Citizens of Ascendex are separated into 4 groups: the Shallows, the Midst, the Elevation, and the Eminence. Individuals from the Shallows are the low-income population. The Midst are the citizens in the middle, and the Elevation are the citizens of higher income, while the Eminence being of the extreme, essentially, they are nobles.
The familiar aroma of roasted chicken and herbs welcomes me like an old friend as I enter grandfather’s quaint house. Warning: if you’re not a fan of stories, turn back now—you’re about to be swept into a whirlwind of tales from his youth, lessons learned the hard way, and jokes that never fail to crack a laugh. At least, this is how it usually unfolds.
Today, however, the atmosphere is different. Instead of his usual lively banter and familiar anecdotes, a heavy silence hangs over the table like a dense fog.
My grandfather pulls out a chair to sit at the table. His usually animated face marked by gravity weighing down every line and crease. His usually much sturdier frame appears frailer, tenser, as if burdened by an unseen weight.
The clinking of utensils on plates is punctuated only by the occasional sigh, the silence between us stretched like a taut string waiting to snap.
His eyes meet mine with a strange intensity, and I realize it’s more than concern—it’s something deeper, a flicker of fear hiding beneath the surface. It’s as if he’s grappling with an invisible foe, one that has stolen his words and left him defenseless. The weight of it presses between us, unspoken but undeniable, a fear so palpable it speaks volumes without a single word being uttered.
We pick at our food in near silence, the clinking of utensils fading into the background, each bite feeling heavier than the last. As the end of our meal draws nearer and nearer, the room grows quieter and quieter with each passing moment, becoming so silent even the walls are holding their breath.
Grandfather sets down his fork with deliberate care, but as he does, he leans in closer to me. His voice is barely more than a whisper, yet each word cuts through the stillness with chilling clarity. “Changes are on the horizon,” he murmurs, his words lingering in the air like a premonition. “They will be harsh, unforgiving, especially for the citizens.”
In was in this moment, I realized his silence was not merely the absence of words, but the ominous omen of a storm on the horizon, one which threatened to reshape everything we’ve known.
<<>>
Last night, my family was hanging out at my grandfather’s place for dinner. My grandfather always loves telling me stories from back in the day, and yet I don’t recall him telling me any stories yesterday. In fact, he hardly spoke a word—wait, I take that back. He said one sentence… a phrase. The whole night, he had been looking at me with a strange, intense glaze. His frail form looked tense and on edge when he leaned over near my ear to whisper, “Changes are on the horizon, they will be harsh, unforgiving, especially for the citizens.”
Ever since my grandfather whispered the phrase into my ear, I’ve found myself continuously pondering over the words. I’ve spent countless hours trying to decipher what he said, desperate to find a hint in his words. Last night, I couldn’t sleep because my mind was a race car continuously taking laps around a track, asking the same question again and again. Grandfather, what did you mean by changes? What are you trying to hint at?
I've lived my entire life in this world and seen nothing that hints at change. What could you possibly be referring to... something so dangerous it leaves you speechless?
Though grandfather is quite aged, perhaps he's lost his mind? My foot slams to the ground. No... that can’t be. Believing what he said is hard, because I cannot recall a time when the city’s ever done me wrong in such a way. Ugh, why couldn’t he just have told me more?
A distant thud echoes down the hall, and the floor creaks, footsteps approach my door. A rattle comes from the doorknob before a click floods my bedroom in light. Standing under the doorframe is my mother, who is a shorter woman with brown hair flowing down her back.
She opens her mouth to speak, only to close it again because I mutter cutting her off, “yes…” I sigh, “I know, I should be getting ready for school.”
She stands in the doorway with her mouth hanging open. I imagine she doesn’t like me stealing the words out of her mouth, or maybe I rolled my eyes. In all honestly, I’m tired of hearing those same words she—or any other mother for that matter—says every morning, it gets old.
After getting myself ready for the day, I descend my way down the staircase and into our kitchen. I turn to make my way to our food printer, only to have my attention redirected by a mound of pancakes towering over the kitchen island.
As I pass by, I swing my arm out to snatch one; however, the plate slides away just before my hand comes within reach. My brother's head peeks around the mound with a grin plastered across his face. My mouth opens and then closes.
Only a few seconds have passed, and he has already dived back in, shoveling more and more pancakes down his already full gullet. Every morning, I try for one of his pancakes. One of these times, I'm going to get him.
"Cyrix, c’mon, don’t steal all the pancakes," I complain, "save some for everyone else!"
He shakes his head, still grinning, still chewing a pancake. I’m hardly given a chance to comprehend before his little face, once again, is plunging deep into the pancakes.
“You did not just swallow that whole,” I watch in disbelief.
His head pops out, and he speaks with his mouth full, “yup!”
I sigh, shaking my head. Guess I’m not getting one of his pancakes today.
My attention slides to the food printer. Keeping my eyes on the touch screen in the middle, my hand slides around the side fliping the power on. I press a few buttons on the screen and with a hum and a whirr, my breakfast is printing. One blueberry doughnut—coming right up!
One of my grandfather's jokes pops into my head, “in my time, we had to actually bake the food, not use some lazy machine,” I laugh to myself. The phrase was something my grandfather couldn’t help saying when he would see me press those buttons.
I remember in history class, my teacher once mentioned how before the age of food printers, people had to prepare their own food. Could you imagine, with how precious time is, what a waste it would be? Funny... considering I am still lingering on this specific phrase my grandfather says. Despite this, even I can’t help but wonder, what would cooking a meal be like? I roll my eyes, shaking my head. Ridiculous, food is food, and with technology today, it would be a stupid use of time. I guess... no. Even if you wanted to, it would take forever to find the tools because no storekeeper wants to stock products no one will buy.
The food printer makes an odd noise as I lean closer, and I jump, backing away from it... the noise stops. I lift my foot, deliberately taking a step forward and the odd noise comes back. Weird, this isn’t the first time the food printer has made odd noises when I stand too close.
I would investigate more but, my eyes fall on the clock: 8:10 am, looks like I’ve gone over my quota for daydreaming this morning… better scramble to prepare myself.
I turn around, walking away from the food printer, allowing it to continue its job. I grab my backpack and lift it onto the table, unzipping it to check its contents. Looks like I’m missing my calculator, I’ll grab the spare inside my desk.
The stairs creak softly beneath my feet as I make my way up, the faint light from the window in our entryway guiding my steps.
My fingers wrap around the doorknob, and a swing, presents my room, I head straight to my desk, and firmly pull on the handle of the drawer. Inside the surface cluttered with various odds and ends, a chaotic reflection of my thoughts.
As I rummage through the mess, my fingers brush against the smooth surface of a slim, weathered wooden box tucked away in the corner. With a careful tug, I pull it out, revealing its contents: a stack of parchment-like sheets, yellowed with age and slightly frayed edges.
Each sheet feels like a piece of history in my hands, a tangible link to my grandfather's past.
I remember the day he gave them to me, his eyes sparkling with nostalgia as he recounted tales of a time when people relied on pen and paper for everything. He insisted that in a world overrun by technology, there was still beauty and value in the simplicity of handwritten.
I slip the calculator and the weathered wooden box into my bag.
“I’m leaving for school!” I call, before grabbing my blueberry donut off the food printer and quickly slip out the door. I gotta admit, it’s nice being able to grab my breakfast off the printer in the mornings.