The Sapling
Days have passed since the encounter at the silo.
Theo’s words still echo in Ceres’s thoughts, like a spell she tries to break — and the harder she tries, the more deeply she becomes entangled in it.
The routine returns to normal: studies, training on the simulated battlefield, weapons drills, obstacle courses, measured meals served on a strict schedule.
Theo keeps the same pace, methodical and precise, as though the world means nothing at all to him.
But something about him has changed — something that was once restrained now slips through every gesture.
He carries his cassette player hanging from his belt, his long hair brushing his shoulders, his gaze melancholy and tired.
Daime is the only one who can still draw genuine laughter from him.
Some girls watch him from a distance, fascinated by the danger and tension radiating from that disciplined body, by the look of someone who seems to have stared into the abyss itself and returned with a cynical smile.
After all, they are young — and in Ceres, danger is a form of beauty.
Ceres watches Theo from afar.
She studies him, dissects him in silence, but cannot tame him.
Controlling him is impossible; keeping up with him is exhausting; ignoring him is unbearable.
What she feels is confusing, dysfunctional, dangerous.
She hates it.
She hates him for making her feel.
Theo, by contrast, seems to float within his own surrender.
He has accepted the game, or learned to pretend he has.
He carries the serenity of someone who has already lost everything and, therefore, fears nothing.
A girl approaches and touches his shoulder.
Ceres feels her blood boil.
The other girl’s audacity — and his indifference — amount to a sentence.
But Theo belongs to no one.
Not even her.
He belongs only to Mother Ceres.
Ceres looks away, trying to erase the memory of that afternoon at the silo — the rain, the peach sapling growing in the darkness, the two of them alone, free for a few hours.
That small, clandestine freedom has been tormenting her ever since.
Theo watches her.
From a distance, but with surgical precision.
When their eyes meet, Ceres feels her body react before her mind can catch up.
Theo touches his hair, runs his fingers through the white streak — three times — a slow, calculated, provocative gesture.
A signal.
Ceres swallows hard.
Involuntarily, her fingers touch her own white streak.
And by the time she realizes what she has done, it is already too late.
Theo smiles.
Cynical.
Cruel.
Ceres blushes, turns away, and hurries off — hating herself for having obeyed.
Ceres remembers what Theo told her:
“I’ll only go to the silo with you when you ask me to. Anyway… all you have to do is come closer.”
But weeks have already passed. Time moves forward — they are both eighteen now. In two years, Mother Ceres will devour them. Freedom, an illusion, begins to dissolve. The voice of freedom hungers for responsibility; and freedom devours its responsible children so the city can keep functioning.
“I can’t be like him,” Ceres thinks. “Freedom is the enemy — but… but I felt comfortable with Theo. It’s wrong! Bastard. Theo is messing with my head. There’s no way out. It’s an illusion, but it’s an illusion that hurts. I want to ask him to go back to the silo with me, but my pride won’t let me — and I like my pride. I can’t give in. Even so… something inside me wants to surrender. How can this affect me so much?
We touched, but we never belonged to each other. We understood each other, but we never forgave each other.
You disturb me, Theo — and even when I hurt you, you bleed for me.
Why?
Neither a decent girl, nor guilty, nor innocent.
And neither are you, you bastard.”
Ceres took a few steps back, breathing deeply, trying to put her thoughts in order. Her heart was racing, but she refused to admit the confusion she felt. Theo remained where he was, standing still, his shoulders relaxed, his hair falling across his eyes, that hint of provocation lingering in his smile.
Ceres — I… I don’t know what’s happening to me.
Theo — I do. It’s what happens when you experience real freedom. But don’t worry, nothing’s going to break… not yet.
He approached slowly, just close enough for his warmth to reach her. Ceres felt every step like an electric spark traveling through her body. She tried to retreat, but there was something in his eyes that held her captive: curiosity, defiance, amusement, a silent invitation.
Ceres — Theo… I can’t…
Theo — Don’t worry about whether you can or can’t. Just feel. That’s what makes you… you.
He shared his headphones with her, placing one earbud in her ear and letting the music fill the silence between them. Every beat, every chord seemed to speak to what she was feeling, without words. She tried to look away but couldn’t; every movement he made seemed rehearsed to confuse her and, at the same time, make her trust him.
Theo — See? You feel. You don’t have to fight it, you don’t have to resist. I’m not yours, and you’re not mine. But for a moment… we’re nothing more than this.
Ceres closed her eyes, feeling his warmth, the music, the chaos and the order blending together. For an instant, the world seemed simple, even though everything was wrong. Theo did not possess her, yet he controlled the moment in a way that made her want more — more of him, more of what she could never have, more of the freedom that would never fully exist.
Ceres — This… this is wrong.
Theo — Maybe. But it’s real. At least for now.
She took a deep breath, trying to regain control of herself. Theo smiled, leaned in just enough for his hair to brush against hers, then stepped away, leaving the air charged with tension. There was no victory here, no possession. Only the reminder that Theo, even in his freedom, held the key to her chaos — and she didn’t know whether she wanted to take it back.
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