The conversation continued.
Aurora's mother began talking more about school.
At first, they were little things.
Nicknames.
Jokes.
Comments about her skin.
Then came the more persistent harassment.
The boys would wait for her along the way.
Sometimes they would surround Aurora.
Throw things at her.
Laugh when she got scared.
Her mother lowered her eyes.
— She never told me everything.
The psychologist remained silent.
— I would ask her.
— And she would say everything was fine?
— Always.
Her mother took a deep breath.
— She didn't want to bother me.
— Maybe she thought you already had too many problems.
— I was her mother.
She looked at Aurora through the glass.
— I should have noticed.
— Don't blame yourself.
— It's hard not to.
The psychologist remained silent for a few seconds.
— Children hide things.
— I know.
— Especially when they think telling someone will only make things worse.
Her mother nodded.
— She was afraid.
— Of the boys?
— Of everything.
Her mother ran a hand over her face.
— She didn't want me to go to the school. She didn't want me to talk to the teachers. She said she could handle it.
The psychologist looked at Aurora.
— And she couldn't.
— No.
Her mother fell silent.
Then she said:
— I remember one of them.
The psychologist raised her eyes.
— One of the boys?
— Yes.
She looked at Aurora.
— His name...
Aurora moved.
Both women stopped.
It was just a movement.
Almost nothing.
Aurora's head began to turn slowly.
Toward the east.
Slowly.
Without alarm.
Without haste.
Her mother froze.
— Aurora?
The girl continued turning her head.
Her eyes followed the same direction.
Then her body began to move.
First a few centimeters.
Then farther.
Aurora floated approximately half a meter above the floor.
But the way she moved looked almost like walking.
Effortlessly.
Without momentum.
As if there were an invisible floor beneath her feet.
Except there wasn't.
An alarm began to sound.
Then another.
Red lights flashed in the corridor.
— What's happening?
Soldiers came running.
Doors were shut.
Orders began to ring out.
Aurora continued.
She reached the first obstacle.
A metal barrier.
She didn't stop.
Her body passed through the structure.
The metal did not pass through her body.
The opposite happened.
The barrier began to deform.
The metal bent.
Crushed.
Compressed against the girl's body as if it had gone through an industrial press.
Aurora didn't even look at it.
She kept moving.
— DON'T SHOOT!
The order came too late.
The first shot rang out.
Then another.
Then dozens.
The bullets struck Aurora.
They fell to the ground.
Some ricocheted.
Others simply deformed.
None penetrated her.
Aurora did not react.
She did not raise her arms.
Did not speed up.
Did not look at the soldiers.
She kept moving forward.
The psychologist remained behind the glass.
Her mother stood beside her.
Neither could speak.
— Stop shooting! — someone shouted.
No one seemed to hear.
Panic had taken hold of the entire complex.
More gunfire.
Aurora kept moving.
Her clothes began to tear under the gunfire.
The fabric split.
Then came apart.
The girl was left completely naked.
But there were no wounds.
Not a single drop of blood.
Not a mark.
Nothing.
She continued moving at the same speed.
Slowly.
Like a person walking without a care in the world.
A military vehicle tried to block her path.
Aurora kept going.
The vehicle began to crumple.
First the hood.
Then the sides.
The roof collapsed.
The metal was compressed at precisely the height where Aurora passed.
The vehicle ended up deformed on the ground.
Aurora went through.
A tractor came toward her.
The driver abandoned the cab.
Aurora passed.
The entire vehicle folded in on itself.
Another piece of equipment was crushed.
A metal structure gave way.
Cables snapped.
Glass exploded.
Everything in Aurora's path seemed to encounter an invisible force at a height of half a meter.
And everything was crushed.
The girl made no gestures.
She did not push.
She did not strike.
She didn't even seem to notice.
She simply kept going.
The psychologist looked at her mother.
— She's going somewhere.
Her mother did not answer.
Her eyes were fixed on her daughter.
— Aurora...
The girl was already outside.
She continued through the forest.
The soldiers were still shooting.
The gunfire echoed among the trees.
Aurora passed through everything.
Branches.
Barriers.
Equipment.
Vehicles.
Nothing seemed capable of stopping her.
And she continued at the same speed.
Without running.
Without fleeing.
Without attacking.
As if she were simply walking toward some place only she knew.
Or perhaps not even that.
Perhaps she had merely turned her head toward the east.
And started walking.
Her mother remained watching.
So did the psychologist.
Behind them, the entire complex seemed to have collapsed into chaos.
Ahead, among the trees, Aurora slowly disappeared.
Still floating.
Still serene.
Still without saying a word.
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