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[ core begin ]
[ LOCATION: Hospital, WILD EARTH ]
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"There you go, ma'am… Here's your child." The doctor spoke in French. His voice was hushed.
Awed. Like something sacred had happened without permission. A small cry filled the room.
Wet, full-lunged, alive.
The mother's arms were already out.
Trembling but sure.
The child slipped into them like he belonged nowhere else.
She stared at him.
Brown eyes wide. Lips parted like she wanted to say something holy but settled for something real.
"You're mine," she whispered. "My boy."
A breath.
"You are my son, Kaviar."
His name landed warm on his skin.
Like it had always been waiting.
"Hi, Kavi," she breathed, cradling his head. "You came out strong. Just like I dreamed."
Her partner stood nearby, hand over his mouth.
Not crying. Just still. Like movement might wake him from a dream he didn't want to leave.
They didn't know it yet.
But the world had already started watching.
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Years passed like page turns.
The apartment never grew. But the boy did.
A couch that sunk in the middle.
Paint chipping at the corners of the windows.
A single ceiling fan that clicked when it spun.
Life lived out loud. Even when it hurt.
One day, the kitchen hummed with old stress.
"I already called them," his father said, folding a piece of mail too hard. "They said we're three months behind now."
His mother stirred something on the stove. "Maybe I can pick up extra hours. Mrs. Peña said they needed someone for the night shift."
His voice dipped lower. "You barely sleep as is."
"I'll be fine."
In the other room, Kaviar sat on the floor with a half-built toy in his lap. His fingers stilled.
Then a sound.
Soft. Measured. Confident.
The parents went quiet.
Notes. From the living room. Crisp. Flowing.
The piano.
Old. Dusty. Untuned for years.
It had come with the apartment.
No one touched it. It wasn't for playing.
It was furniture.
But the keys were singing.
His father stepped toward the doorframe.
His mother followed, spatula still in hand.
There was Kaviar.
Feet barely touching the floor, arms stretched awkwardly, head tilted like he was listening to something deeper than sound.
His fingers moved without hesitation.
No sheet music. No teacher. Just motion.
Just… instinct.
Chords layered. Melodies formed.
He wasn't mimicking. He was building.
His mother dropped the spatula.
"Kavi…?"
He didn't turn. Just kept playing.
Like the world made sense.
So long as his hands were in control.
His father whispered, "How is he doing that?"
Neither of them had answers.
Kaviar played on. Eyes locked to the keys.
Loans were taken out.
Money was spent, not earned.
Tutors brought in. Equipment rented.
Videos uploaded. Agents called back.
Everyone said the same thing: He's different.
He was.
Kaviar Ka'eli.
The boy who played like he remembered it from another life. Fingers too fast for theory.
Ears too sharp for sheet music. Headlines called him the youngest genius in the wild districts.
They bought a secondhand car. Moved into a place with working heat. His mother quit one job. His father picked up another, but only to "stay busy."
They let him choose his hours. His clothes. They let him skip school if the venue paid more than rent.
He wasn't a son. He was a miracle with a calendar.
And he delivered.
Until one day—
He closed the lid.
Just… closed it.
No tantrum. No tears.
He stood up from the bench.
Walked to the window. And didn't look back.
He said nothing.
But everything changed.
He didn't touch the keys again.
Not that week. Not that year.
They asked if he was sick.
He shrugged.
They begged him to try. Just once more.
He said, I don't want to.
And that was the first time…
Control stopped being a gift.
And became a threat.
So he found something else.
A chessboard in the community rec center.
Cheap plastic. Black and white pieces stained with old fingerprints. He didn't ask how to play.
He watched once.
Twice.
Then sat down across from a man twice his age and said, "I'll go second."
Ten moves in, the man leaned back.
Blinked. Then leaned forward again.
Fifteen moves in, he was sweating.
Twenty-two, checkmate.
Word spread.
The prodigy who walked away from melody now played silence with pawns.
Strategy whispered to him like it owed him something. He didn't win because he wanted to.
He won because he understood.
Every move was just another version of a key.
Pressure. Patience. Timing.
Within weeks, they moved him up.
Competitions. Tournaments. More adults.
More invitations. Another nickname.
The Quiet Storm.
This time, they were careful.
No interviews. No sponsors. Just praise.
But it didn't matter.
He played for a while.
Collected trophies like old receipts. Lined them up on the shelf above the piano he never touched.
Then one day.
He tilted the king.
Gently. Resigned. Didn't say a word. And walked away again. The organizers called.
His parents asked what was wrong.
He said, "I already solved it." He meant the game. But they heard something else. A warning.
The news said he was just a kid.
That he'd grow out of it. That this was rebellion in soft form. Restlessness wrapped in genius.
"He doesn't know what he wants," they said. "He's overwhelmed. He'll come back."
Critics called it reckless.
"A child this gifted in both music and theory? Walking away from both? It's not natural."
They wrote think pieces. Filmed interviews.
Psychologists gave opinions like forecasts—
"He's afraid of failure."
"He lacks direction."
"He'll regret this later."
But Kaviar didn't argue. He didn't speak.
He watched their voices move across screens.
Papers.
They reverberate through rooms that once clapped for him. And he went quiet. Again.
He wasn't running.
He just didn't want to be shaped anymore.
Every skill felt like a chain dressed in silk.
Every room that praised him had doors that locked from the outside. So he stopped showing up.
No more rec centers. No more press events. No more questions. He stopped being brilliant.
Started being... present.
He'd sit by the window. Watch rain trail the glass.
Walk the block twice before coming home. Read things he didn't need to memorize.
He didn't care if it was productive.
He just wanted to breathe.
And for a while, that was enough.
Until one day— He passed a field, a park in France.
Fences bent. Net sagging.
Two boys kicked a half-flat ball, laughter echoing louder than the score. He watched.
Not for the game. For the motion.
The way they moved. Messy, untrained, instinct first. It wasn't art. It wasn't logic. It was free.
And something in his chest stirred.
Quiet. But present.
He stepped toward the gate.
And for the first time in months.
He asked if he could join.
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[ core end ]
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