being born with a silver spoon in his mouth,” his friends would say, half-joking.

  Standing six feet tall at just fourteen years old, with a balanced physique, sharp and defined facial features, and deep brown eyes, Aaron was for sure the guy in many students’ dreams.

  The soccer guy shrugged:

  “If you don’t believe me, go ask the others on the team, or anyone in his class.”

  Right at that moment, someone called him out from a distance:

  “Hey, David! We’re coming by to pick you up at six o’clock before heading to Aaron Attenborough’s house, alright?”

  He made sure to say the name Aaron Attenborough loud and clear.

  “Got it!”

  “Damn, lucky you. I bet the party is going to be wild,” a boy muttered.

  “I’ll take lots of pictures for you guys!”

  “Get lost, you bragging jerk!” another boy yelled, his voice dripping with envy.

  In stark contrast to this vibrant and animated atmosphere was Luther, a solitary figure, quiet and still amid the chaos.

  He walked through the school gates at an unhurried pace, like an isolated island of calm drifting within a noisy, crashing sea of people. It was as though everyone around him was trying to keep their distance, and it also felt as if he existed in another dimension, one that ran parallel to the world of laughter and friendship surrounding him.

  He left the school grounds and headed toward the bus stop located one block away.

  A bright yellow bus was already parked there, glowing under the fading rays of the setting sun. A handful of students were scattered across the seats inside. Luther picked a seat near the back, where the noise of conversations seemed somewhat muted.

  But not for long. A pretty girl with short, wavy blonde hair slid into the seat beside him.

  “Hey Leo, why the long face today? Stomachache? I have some medicine for that,” she asked a guy sitting in the seat in front of them.

  “Ugh. Miss Emmanuelle scolded me again today. That woman is seriously such a cranky old hag. Who even cares how many valence electrons oxygen has? As if I’ll ever need that knowledge for painting! I’m against forcing a true artist like me to study science subjects,” Leo grumbled.

  “Hahahaha, she’s famous for her bad temper,” the girl replied with a laugh.

  She kept chatting with other students, her words flowed in a rapid stream, and soon she became the center of attention even when she sat all the way in the back.

  Her voice carried throughout the bus; her magnetic way of speaking seemed to draw others in without much effort. She was almost “directing” the conversations that unfolded around her, still brimming with energy despite the long day.

  And yet, in all that liveliness, she never once glanced at the boy sitting right next to her, as though she were avoiding any interaction with him on purpose.

  If a reader familiar with typical high school stories were to witness this scene, they might conclude right away, 'Here we go again, another story about bullying.'

  But no, they would be utterly mistaken.

  Even though Luther was enduring a cold, almost dismissive form of social exclusion, he made no effort to break through that invisible barrier.

  He reached into his schoolbag and pulled out an old, battered portable music player, slipping the wired earphones over his ears.

  Had the kids around him noticed, they probably would have gasped in amazement: What kind of ancient relic is that? But as usual, no one paid him the slightest bit of attention.

  Soothing melodies opened a doorway into another world at a slow pace. As the soft singing flowed into his ears, the clamor inside the bus was pushed further and further away, replaced in full by rhythms and harmonies that only he could hear. The music pulled him inward, immersing him in a private world where the lives bustling around him faded into nothing more than a blurred backdrop.

  His gaze drifted toward the bus window.

  The scenery along the roadside passed by in a hazy blur, like a watercolor painting. Buildings, trees, and the occasional pedestrian all flitted by, each scene no more than a fleeting moment from the lives of strangers. Luther’s thoughts wandered with those fleeting images, drifting into distant reflections much like the landscapes that slid past and fell away behind him.

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  After forty minutes, he stepped off the bus at a slightly run-down station.

  Luther walked through familiar streets in his neighborhood, his every step quiet and unassuming.

  His uneven-cropped hair, as though chewed by a cat, stirred in the wind. A little lower, his blue eyes were of such a deep shade they could be mistaken for black at first glance.

  The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, stretching the shadows of buildings, trees, and Luther himself far across the pavement. Lost in thought, he brushed shoulders by accident with a figure coming from the opposite direction. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his expression anything but friendly.

  The stranger’s muscular body seemed sculpted from stone, tattoos snaked across his arms, and his eyes carried the weary fury of someone who had just endured a three-hour nagging from his wife for forgetting to take out the trash.

  He whipped around, his scowling face twisting as though fate had just handed him the perfect opportunity to pick a fight.

  In that brief moment, two worlds collided. The man’s eyes blazed with anger over the accidental bump. He fixed his glare on Luther’s back, who kept walking away as though nothing had happened.

  The man lunged forward and seized his arm, spinning him around with a rough pull.

  “You think …”

  The angry words barely left his lips before they stopped midway.

  Then, for no apparent reason, the rage on his face evaporated, and a strange look of confusion replaced it. His brows furrowed, and he tried to remember what he was doing.

  And even that puzzlement faded away in just a few seconds. Without another word, he turned around and walked off, brushing aside the boy’s presence as though he was nothing more than a wisp of smoke.

  As for Luther, throughout the entire incident, he neither uttered a single word nor showed any reaction. This was his life, his reality. He had grown far too accustomed to being ignored, to going unseen.

  It was as if he were a ghost, wandering the mortal world, unable to leave behind even the faintest trace or echo of his existence.

  ...

  118 Saint Louis was a small house tucked deep within the narrow street, hidden at the very end of the lane.

  Its once-white paint had long faded with time. Together with the thick, dark brown wooden doors, the house exuded a weathered, old-fashioned aura. And indeed, it was old. Luther’s grandfather had once told him that the house was already over eighty years old.

  There was no grass yard in front of the house, only a small patch of soil where a few yellow daisies grew here and there, scattered as though reluctant to bloom. Behind the house, a modest-sized garden stretched, filled with all kinds of vegetables that were thriving and growing.

  The house consisted of just two small bedrooms, a single living room, and a kitchen. It was cozy and warm enough, might even be a bit cramped for a family of three. But to Luther, it had always felt far too spacious, almost hollow in its emptiness.

  He searched through his backpack, pulled out an old, worn set of keys, and unlocked the door to step inside.

  On the wall right by the entrance, a large sheet of paper was pinned in place, straight and secure. Each line of words had been written in dark black ink, every stroke of the pen showing effort and care:

  "Dear little Luther, please read these things daily:

  Eat well. Do not live on just instant noodles and soft drinks.

  Make sure to drink enough water, especially in the summer.

  Do not stay up too late at night.

  Cook for yourself every day. A warm kitchen means a warm heart.

  Take care of the vegetables in the garden. They are always waiting for your attention each and every day.

  …

  When you are tired, please rest. You do not need to bear the weight of everything all by yourself.

  And most important, please do not fall into despair, and never ever do anything foolish, Luther.

  You are the precious gift your mother left behind for me. No matter how dark life becomes, I truly believe there will always be light ahead. Please never extinguish that light by your own hands. I do not wish for you to become the most talented person in the world; I only hope that you continue to live, and live fully, for yourself.

  David Ravenswood.”

  Luther read the entire message from top to bottom in silence.

  Afterwards, he took off his shoes, placed them on the rack, and then headed into his room to change. A short while later, he walked out wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and a pair of light brown shorts, then made his way out into the backyard.

  His garden was abundant, with neat rows of lettuce, tomatoes, chives, spinach, and scallions all growing side by side.

  In one corner, several rose bushes nestled, their blooms still holding on despite no longer being as dazzling as they had been two months prior. Nearby stood two lemon trees laden with fruit, and right in the center of the yard was a small apple tree bursting with ripe apples.

  Luther glanced up at the large apples hanging high on the branches, evaluating them for a moment before starting to pull out weeds.

  This garden was the work of his grandmother at the start, and after she passed away, his grandfather had taken care of it for years.

  When Luther managed to pull himself together after the event three years ago, it had already fallen into chaos due to neglect. The bushes, lemon trees, and the apple tree were still doing fine, but the rows of vegetables had withered dry from lack of water.

  Some of the lettuce plants had even bolted, sprouting long flower stalks. He had to put in a great deal of effort to salvage whatever could be saved. He removed the old, decayed plants and began replanting new vegetables from scratch. From that moment on, he learned step by step how to care for the garden. And up to now, Luther could almost be considered a small, self-taught farmer.

  First, he pulled out the weeds. Since he performed this task almost every week, the weeds were never too overwhelming. Then, he inspected the plants with care for pests before watering them with a light touch.

  Truth be told, as he grew used to gardening at a slow pace, Luther began to discover a quiet joy within it. It was not just the satisfying feeling of harvesting the fruits of his own labor, but above all, he felt as though the garden was the only thing in this world that responded to and acknowledged his efforts.

  And, in its own way, it acknowledged his very existence as well.

  Before heading back inside the house, he picked several plump red tomatoes, one ripe lemon, and a handful of crisp lettuce. His dinner tonight would be a simple salad paired with the leftover beef stew from three days ago. Alongside it, a glass of fresh lemonade was served.

  After finishing his meal, it was time for studying. Luther’s tiny study desk was located in his bedroom. One of its legs had long since broken, so Luther had propped it up with a stack of books underneath to keep it from toppling over. He needed only about half an hour to complete his homework and review the lessons that day.

  Then he crawled into bed, wrapped himself in the blanket, and began watching television. The night drifted on in silence, and faint noises from the street outside seeped through the walls.

  Tonight was Halloween, and the neighborhood had grown full of life with children going door-to-door asking for candy.

  But none of that had anything to do with him.

  He could still recall with clarity the very first time he had gone trick-or-treating when he was three years old.

  On that Halloween night, little Luther had peered out the window and seen the other neighborhood kids wearing strange costumes, carrying colorful plastic buckets of all shapes and sizes as they ran and played in the streets.

  He hadn’t even thought of joining them because he knew exactly how they would react if he tried. But Luther had discovered something fascinating that night: those children just needed to hold out their plastic buckets, shout something out loud, and the adults would smile and give them a pile of bright, shiny things.

  Luther’s eyes were as sharp as an owl’s. Even in the dim glow of the streetlamps, he could be sure that those treasures were yummy chocolates and candies, the same kind that his grandfather only allowed him to eat on rare occasions. David always said that eating too many would ruin his teeth and force him to visit the dreaded dentist.

  The boy didn’t like dentists at all, but that didn’t mean he hated chocolate. Who in the world could dislike the sweet, nutty taste of Snickers or the crunchy little M&Ms?

  He darted straight into the kitchen to search for something, then ran into the living room like a gust of wind, where his grandfather was seated on the sofa, reading a thick, ancient-looking book titled “On the Demonomania of the Sorcerers.”

  On the wooden table beside him lay several other similar volumes: “Witchcraft, Exorcism and the Politics of Possession,” “Malleus Maleficarum,” “The Magus,” “Ars Goetia” …

  “Candy,” Luther said, holding out a large plastic bowl in both hands.

  He had chosen the biggest bowl in the entire house, the one that was twice the size of his three-year-old head. Without a doubt, it would hold mountains of candy!

  Professor David Ravenswood lifted his head from the book. At first, he looked stunned for a few seconds. Luther tugged at his grandfather’s sleeve, dragging him towards the door and pointing straight at the scene unfolding outside.

  “Oh. It’s Halloween tonight, isn’t it?” David finally realized.

  “Candy,” Luther repeated again, his voice insistent.

  His grandfather had always forbidden him from leaving the house without him. He had told Luther countless times that if he ever wandered off and got lost, he might never be able to return home again.

  David stood frozen in place, staring down at his grandson.

  “Luther wants candy!” the little boy declared, mimicking the commanding tone Professor David used when lecturing in the classroom.

  The old man crouched down and gave his head a gentle pat.

  “Let’s go to Walmart, and you can get whatever candy you like, Luther. You don’t need to go around asking others for it.”

  “Luther wants to receive candy,” the boy insisted with stubborn resolve, his eyes brimming with tears.

  Luther had tried waving at the neighbors so many times, but he had never once received any response from them. This was the perfect chance for him to finally interact with someone else. He had never spoken to or had any kind of connection with anyone other than his grandfather.

  David let out a soft sigh. He held the boy’s small hand and said:

  “Alright. Luther, be good and don’t cry.”

  Luther tugged his grandfather toward the door at once, as though afraid he might change his mind. It took the two of them just a few steps to reach the house of the neighbor to their left, Miss Margaret. She was a middle-aged woman who lived alone with her cat, Sunny, and she had just finished handing out candy to a group of three noisy kids.

  “Happy Halloween, Miss Margaret,” David greeted her.

  “Happy Halloween, Professor David. Are you still doing well?”

  “I’m doing fine. You’re giving away so much candy, how kind of you,” David replied.

  “Oh goodness, it’s just some little treats. When I see the kids cheering after I give them candy, it makes me feel so happy,” Margaret said with a warm smile. “And what brings you over here tonight?”

  Luther stepped forward, holding his enormous plastic bowl as high as he could. Trying his best to recall the words he had heard, he shouted:

  “Truck-or-cheese!”

  There was no reaction. Apparently, he must have said it wrong.

  “Cheat-or-tree?”

  Still no response.

  Margaret’s expression began to shift into confusion. Why wasn’t the old man saying anything?

  Could he be … losing his mind? Poor Professor David …

  “Oh, my grandson just wants to play trick-or-treat as well,” David explained, nudging Luther a little closer to her.

  “Trick-or-treat!” Luther called out louder, enunciating every word clearly, his eyes wide with hope.

  He could see Kit Kats in Margaret’s candy basket! Those were the chocolate bars with crispy wafers inside. Luther remembered them well.

  Margaret glanced around to make sure there wasn’t some other child hiding behind the professor’s legs.

  But … David had been living alone ever since his daughter had passed away two years ago from depression after losing a pregnancy. There was no grandchild, wasn’t there? Or could it be …

  An unsettling thought suddenly flashed through Margaret’s mind. Her face turned pale as fear crawled up her spine.

  “You must be joking with me.” She forced out a smile, though her legs had already started trembling.

  Luther bit his lip hard. He dropped the bowl from his hands, and it hit the ground with a loud clang. Then, he buried himself in David’s coat, pressing his face into the fabric.

  Feeling the trembling from his small shoulders, David sighed again. He had known this was how it would turn out.

  “Mm. It was just a bad Halloween joke; my apologies. Could I please have some candy, Margaret?”

  “Y-yes … of course. Take it all, please,” Margaret said, shoving the entire candy basket into David’s hands before hurrying back into her house.

  The door slammed shut, leaving the grandfather and grandson standing dead quiet outside.

  “Luther, look at how much candy she gave you,” David said, lifting Luther into his arms.

  The little boy sniffled and wiped his tears.

  “She gave it to you. Not to me. She doesn’t want to talk to me,” he said between hiccups.

  “I’m so sorry, Luther. I truly am. I promise to find a way to make people see you. I promise. Now, do you want to eat a Snickers or a Kit Kat?” David asked, giving him gentle pats on the back.

  “Kit Kat,” the boy murmured.

  From that day onward, rumors began to spread through the neighborhood that Professor David Ravenswood had grown confused and senile, his mind fractured by the grief of losing his daughter.

  And also from that day onward, Luther never again mentioned the damn “truck-or-cheese” again.

  …

  That evening, live broadcasts of Halloween celebrations across the country filled the TV screen.

  The red light shining through the window reminded Luther that tonight was also the night of the blood moon, something the students at school had been gossiping about for days. The program on the TV switched to the bustling streets of the Petersburg neighborhood of New York.

  The night stretched on. The voice of the announcer droned in the background, and Luther’s eyelids began to droop little by little.

  All of a sudden, “Clang!”

  A loud noise erupted from the living room, jerking Luther out of his drowsiness.