The school was still asleep when the man began cleaning the courtyard. The cold, gray stones echoed the damp scraping of the broom. He worked with devotion, sweeping every corner of that ground where he, too, had once walked—before being devoured by Mother Ceres.
Every morning, he knelt before her: he scrubbed the metal faucets, polished the toilets, cleaned the greasy windows with silent pride. It was not bad to care for Mother Ceres. Not at all. Those lucky enough to be among her employees—even the humblest, such as janitors, technicians, collectors—competed for the positions as if they were crowns. More coveted than those of engineer, chemist, or mechatronics technician.
Why? Because working there was, for some, the last chance to see their children. Children who were still alive and studying beneath her roof, not yet entirely devoured. Seeing a child’s face from afar, a hidden wave, a distracted glance... That alone was enough to turn a bucket and a cloth into relics of faith. It was a home. It smelled like home.
Mother Ceres played tricks. That was how it was. For half the population, the dream was to be near her—even if only by cleaning the floor. For the other half, the dream was to be swallowed by her: accepted as a teacher, officer, technician. All tested, all evaluated in brutal examinations just to earn a place inside her. Even Major Tomas, in his privileged position, never had the gift of seeing the faces of his own children. Because being close to Mother sometimes meant being far from whatever remained of our humanity.
Outside, dawn broke like a miracle. The sky was still half-dark, torn open by a timid golden sun. The school rose in heavy blocks, but the spectacle of the light made it seem as though it were breathing.
The sun and Mother Ceres were that to them: legacy. Proof that there was still pleasure and decency in life. Giving oneself to Mother, serving Mother, was returning to her the freedom humanity had once forgotten. She, who was our mother. Our Mother Ceres.
And the man continued his ritual. He dried the water from the faucets, scrubbed the toilets with determination, while the courtyard gained color. He thought of his son. And, for an instant, he believed that perhaps that morning would be different. Perhaps Mother Ceres, in her infinite cunning, would allow him to see a familiar face before she devoured another.
Some students began to emerge from the dormitory, dragging their feet, still sleepy. Their uniforms neatly pressed, their hair disheveled. In the cold morning air, they formed small scattered lines, walking toward the courtyard and then the cafeteria.
In the distance, scattered through the corridors and courtyards, the employees interrupted the rhythm of their brooms for a moment to watch them. They pretended to keep working, but their eyes did not lie: they anxiously searched the crowd for a familiar face.
That was why they were there. For that chance. For that simple hope of seeing their children pass by. Some were lucky—rarely, almost sacredly—to find them. A restrained wave, a hesitant little goodbye, a shy smile on the children’s faces. Sometimes, a tiny sob was swallowed down, hidden between a bucket and a floor cloth.
And there were the more fortunate ones. Those who managed, for a moment, to abandon the mop and offer a hug. It was not forbidden. It had never been forbidden, as long as everyone fulfilled their duties. Mother Ceres was not inhuman. Quite the opposite. She liked to remind them that humanity still pulsed, even inside her mouth.
But there were few. Very few in Ceres had a job like that. A job that allowed them to serve Mother and, at the same time, see their children. For the others, only memory remained. Or the hope of a reunion in another life.
The students moved on, one by one, between the employees who returned to sweeping the floor with the same devotion as before. Inside, however, each one carried that moment like a prize. A privilege they would never dare waste.
On the flagball fields, the day had already taken shape. Athletes from the first block warmed up in coordinated rows, running across the freshly trimmed grass. The strong smell of cut grass dominated the damp morning air, mixed with the chemical scent of chlorine coming from the swimming gym. A bittersweet perfume—a physical reminder of the discipline and purity Mother Ceres demanded from her children.
Maintenance workers crossed the white lines with their mowing machines and paint poles, adjusting every detail with care. It was not merely work. It was ritual. The honor was not only in serving, but in being there: sharing the same space, breathing the same air, watching—even from afar—the routine of the children Mother had entrusted to them.
Some parents allowed themselves more. When they spotted their children among the athletes, in the locker rooms, or simply walking along the outer corridor, they waved discreetly, with a restrained smile. Others still risked coming closer—sharing a quick snack, a cup of coffee by the field, exchanging hurried words before a whistle or an order reminded both of them where the limit was. It was not forbidden—as long as order was maintained, as long as no one forgot the role that belonged to them: child or servant.
The corridors buzzed with students coming and going, in immaculate uniforms, folders held against their chests. And throughout the school, employees could be seen scattered among courtyards, gyms, corridors, and fields—all busy with their tasks, yes, but with their secret hearts devoted to that small possibility of seeing, touching, and smiling at a child. After all, that was why they had chosen those highly coveted, precious positions.
“Thank you, Mother Ceres,” they murmured silently, while pushing a bucket, sweeping a corner, or trimming a flower bed. To them, it was a greater privilege than any pompous position. Greater than being an engineer or an administrator in the city.
In Ceres, they knew, there was no room for vanity. The true reward lay in that invisible thread—that brief, permitted, precious contact—with their own children, before Mother claimed them completely.
Outside, in other cities, in other decaying nations, stories of corruption were known—men fighting over positions, buying votes, stealing other parents’ places, plotting to get closer to their children by force. In Ceres, it was the opposite: there was no blind competition, only devotion and an orderly line. Each person waited their turn, each accepted their share, because that was what Mother wanted.
Here, even in the humblest services, everyone felt rich.
Because nothing was more valuable than that moment—the moment when, for only a second, a child passed by them, raised their head and, with a calm and proud gaze, smiled.
And they knew: everything was worth it.
Cora was one of those privileged ones.
Daughter of Cami, the botanist responsible for Ceres’s urban landscape, she had the rare gift of seeing her every Tuesday, when her mother came to record the condition of the vacant lots beside the school—lots few dared to visit, since, it was said, they would soon be turned into an exercise plaza or a military field.
Cami cared for the city with the same tenderness with which Cora cared for the seeds... and the animals.
Whenever she could, her mother asked how the dogs and cats on the lot were doing, and she answered with an embarrassed smile:
—Commander Whiskers still rules the place. Captain Coxinha is doing fine, getting nice and chubby... and Liver, as always, is a fighter.
And she laughed as she mentioned the strange names she had given the animals:
Commander Whiskers, a black-and-white cat with an air of authority.
Captain Coxinha, a yellow dog who was always stealing the students’ snacks.
Liver, a ginger cat everyone thought was ugly, but whom only Cora thought was beautiful.
And there was also little Sausage, a skinny mutt who barked at anything that moved.
Cami smiled when she heard these reports and, in a low voice, also asked about the old airplane in which Cora kept her marigold seeds.
That was where the girl dreamed of seeing the entire city one day colored in shades of orange—even if no one noticed her little clandestine plantations.
And then Mother Ceres, as always, played a trick.
One gray dawn, the city was invaded by spies from Arcadia. They were searching for an experiment from the center and, for their escape, which had been planned for years, they would use precisely that airplane, secretly prepared to cross the border.
Cora only found out that morning.
The airplane had been taken away in haste, climbing into the sky beneath sirens, tearing through the clouds with a metallic roar. But it never managed to cross the border—it crashed onto the center like a meteor, leaving a trail of destruction.
No one ever knew that, along with the pieces and screws, Cora’s marigold seeds had also rained down.
Within days, they germinated.
Within weeks, the entire city—within a fifteen-kilometer radius—was overtaken by a thick, fragrant sea of orange flowers.
An impossible spectacle.
A miracle.
The newspapers reported it as “The Blessing of Mother Ceres.” Observers from other cities came to see it with their own eyes, never suspecting the truth.
The airplane, shattered and burning in the center, was swept away. Every piece of evidence was burned.
And no one ever knew that it had all begun with a girl, a handful of seeds... and a restless heart.
That Tuesday, when Cami came to the school, the two walked side by side, observing the landscape blooming beyond the walls.
Cora merely smiled, shyly.
Cami squeezed her hand and whispered:
—Thank you, my daughter.
And in that instant, for one second, Cora felt that perhaps, just perhaps... Mother Ceres really loved her too.
Cora, for her part, does not imagine even half of what her mother thinks of her as she watches her.
She still does not have a secret “little boyfriend” at school—not for lack of opportunity, but because her face turns red at the slightest wave from her classmates. She is far too shy.
Not like Cami was, because at thirteen, Cami was already exchanging little notes and laughter in the corridors, hiding behind the cafeteria pillars.
Cora is not.
Cora prefers the silence of the vacant lots, the smell of grass, the crazy cats with silly names like Little Bean, Little Lightbulb, and Comet. She would rather care for marigold flowers than risk saying “hi” to some random boy.
Not that she has no curiosity—of course she does. Sometimes, while the others play flagball on the field or whisper in the courtyard, she imagines what it would be like to hold a warm hand, feel a smile meant only for her, have the courage to blush without immediately wanting to disappear afterward.
But not now.
She is not ready for that yet—not for boys, nor for Mother Ceres.
She knows the time will come. Because everyone here has their time.
And perhaps that is why Cora also believes that, one day, she will be special. She will learn to speak without stammering, she will learn to return the looks instead of looking away, she will learn to be devoured without fear.
And it will be good.
Even if it hurts first.
For now, Cora only cares for the flowers, the seeds, and the animals, pretending that her world is small enough to fit inside the vacant lot.
For now, she can be just a thirteen-year-old girl, too shy to get involved in other people’s game.
For now.
Cora still does not have enough courage for many things.
Not to speak out loud.
Not to stand up for herself when they bump into her in the corridor.
Not even to admit that, sometimes, she does dream of having a secret little boyfriend—just like her mother once did.
But not yet. Not now.
She is too young, too shy, with a face that burns whenever someone calls her by name.
Cami understands this, because she herself was once like that—although at her daughter’s age, she had a little more daring and a little less fear.
And she knows that this process is natural: one day, Cora will grow up, gain courage, find someone to share secrets with...
And, inevitably, she will be devoured too.
And that is not bad—not really.
It is the order of things.
Even the most fragile flowers eventually bloom when their time comes.
Cora and Cami sometimes remember the miracle of the airplane together.
That old airplane no longer exists—it was burned, destroyed, forgotten.
But before disappearing, it spread marigolds throughout Ceres, like an orange field burning beneath the gray sky.
And Cora, deep down, believed that miracle was also meant for her.
A sweet gesture from Mother Ceres, who, without meaning to, gave back to her the flowers she herself had once kept hidden.
As if saying: “I see you, my daughter. Even though you are small and shy now.”
And Cami believed so too.
Cora would be special.
She would learn to face pain and still remain sweet.
She would learn to be strong like her mother—and even more beautiful inside.
She would bloom.
Because that is how it is for everyone in Ceres.
And even though it is bad sometimes, it is good.
Good enough to be grateful.
Cami looked at her daughter kneeling in the vacant lot, her little hands dirty with soil and a few marigold petals caught in her hair.
A cat—Galeto—curled lazily beside her, while two dogs quietly fought over a branch farther away.
“You know...” Cami said, after writing something in her little notebook and tucking the pen behind her ear, “I really think Mother Ceres gave you that miracle on purpose.”
Cora raised her face, surprised.
“Really? You think so?”
“I do. You are... special. You just don’t know it yet.” Cami crouched down to remove a petal from her daughter’s face. “I was like that too. Shy, quiet. I thought I didn’t have the courage to do anything.”
Cora smiled shyly.
“I... I wish I had courage. Like you. Or like Mother Ceres.”
Cami laughed softly, shaking her head.
“You will. It just takes time, daughter. First we bloom slowly. Then we become strong. And then... Mother devours us.”
Cora lowered her eyes, but she did not seem sad.
“It must be beautiful to be devoured...”
“It’s the most beautiful thing there is.” Cami stroked the girl’s hair. “And until then... you’ll still find a little secret boyfriend somewhere, you know? Just like I found mine.”
Cora turned red.
“Mommy! I won’t!”
“Not now, I know...” Cami stood with a smile. “But one day. Because you will be strong, my little flower. You will learn. And when the time comes... it will be good. Even if it seems bad. It will be good.”
Cora remained quiet, looking at the orange flowers around her, and murmured softly, as though speaking to Mother Ceres herself:
“Thank you for the miracle...”
And in the distance, the wind moved through the marigolds, as if smiling at her.
Theo’s Memories
Theo vividly remembered the smell of the locker room before the decisive match in Oplan—a mixture of sweat, the iron of the old lockers, and the synthetic perfume of freshly pressed uniforms.
The medal still weighed in his pocket, like a nail driven into his chest.
Achievement through betrayal. Recognition for informing on Gene—the friend whose name he no longer dared to say.
The other boys laughed, stretched, clapped their hands, carrying adrenaline before the game.
But Theo could barely breathe.
The medal burned like a fever against the fabric of his pants.
And then he exploded.
He threw his backpack onto the floor, pulled out the medal and, in front of everyone, crushed it with both hands, growling like a wounded animal.
The sharp edges cut into his palms, but he did not stop.
And he shouted, eyes burning:
“I don’t want gifts from Mother Ceres! I want Mother Ceres to love me the way I love her!”
Silence.
The entire locker room stopped.
Not even breathing could be heard.
There, in that moment, Theo gained leadership of the group.
Even those who did not know exactly what he meant understood its weight.
The pain. The revolt. The servile, unconditional love.
Even Dark, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, let out a low whistle.
He approached, picked up the piece of the medal from the floor, and said in that warm, insolent voice:
“The prince of Mother Ceres...”
It was not praise.
It was mockery. And a desire for destruction.
Dark hated Theo, but not out of envy. Nor fear.
Dark hated him because it was fun to try to break whatever Mother Ceres considered acceptable.
Theo was her favorite toy.
And Dark was the city’s rabid dog—born from the mud, trained to tear apart whatever shines too brightly.
That attitude, of course, earned Theo detention.
And more than that: correction.
A word that always came loaded with silence in the corridors...
...and liquid little meals served on plastic trays.
But he did not regret it.
In that instant, in the locker room, in front of everyone, it was as if his shout echoed throughout the stadium.
Throughout the territory of Oplan.
Throughout Ceres.
And even though no one ever said it openly...
He knew Mother Ceres had heard him.
The detention lasted fifteen days.
Fifteen days away from school.
Away from mornings filled with shouting.
Away from the smell of grass on the flagball field.
Away from choreographed classes.
Away from nervous laughter in the corridors.
Fifteen days away from Tycho, whom he could not see even once.
His little brother might have written, might have cried—but nothing reached Theo.
In detention, there were no letters.
It was a pale-gray cell, with a built-in bed and lights regulated to turn on and off according to Ceres’s official cycle.
Time was dictated by sensors.
There were no windows, only a screen embedded in the wall—the Official Citizen Update Projector.
It was through that screen that Theo saw his classmates:
training, laughing, playing.
They seemed distant, with a slight graininess that made everything look like an old dream.
Even Daime, with his unbearable and idiotic advice, appeared laughing during a match.
And Tycho, in the background, sitting in the shade of a tree with the books from the blue primer.
Everyone moving on.
The world moved on.
And there, lying down, his body aching from the hard bed and his muscles weakening...
Theo saw her.
Ceres.
She appeared twice a day.
A special recording for the re-education of “non-conforming behaviors.”
The screen showed her immaculate face, her sweet voice, dressed in ceremonial uniform, her beret tilted and the two golden keys pinned to her chest.
“True love is not selfish. True love trusts, serves, and remains silent.”
Theo watched in silence.
He knew the text by heart.
But every time she spoke, something twisted inside his stomach.
It was not anger.
It was not fear.
It was something deeper, older: hunger for belonging.
During the last days of detention, Theo had begun memorizing the smallest details of the recording:
the blinking of her eyes, the gentle raising of her hand, the way the soldiers in the background straightened their posture at exactly the same second.
When the recording ended, silence remained.
And there, in that white and absolute silence, Theo did not think about Gene.
He thought about Ceres.
The courtyard was full of movement, but to him it seemed like a still painting:
lines of students moving from one side to another, employees collecting fallen leaves, a group of girls laughing loudly in the corner, the distant sound of a whistle coming from the gym.
He was sitting alone on one of the concrete benches, hands in his pockets, body slightly hunched.
Eyes fixed on nothing.
The cold wind made the tips of the grass bend in a collective bow.
There, alone, Theo thought—for the first time—about something he had never before dared to name:
What if Mother Ceres does not truly love us?
The doubt had sprouted like a bad weed during the days of detention.
In the silence of that windowless cell, in the emptiness where the feelings he had once had for himself seemed to have been torn away, replaced by something hard and metallic.
It was not an ordinary emptiness.
It was more like lead, a constant weight that kept him bound to the earth.
Mother Ceres had taken from him the feeling of belonging to himself.
And in exchange, she had given him a duty so heavy that sometimes it seemed impossible to carry.
Theo had never before even considered calling Mother Ceres by another name.
But in that instant, he felt his tongue rehearsing the sound of another word—a near-disrespect he did not dare complete.
He felt split in half.
One side screamed for him to escape, to run, to abandon everything, to be free, to tear from himself the golden seal of servitude that everyone carried on their chests.
The other side—the louder, more rigid one—whispered in condemnation that he was a traitor, that he deserved to be burned in the execution yard like all the others who had doubted.
That doubt itself was heresy.
That he should surrender, confess, kneel.
That duality remained balanced, like a coin spinning in the air.
He did not know which side it would fall on.
And he knew, with a chill in his stomach, that this uncertainty had already made him a different man.
He was no longer the same boy who had shouted in the locker room weeks before, nor the one who followed Daime through the corridors with a condescending smile, nor the same one who hugged Tycho on freezing mornings.
The suffering of detention had left a side effect.
Something inside him had broken.