Time since the asteroid hit Earth: ~5.28 billion years (subjective to Aryan)
In a spiral system of twin suns and frozen moons, Aryan found it — a species known for emotional restraint, quiet intellect, and philosophical calm.
But among them, **one anomaly cried out**.
Literally.
A newborn named **Eroth**, who was born with no emotional regulator, no filter, no toggle.
Eroth **felt everything**.
Joy and fear.
Grief and love.
Anger and peace.
All at once. All the time.
His cries shook neural fields.
His laughter bent low-gravity trees.
His sorrow stained the sky with aurora storms.
> "He's like an emotion supernova," Aryan whispered.
> "Or a sentient meltdown," Light God added, wearing flameproof robes and hiding behind an invisible couch.
The elders tried everything — sedation, isolation, digital harmonizers — but nothing worked.
Then, one day, Eroth went silent.
Not because he calmed… but because he **understood**.
He wasn't *malfunctioning*.
He was **mirroring** the universe's own chaos.
Eroth began **drawing**, using pulsar light on dark stone.
His first image?
A spiral of emotions wrapping around a star — each arm labeled with a feeling… all converging on one word:
> "Exist."
> "He's not broken," Aryan said. "He's decoding."
The other children began visiting him.
Instead of avoiding the emotional storm, they **entered it**.
Together, they created the **Temple of Every Feeling** — not a place to suppress or fix emotion, but to **immerse** in it.
Each room triggered a unique resonance: grief, awe, euphoria, dread.
Not to manipulate, but to **understand**.
Soon, Eroth became a **teacher**, his lessons simple:
> "You can't outrun feeling. But you can **walk with it**."
> "This kid's a vibe therapist," Light God said, pulling out popcorn made of singing atoms. "I love him."
Aryan sat beside Eroth once, while the child wept with joy at the taste of light rain.
> "Why do you let yourself feel it all?" Aryan asked.
> "Because the universe is a symphony," Eroth replied. "Why would I mute half the notes?"
Aryan paused.
A child — raw and unstable — had done what gods hesitated to:
**Embraced all of existence.**
He didn't control the storm.
He became its **choir**.
> "Shall we call this one: 'The Symphony of the Screaming Soul'?" Light God asked.
> "No," Aryan said. "Call it… The Child Who Felt Everything."
And across galaxies, temples of emotion began to rise.
Not in shame.
Not in fear.
But in celebration.
Because one child refused to feel less.
— End of Chapter 23