The Wildcat
Ceres woke up sensitive that morning.
There was something in the air — perhaps the scent of the flowers in the courtyard, or the still-fresh memory of the colorful dream, of the comforting embrace of Mother Ceres.
Or perhaps it was simply Theo, still stamped across her memory with that smile that seemed to live inside her.
In the courtyard, during free period, Ceres stood in a corner, arms crossed, her eyes hunting for Theo among the clusters of students talking. She found him.
He was near the side fence, laughing at something a girl had said.
She touched his shoulder — in the same way Ceres used to touch him.
Ceres couldn't hear anything, but his laughter echoed like a shot through her chest.
Suddenly, that sweet, anxious feeling of the morning collapsed inside her like a house of cards.
She felt her cheeks burn, her chest ache, her throat tighten.
The world seemed to be looking at her, mocking her.
On impulse, she spun on her heels and ran toward the inner part of the school, weaving between groups of students as though fleeing from a humiliation.
She nearly knocked over Daime, who was coming down the corridor in his wheelchair. He recoiled instinctively, and only avoided falling because he grabbed the wheel firmly.
— Hey, crazy girl! — he shouted after her, with the most sarcastic laugh he could manage. — Sick, woman, sick. What disrespect toward wheelchair users...
She disappeared without looking back, and he muttered to himself, shaking his head:
— That boy isn't handling that wildcat properly... lucky for him I'm in a wheelchair. Otherwise I'd have already shown him how you tame one of these...
Daime laughed to himself, adjusted himself in the chair, and continued on his way, still imagining the scene.
Later, he found Theo alone in the gym area and immediately started talking, amused:
— Hey, champion... your wildcat almost ran me over today. Looked like a runaway missile.
Theo raised an eyebrow.
— Her?
— Yeah. Must be “one of those days,” right? — Daime said with a mocking grin. — Do something about her, man... she needs some handling. Or she's going to knock me out of this chair for real, and then I'll have to run by some miracle just to catch that crazy girl with a lasso.
Theo suppressed a laugh, somewhat awkwardly, but deep down he couldn't help feeling a knot in his throat.
Because he knew that whatever had happened to her... it wasn't just “one of those days.”
The Lasso
Theo couldn't concentrate on what he was doing anymore.
Daime's mocking words echoed in his mind like a warning:
“She needs some handling. Or she's going to knock me out for real...”
And he knew. He knew Ceres wasn't the kind of person who fell apart for no reason. Not in front of others.
That running, that desperate escape, wasn't just “a bad day.”
He slowly got up from the gym bench, where he was still holding the ribbons from the last ceremony.
He took a deep breath and crossed the courtyard, the corridors, the hall. His eyes alert, searching for her among the shadows the afternoon was beginning to cast.
Some students greeted him; others simply looked away.
He walked in a straight line, determined.
He found her in an empty corner near the equipment room, sitting on the cold floor, her knees drawn against her chest.
Her blue eyes seemed even larger, even deeper, as though she were trying to hide an entire universe belonging only to her inside them.
For a moment, Theo felt a tightness in his chest.
She looked so small there.
So different from that cold leader everyone feared and admired.
And he understood:
The woman everyone saw was only the surface.
And there, before him, was the real Ceres.
The one only he could see.
He approached slowly, without making a sound, and crouched beside her.
— Ceres...
She didn't raise her head.
Theo extended his hand, hesitant, and touched the tips of her fingers.
She slowly raised her eyes and, when she finally looked at him, there was a mixture of shame and anger, fear and longing in them.
He smiled faintly. A smile meant only for her.
— I'm here — he said simply.
She took a deep breath, as though swallowing a sob, and then let out, in a thread of a voice:
— Why do I always feel like... like at any moment I'm going to lose you?
Theo didn't answer immediately. He simply held her hand firmly and brought it to his lips, kissing it gently.
— Because that's how you are. You feel too much — he murmured. — But I'm not going anywhere. I'm here. Just for you.
She closed her eyes for a moment, as though his words were a balm.
And then, without saying anything, she rested her head against his shoulder.
Theo felt her heart beating rapidly, felt her warmth through the cold uniform.
For a moment, there was no more fear, no shame, no shadows from the courtyard.
There was only that invisible bond between them, tightening, drawing the two of them closer and closer.
And Theo silently swore to himself that he would not let anyone, not even Mother Ceres, take that moment away from her.
Regathered
She remained there for long minutes, leaning against his shoulder, breathing deeply, allowing the silence to fill the empty spaces.
She could smell the faint scent of soap from his uniform, the discreet warmth of Theo's skin beneath the fabric.
Their fingers intertwined, almost without strength, simply present.
And little by little, her breathing returned to its rhythm.
Her heart no longer hurt as much.
It was as though the simple fact of his being there had driven away the cold claws squeezing her chest.
When she finally raised her head, there was still a glimmer of tears in her blue eyes — but it was no longer a tear of fear.
It was something else.
A mature sadness, almost beautiful, like a late autumn.
She slowly stood.
She straightened her rumpled uniform, smoothed her skirt with her cold palms.
Theo watched her in silence, respectfully.
She wasn't the kind of person who fell apart in front of someone for long.
Ceres was like that: she fell, but she always pulled herself back together.
Always.
Even if, inside, it kept throbbing.
Before leaving, she looked over her shoulder and said, almost in a whisper:
— I hate being like this. Weak, sometimes.
Theo stepped closer behind her and, without touching her, murmured near her ear:
— You're not weak. You just feel more than most people.
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time since she had fled the courtyard, she smiled.
A small, intimate smile, meant only for him.
When she opened her eyes again, they were already the same eyes as always — blue like the sky before the storm, blue like a prayer.
With firm steps, she returned to the corridor, heading toward the dormitory.
With every step, she could still feel her heart hurting... but she could also feel the strength that came from it.
That was how it was with her: what hurt her also made her more alive.
More dangerous.
More whole.
And Theo, left behind, watched her walk away with a knot in his throat.
He understood it too: nothing in the world would be capable of breaking Ceres completely.
Not Mother Ceres, nor anyone else.
It was only a matter of time before she returned to devour everyone with those hunter's eyes.
But for one brief, precious moment, she had simply been a girl.
A girl who still knew how to love.
The Prayer and the Glimpses
In the empty corridor, already near the dormitory, Ceres stopped.
Her breathing still trembling, her cold fingers gripping the fabric of her own skirt.
She closed her eyes — and then they came.
The glimpses.
The memories.
One by one.
The metallic sound of a gate at the back of the school, when Theo found her alone, wounded and having fled Silencium, kneeling beside her without asking questions, simply staying there.
His gaze before that — always from a distance — the only one that did not retreat, did not tremble, did not fear her like everyone else.
His faint collapse at the top of the diving ramp, almost breathless with fear, and her holding his face as they fell together into the water, the vertigo of being two, the vertigo of being whole.
Their first kiss at the edge of the pool, mixed with his nervous laughter, a kiss during the fall, during the vertigo, like a dive.
And now, in the cold corridor, the memories still danced with the song's refrain.
A knot formed in her throat.
She looked at the school's white, opaque ceiling — and, inside, prayed in silence:
“Mother Ceres, protect him for me. Let no harm reach him. I know that one day you will devour him, you will devour me too... but please, have mercy. Just a little longer... just these two years. I would live forever inside these two years, if I could. Oh, Mother, don't take this away from me now.”
She took a deep breath.
The tears did not fall this time.
Her eyes opened, cold again, hunters again.
But inside her, the plea continued burning, somewhere between melancholy and hope.
And, as though he somehow knew, even from a distance, Theo felt a shiver and looked back toward the courtyard, with the strange sensation that someone had just saved his soul once again.
At the end of the corridor, her silhouette disappeared into the shadow.
But she was still there.
And he was still there.
For her.
The world is constantly at war; peace is only an accident.
Ceres repeats this to herself as she watches Theo down in the courtyard, sitting on a bench beneath the shade, his uniform immaculate and his medal still shining on his chest.
He laughs at some random joke, calm, carefree — and it corrodes her from within.
Why is everything so calm now?
Why do the gears of the city turn so slowly, as if nothing could possibly go wrong?
She feels the landscape caught in her throat, as though breathing were difficult.
It is too beautiful, too calm, too blue.
And that does not comfort her.
It tortures her.
Hope, she thinks, is one of the cruelest forms of suffering.
Because it makes escape seem possible — but she knows it isn't.
The world is constantly at war.
Chaos is the only law.
So she wonders how much time remains before she is devoured.
By Mother Ceres, by Theo, by fate itself.
And she feels a melancholy ache in her chest, a sweet and terrible fear at the same time:
— Let it come soon — she whispers to herself, still staring at Theo below. — Before I get used to this.
She closes her eyes for a moment and breathes deeply, feeling the cold air, the metallic smell of the courtyard, the distant echo of sirens.
— Let it come soon... — she repeats softly, but this time completes it, only to herself:
— ...because I can't bear wanting this for so long.
She raises her eyes again toward Theo, his smile still glowing, the medal hanging from his chest like an easy target.
He isn't looking at her now. He doesn't realize how torn apart she already is simply by imagining losing him.
Peace is torture, she concludes.
Hope is the worst weapon of all.
Then she presses her closed hand against her heart, as though it were a silent prayer, and thinks:
Oh, Mother Ceres... if you're going to devour him, devour him soon. But please, devour him only after me.
She whispers inwardly, like a secret prayer, her hands clasped over her chest:
— Oh, Mother Ceres...
— Who cares, who educates, who feeds...
— Who devours.
Her voice falters, but does not stop:
— Have mercy on me, your daughter.
— Devour me first.
— Take my soul first, tear the flesh, the blood, the tears from me...
And she breathes deeply, another murmur:
— But leave him... leave him for last.
— So that I may know, even if only for a moment, that he still exists...
— For me.
Silence.
— So be it. Long live Mother Ceres.
School Courtyard — Improvised Flagball Practice
Daime and Theo argued heatedly, a flagball in their hands.
Theo raised an eyebrow:
— You have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Daime. This is precision, agility, and strength.
Daime rolled his eyes:
— And you have absolutely no idea what a clown you are. Want to bet?
Before Theo could answer, Ceres appeared behind them, arms crossed, a sharp smile on her face.
Ceres, sarcastic:
— It's easy. You just have to get past the marker.
Daime, excited and taking the opportunity:
— See? Even the wildcat knows. Go on, show him.
Theo looked at Ceres confidently:
— Try it, then. Try getting past me. I want to see.
Ceres took the ball in her hand, her eyes sparkling with challenge.
Theo, with a little disdainful smile:
— You'll need precision, agility... and strength.
Ceres simply gave a sly smile.
— Oh, I have my weapons.
[The exchange that follows is omitted here.]
The courtyard erupted in laughter.
Daime laughed louder than everyone else, clapping and shouting at Theo from the ground:
— That's three to zero for the doll over there, Theo! On the simulated field, in the courtyard dribble, and now with that takedown where you fell like a sack of potatoes!
He shook his head, still laughing:
— Weird doll... but definitely no toy, brother!
Ceres slowly stood and extended her hand to Theo, still laughing inwardly.
Theo was still on the ground, his face completely red with anger and embarrassment, breathing hard, looking up at Ceres, who remained standing with her hand extended toward him, wearing the same sly smile as always.
He hesitated for a second, his eyes moving from Ceres to Daime — and then back to Ceres.
The entire courtyard was laughing, but the noise seemed to disappear from his ears.
Slowly, Theo accepted Ceres's hand.
She pulled him up with force, and he stood, still tense.
He brushed the dust from his uniform, looked at Ceres with that raw intensity only he possessed... and finally let out a low, hoarse, almost proud laugh:
Theo, in a tone meant only for her:
— All right, weird doll... you won this one. But don't get me used to losing, okay?
Ceres simply raised an eyebrow, her eyes shining with satisfaction:
— It's too late for that.
Beside them, Daime took advantage of the opportunity to shout, just to set things on fire even more:
Daime:
— THAT'S IT! HUMILIATE HIM MORE, CERES! MAKE HIM SWALLOW HIS OWN PRIDE, YOU IDIOT!
Theo closed his eyes and shook his head, trying not to laugh, and said quietly to himself as he watched Ceres walk away:
— Weird doll indeed... but definitely no toy.
And the sound of laughter continued echoing through the courtyard, along with the sound of the bouncing ball and Daime repeating between laughs:
— Three to zero, champion! Three to zero!
The Letter
The days passed slowly, and on a gray morning, Theo and Tycho received the letter.
It came stamped with the seal of Ceres — the sign that it was one of the rare reports sent to the brothers, fathers, or mothers of one of the chosen children.
On average, three were delivered to the school each year.
Tomas was the one who wrote it.
The brother who would become Ceres's astronaut.
One of Mother Ceres's children who would not be devoured.
The letters only arrived after the children turned ten.
That was how it had always worked: at ten, the children were handed over to the discipline of the school.
They already arrived trained to fend for themselves, nourished through precise nutrition and motor and social exercises, supervised in everything — bathing, health, studies, sports.
They were called the Children of Mother Ceres.
It was the initiation.
The children were taught to respect one another through strength or cunning — because in the world of Ceres, there was no room for weakness.
No child was left behind.
Even the most frightened and cowardly children were eventually transformed through psychological and physical exercises.
Mother Ceres had patience.
She abandoned no one.
Her children were nourished, hardened, and taught to hate those who dared to hate Mother Ceres.
The most difficult children were bathed in ice-cold water.
They slept on the floor.
They received few meals.
They spent entire nights in darkness as punishment.
It was simple: obey, love Mother Ceres, and you would have the privilege of her breasts — which flowed with honey.
Mother Ceres's affection was not being abandoned.
And, if they were worthy, she would devour them with pride — controlled, obedient, forged into a perfect notion.
Not absolute perfection, but the edge of perfection.
Everyone would perish one day.
Only those who suckled at Mother Ceres's breasts would not die of hunger.
Because her children do not starve to death.
They die from being devoured by her.
The letter arrived on a cold morning, folded with precision, dark gray in color, the seal stamped with Mother Ceres's face burned into it.
Theo and Tycho opened it together, their fingers trembling, already feeling the weight of lead forming in their throats before they had even read the first line.
It was from Tomas.
The eldest brother.
The one everyone called the astronaut of Ceres.
One of the few children who would not be devoured by her — not now.
His handwriting was firm, beautiful, almost military:
“Brothers,
Life here is hard. The training is absolute. Every day they prepare me to command the ship that will take us to the Floating Station. Every simulation I face, every sacrifice I make... I feel that Mother Ceres is proud of me.
I miss Theo's stubbornness, the foolish purity of my little brother Tycho. One day you will surpass me — because every generation must be better than the one before it.
I have a son now. One year old already, under his mother's care in the housing block in Pietà. He will also be stronger than us. He will never know me, but I already love that boy the way Mother Ceres taught me to love you: with pride and without tears.
I am in the best phase of my life, brothers. If you ever miss me, look at the sky. When you see my eyes up there, it means I am watching over you.
I would like to embrace you. But when I reach the space station, up there I will embrace the entire world.
Don't think it is easy to leave you. At times I thought about giving up... but Mother Ceres is my motivation. She reminds me that we, her children, do not cry.
The longing hurts like a ball of lead in my throat, but duty is greater. It is absolute.
I am sending Tycho a medal — I can only send one gift per letter. Keep it safe.
Don't be emotional now. Be eloquent. And, if you can use your emotions, let them be used to strengthen reason.
I love you. And I love Mother Ceres.
— Tomas”
When they finished reading, Theo closed his eyes tightly, trying to swallow the knot.
Tycho held the medal with both hands, as though it were fragile, but it was cold, heavy, and resilient like everything Mother Ceres touched.
They embraced right there in the cold dormitory, without saying anything.
They simply felt the longing descend through their bones like the end of an afternoon, burning slowly.
But they did not cry.
Because the children of Mother Ceres do not cry.
And they did not say goodbye the way one says goodbye to the sun — they did it like the moon at twilight: quietly, soberly, with a glow no one else can see.