Jonata rested the cue stick against the table’s edge, his other hand idly turning the glass of chinotto between his fingers. The dim side room smelled faintly of worn leather and pine cleaner, a contrast to the more lively main bar visible through the narrow archway. There, old-timers laughed and raised glasses of golden-white wine or dark, bitter amaro, their weathered hands gesturing in exaggerated stories. The bartender, a thin man with a perpetually bemused expression, moved between tables with the ease of someone who knew everyone by name—or at least by their preferred drink.

  The chatter from the other room rose and fell like the tide, a comforting background to the more subdued atmosphere here. This was Jonata’s sanctuary, tucked away from the world. It was where he spent most of his days, his father’s name a quiet guarantee that he could come and go as he pleased.

  “So, what’s with this ‘Light’ thing?” Michael asked, cutting into Jonata’s thoughts. He was leaning forward on a creaky wooden chair, elbows on his knees, his eyes narrowing as though he were bracing for a lecture.

  Jonata smirked, propping himself against the pool table. “Look, we call it ‘Light’ just out of habit and for simplicity,” he began, letting his words hang in the air for a moment. The soft clink of billiard balls punctuated the pause as Jonata idly lined up a few scattered on the felt. “But technically, that’s not right. A normal light’s for everyone to see. The Light—with a capital L—is visible only to the people involved in the act of illumination: the one who does it and the one who receives it.”

  Michael tilted his head, as though he were still processing the idea. His fingers fidgeted with the corner of a slip of paper peeking from his pocket. Jonata watched him with mild curiosity but said nothing, giving the kid space to turn it over in his mind. A burst of laughter from the other room momentarily drew Jonata’s attention—a cluster of old-timers raising their glasses in some shared toast. He let out a soft sigh and turned back to Michael.

  “So nobody else sees it, then?” Michael finally asked, his voice slower, more measured.

  “Exactly. For example, when I practiced on illuminating my dad, my mom couldn’t see a shred of Light,” Jonata replied with a shrug, his tone deliberately casual. The sharp clack of a pool ball striking the side pocket emphasized his point.

  Michael’s gaze dropped as if he were mulling over this new idea—then he looked back up, eyes inquisitive. “Then why do you always keep your hands in your pockets when you do it? If only the two of you see the Light, why hide your hand?”

  Jonata paused, a bit caught off guard. He stared at his own pocket for a second before offering a wry smile. “Honestly? It’s just a habit. I never really stopped to think about it,” he admitted, half-amused by the question.

  Michael’s face softened, as if that explanation—simple, unadorned and unexpected—satisfied his curiosity, at least for now.

  “So… any more questions?” Jonata prompted, crossing his arms impatiently.

  Michael cleared his throat and asked after a brief pause, “You and your mom—you practiced on your dad?”

  “Of course,” Jonata replied with a slight laugh. “How else do you think I know all this stuff? You don’t think I read it in some encyclopedia, do you?”

  At that moment, Michael sat back down, sighed deeply, and slipped into his thoughts for what seemed like an eternity to Jonata. Minutes stretched, and Michael’s gaze wandered between the ceiling and floor, lost in his thoughts. Jonata reached for a stray billiard ball, rolling it across the felt with slow, deliberate movements. He paused, gripping the ball tightly for a moment. Mom always said that thinking too hard was a trap, he thought, a flicker of her voice surfacing in his mind. You don’t need to overanalyze—just trust the Light. Jonata set the ball down, glancing back at Michael. Maybe he’s the type that overthinks, he mused, irritation sparking beneath a quiet urge to shake the kid out of his reverie.

  He cast another glance toward Michael, whose faraway stare was unnerving. Jonata found it odd. He’d never seen someone get so absorbed in thought, so intensely lost in a reverie. At one point, he even worried Michael might sit with his legs crossed and start meditating, mumbling strange chants. (Not that it would’ve bothered him—he’d seen stranger things—but it was enough for Jonata to finally break the silence.) “Michael, what the hell are you doing?” he demanded, voice sharp.

  Michael blinked and looked up, confused. “Thinking,” he replied plainly. “Don’t you ever think?”

  “Sure, I think,” Jonata retorted, more impatient than scolding, “but not for thirty minutes straight! I mean, what’s rattling around in that head of yours? If I need to do something, I do it. And if I really have to think about it, I do—but if I don’t get it, I stop overanalyzing and move on!”

  Michael’s lips curved into a wistful smile. “I wish I could be like you,” he confessed softly. “I wish the words just flowed out as easily as they do for you. Erica always says I’m too heavy in my head—but… what can I do?”

  Jonata said nothing further. Michael’s vulnerability, though not as dramatic as confessing a first kiss, was still personal. Jonata felt a fleeting embarrassment at having heard it.

  After a moment, Michael resumed, “Listen, you said you’d been looking for someone like me for years… How did you know there was someone else with the Light in the city?”

  “There are plenty like us in the world,” Jonata explained briskly. “My mom used to say you end up bumping into them. Some of the best—really skilled ones—can even communicate from a distance.”

  “Like telepathy?” Michael ventured, eyes bright with curiosity.

  “Not exactly,” Jonata said, tossing a glance over his shoulder as if dismissing a silly notion. “It’s called ‘navigation.’”

  “And how does it work?” Jonata shrugged.

  “Beats me. Sometimes it just happens in a dream.”

  “Jonata!” Michael suddenly sprang to his feet, as energetic as a burst of electricity. “Last night—”

  Jonata raised his hand, cutting him off without missing a beat. He already knew where Michael was headed; unlike Michael’s habitual overthinking, Jonata didn’t need endless reflection. “The little girl? Yeah, I dreamed about her too,” he said coolly. Then, with a touch of irony in his tone, he added, “Though I’d much rather dream about flying.”

  At that, Michael’s face went pale. Jonata couldn’t help but find it amusing—revealing was sometimes more exciting than simply showing. “Alright,” Jonata said, chuckling lightly. “We’ll talk about that later. Any more questions about the Light?”

  “Of course,” Michael pressed. “How did you know there was someone with the Light right here in Rosenfield?”

  “Again? Seriously?” Jonata scoffed, shaking his head. “My mom told me—but she didn’t even get to say who before she died.”

  Michael’s eyes widened slightly. “I don’t get it. How was she even aware of me?”

  “Jesus, Michael, not everything revolves around you!” Jonata snapped, his tone brusque. “I never said she was talking about you!”

  A hot blush crept up Michael’s neck. Jonata smirked, a spark of mischief flickering in his mind. “Ah, I get it now—it’s just another one of those things Erica always tells you, isn’t it? ‘Not everything revolves around you!’ Typical of her.”

  Michael turned away, clearly hurt, and Jonata’s smile broadened in half amusement, half triumph. “You’re an open book to me,” he teased. Nothing like catching a dude offguard, he thought. He savoured the moment a few seconds, then he decided it was time to continue with the explanation.

  “Listen, the person my mom mentioned has to be your mom—the other one with the Light. She said she had a son about my age. She didn’t mention anyone else, just her.”

  Michael’s face fell as he shook his head slowly, and for the first time, Jonata felt a tug of uncertainty. “What’s wrong? You’ve got doubts now?”

  “Are you sure the Light can’t skip generations? Like, maybe it passes via your grandparents—like eye color sometimes does?”

  Jonata burst into laughter, a genuine, hearty laugh. “Skip generations? Michael, it’s not a disease! No, as far as I know, it doesn’t work like that. My mom told me even the son of that person had the Light—she was certain.”

  Michael shrugged, still looking uncertain. “Alright, but then why do you think it’s her and not my dad?”

  “That’s easy,” Jonata replied, his tone firm. “My mom told me it was a woman. I’ve explained it before—if you’d listen, you’d understand.”

  Michael hesitated. As he fumbled in his pocket, a small sheet of paper began to protrude. He absentmindedly caressed it, completely lost in thought, as if it were something precious he’d guarded until now.

  “What’s that?” Jonata asked, his voice low but insistent.

  Michael paused only a moment before offering the slip of paper to Jonata. “It’s the speech my dad gave here in Rosenfield.”

  “A speech?” Jonata raised an eyebrow. “What, is he some kind of politician?”

  “No,” Michael said firmly. “He’s a philosopher. They invited him to present his book.”

  Jonata unfolded the sheet of paper with one hand, the cue stick still resting against his shoulder. His eyes skimmed the words lazily at first, but after just a few lines, he froze. The steady rhythm of conversation from the main bar melted into the background as the words on the page began to resonate—sharply, almost painfully. He lowered the paper slightly, glancing at Michael.

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  “Are you serious?” he asked, his voice low but taut, as if trying to confirm that what he was reading wasn’t some elaborate joke. When Michael nodded, Jonata’s gaze dropped back to the speech. He read more carefully now, the earlier nonchalance replaced by growing intensity.

  By the time he reached the end, Jonata exhaled sharply and dropped the paper onto the table like it had burned his fingers. He didn’t say anything right away. The silence stretched long enough that Michael shifted uneasily in his seat, his fingers tugging at the edges of his sleeves.

  Jonata finally broke the silence, his tone a strange mix of awe and irritation. “Your dad knew,” he said, almost accusingly. “He knew about the Light.” He tapped the paper with his index finger for emphasis. “‘Cartesianism’? What’s that supposed to mean?” The word came out harshly, his brow furrowed as he stared at Michael.

  Michael straightened slightly, his discomfort giving way to a flicker of pride. “It’s from René Descartes. You know, ‘Cogito ergo sum’—‘I think, therefore I am’? Cartesianism is the philosophy that puts the self, the mind, at the center of everything. It’s about logic, rationality… separating the mind from the body.”

  Jonata’s expression darkened further as Michael spoke. “So, what’s your dad saying?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “That we’re all trapped in our own heads or something?”

  Michael hesitated, clearly choosing his words carefully. “No… not exactly. He’s saying we need to move beyond that. That we’re not the river shaping the world around us—we’re the stone carried by its current. It’s about letting go of control, about seeing yourself as part of something bigger.”

  Jonata scoffed, dropping the paper back onto the table. “‘Cartesianism,’ huh? Sounds fancy, but your dad’s got it nailed,” he said, his voice sharp but thoughtful. He leaned back against the pool table, gripping its edge tightly. “The way he talks about stepping outside yourself, about connecting—not controlling—that’s exactly how illumination works. And here’s the kicker: he’s probably closer to understanding the Light than you’ve ever been.”

  The words hung in the air like a challenge, and Jonata didn’t bother softening them. He wanted it to sting—wanted to see if it’d light some kind of fire under Michael. Instead, the kid just stared at him, his expression shifting between confusion and discomfort.

  “What's wrong? Don’t agree?”

  “Of course. But…I’ve got ugly memories tied to that speech,” Michael admitted.

  Michael went on to tell him that, when his dad had read the speech at the Rosenfield school auditorium during the book presentation, the audience had erupted in laughter. Exactly so—the laughter had started midway through, and had become uncontrollable when, right at the end of that passage Jonata had just read, his father had compared human souls to a rock. The people of Rosenfield hadn’t gotten a thing out of it. Someone from the back had yelled out, laughing, “Sure, now even the rocks are smarter than us…” and then added something about how all philosophers should go do real work.

  “And what did your dad do?”

  “He didn’t say a word. He just closed his notebook, thanked everyone, and got off the stage.”

  As Michael described the laughter that had erupted during his father’s presentation, Jonata felt an unexpected pang—not pity exactly, but an uncomfortable sense of recognition. He’d seen it before—the way a crowd’s mockery could strip someone bare. He hadn’t been in Rosenfield for that event, but he could imagine it vividly: the roaring snickers, the dismissive comments. Michael didn’t let it show much, but Jonata could tell it was something that still clung to him, like an old scar.

  Jonata swirled his glass of chinotto absentmindedly, watching Michael’s face. He wasn’t sure what to say—he wasn’t the type to dwell on emotions or coddle anyone. But there was something in the kid’s tone that made him pause. His fingers brushed over the edge of the pool table, the worn wood grounding him. Mom would’ve told me to give him space, he thought, her words lingering like a faint echo. But she’d also have said that even the strongest players have their moments. No shame in it. Jonata shifted slightly, his voice softening despite himself. “Don’t let it eat at you too much, alright? Everyone gets stuck in their head sometimes.”

  Michael laughed softly—a bitter, almost reluctant sound—and Jonata caught the briefest glimpse of relief in his eyes. The kid was still holding onto something, though. His mom, probably, Jonata thought. That mysterious Light connection—that lingering question he couldn’t shake.

  Then Jonata grew serious, the words on the paper still swirling in his mind. He looked down at his hands gripping the cue stick, remembering the countless hours of practice with his mom. She used to drill the same idea into me, he thought. That you’re not the river—you’re the stone carried by the flow. He exhaled sharply, turning to face Michael, his frustration giving way to something softer. “If your dad doesn’t know, then he’s the luckiest damn philosopher alive,” he said, but there was a faint edge of admiration in his tone. Suddenly, he felt like firing off a few shots—anything to get away from these tedious questions. Michael, anyway, had a different idea.

  “That’s why I was so surprised when you said that it had to be my mom who possessed the Light.”

  “I get it, but think about it. You told me you’d illuminated him a lot, right?” Jonata lined up the cue ball behind two stripes.

  “Yeah, ever since I was little. I didn’t always manage it, but sometimes it was like he knew—and then it’d slip away…”

  “And your mom was always there when your dad let you try to illuminate him?” Jonata took careful aim.

  “Now that you mention it…”

  “Then maybe she was keeping you under control,” Jonata said lightly.

  “But…” Michael still wasn’t convinced. He leaned on the pool table with both hands and mumbled so quietly that Jonata could barely catch it: but I’ve illuminated her too, many times…

  “Either she’s stupid, or she understood perfectly what you were doing. Once is fine, twice maybe, but by the third time anyone would start to have doubts, right?”

  Michael sighed, seeming convinced—but it was as though he couldn’t fully accept the truth. “Yeah, obvious enough. But why didn’t she ever tell me?”

  “I don’t know. Ask her,” Jonata cut off sharply. Irritated, he couldn’t be precise. His second shot sank into the pocket while the first bounced off the rail. Jonata huffed. My mom should go talk to her, if she can.

  “I will,” Michael said.

  “Got any more questions?”

  “Yeah—what about Erica then? Why has she never had any doubts?”

  “And who said she didn’t have doubts? What, can you read her mind?” Jonata teased.

  “No.”

  Jonata paused, the cue stick motionless in his hand. You can’t, but maybe she can, he thought, the words surfacing unbidden. He shook his head slightly, as if dismissing the idea—but it lingered. Erica wasn’t like anyone else in Rosenfield. She wasn’t afraid of him, not like the others who avoided his sharp tongue or wary demeanor. She was the only person he could genuinely call a friend, and yet… there were moments, fleeting but unforgettable, when he couldn’t shake the feeling that she could see right through him.

  Not just him—other people, too. Conversations with her had a way of turning strange, as though she’d plucked the thoughts right out of someone’s head and laid them bare. She never said as much, never acted like she was anything beyond the capable, self-assured person everyone knew her to be. But still, Jonata had felt it—an unsettling intuition that she understood far more than she let on.

  It’s not like she’s illuminated me or anything, Jonata thought, gripping the edge of the pool table tighter. She doesn’t even seem interested in the Light—or at least, she acts like she’s not. But there’s something there. Something just beneath the surface.

  Through the archway, laughter echoed from the bar, drawing Jonata’s gaze for a moment. He glanced back at Michael, who was still fumbling with his jacket, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in Jonata’s mind. Maybe Erica can’t read minds, Jonata mused, smirking to himself. But if anyone could… it’d be her.

  The 8-ball rested in the right corner pocket. Jonata lined up his shot, but then remembered he hadn’t cleared a few things up yet.

  “Listen, there’s one thing I want to explain so it really sinks in. I know I said a ton of stuff last night, like that she wants me or that she hates you. I don’t even remember everything I said. But everything I said last night was just to get under your skin, to provoke your ‘illumination.’” He paused. Then he set the cue stick down on the edge of the table, grabbed his glass, and downed the last sip.

  At that moment, as if hiding just behind the doorframe waiting to pounce on their empty glasses, the bartender arrived with two more chinotti. Jonata thanked him with a sincere smile. The guy was basically family, even if Jonata couldn’t recall ever going beyond a simple hello with him. He glanced over at Michael. The kid looked tired and pretty confused.

  “Enough talking. Tomorrow we start training, alright?” Jonata’s grip on the cue stick tightened as a familiar determination stirred inside him. Mom used to say every champion starts with the basics, he thought, the memory of her steady hands guiding his own as they practiced their first moves in the Light. He smirked slightly, glancing at Michael. “I remember the first exercises my mom taught me—the basics. We’ll start there. And trust me, by the time we’re done, you’ll be climbing ranks faster than you think.”

  While saying this, Jonata downed his chinotto in one gulp and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, barely holding back a belch.

  “Wanna play another round?” Michael asked, already reaching for the cue stick. Jonata knew Michael was asking because he didn’t want to go home tonight. The kid didn’t want to face his parents—it was obvious. Jonata wouldn’t have wanted that either. He could only help him so much; beyond that, it was Michael’s own mess.

  “No thanks,” Jonata replied. “You play so badly it’s actually more fun for me to just play on my own.”

  Michael bowed his head and, defeated, turned to grab his jacket. Then he said goodbye and left. For once, Jonata appreciated how decisively Michael had departed.

  Jonata set the cue stick down, leaning against the pool table. His gaze drifted toward the dim light hanging above, but his mind was miles away. Michael’s mom… the Guardian. Even thinking it sent a ripple of something close to reverence through him. Guardians weren’t like Predators or Navigators—flashing their powers, twisting emotions, or crafting connections. No, Guardians were the fortresses. They stood immovable against illumination, a wall the Light couldn’t breach. And among them, Michael’s mother was… different.

  Top tier, Jonata thought. Imperial level at the very least, probably Mythical. To resist what she’s resisted—she had to be more than just talented. She was a force. The kind of strength that came with years of mastery, climbing rank by rank. Beginner, Intermediate, Advanced… the climb wasn’t easy for anyone, but for her, it must have been natural—inevitable.

  Jonata’s fingers gripped the edge of the table. Mom said she was unstoppable, he remembered. The words echoed faintly, as if his mother was sitting there beside him, her voice quiet but full of pride. “She could stand against five Predators at once and hold her ground. No one else could do that. No one.”

  Even now, long after she had left the pool hall, Jonata felt that thread of connection to Maria—to her unwavering strength, her steadfast presence, her ability to stand immovable in the face of anything. It wasn’t just about Michael’s mom being a Guardian; it was about what she represented. I’ll make it there, Mum, Jonata promised silently, as if she could somehow sense his determination. I’ll climb the ranks and show you I can do it.

  He glanced over at Michael, who had been fumbling with his jacket just moments ago, oblivious to the significance of his own situation. Clueless, Jonata thought, though there was no bite in the sentiment. It was a mixture of annoyance and envy. If I were lucky enough to have her in my corner, I’d already be miles ahead.

  The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the dim overhead light. Jonata turned back to the pool table, running his hand along the worn felt. As his fingertips brushed the surface, a faint glow began to trail them, soft and flickering like the first light of dawn. “You always said it’s like breathing,” he murmured quietly, his voice low, the words meant only for the stillness around him. “Effortless, once you let it flow.”

  Slowly, he turned his palm upward, letting the glow pool into his hand. Concentrating, he guided it into the familiar shape he always practiced during training. With a sharp movement, he hurled it against the wall. The Light shattered on impact, bursting into a cascade of sparks that danced and flickered in the air. They lingered, suspended like a glimmering cloud, before finally fading into the stillness.

  Jonata watched the last traces vanish, and a wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he muttered to himself, his voice laced with quiet defiance, “I’m not that kind of person, as it turns out.”