[Age 13]
While accompanying Gopph, you enrolled in the Family's academy. Graduation would secure your place within the Oak Bloodline.
Penacony's waking world and dreams alike thrived with opulence. As a famed tourist destination, it showcased both dazzling joy and profound sorrow—light and shadow forever intertwined.
[Age 14]
You topped the academy's rankings, excelling in every discipline. The daily stack of love letters in your desk required dedicated disposal.
Robin puffed her cheeks, stealing glances at Anming as he dumped another batch of letters into his bag. "How will you handle those?"
Though she received admirers too, none matched his avalanche.
"Trash them." Anming shrugged. "Unless you'd prefer I forward them to your brother for rejection-practice."
"He'd murder you!"
Relief flashed across her face before she adopted a stern tone. "You're too young for romance."
"Oh?"
Anming studied her—the delicate curve of her jaw, the way sunlight gilded her lashes. How many hearts would this face break someday?
His hand hovered, aching to touch her hair, then froze. Could he even give her happiness now?
Warm fingers pressed his palm to her cheek. Robin's eyes held his, unwavering.
"You never hesitated before."
Her wings drooped.
Anming's thumb brushed her temple, trailing into silken strands. "I just want you happy, Robin."
"You and Brother always say that!" She leaned in, close enough to share breath. "Yet you both keep drifting away!"
"If that's happiness, I don't want it!"
She craved only to stay with her family—though what she felt for Anming transcended kinship.
The accelerated heartbeat when their fingers brushed. The hollow ache during his absences. The green twist in her gut at those love letters.
This is...
Robin's face burned. Classic crush symptoms. But they were too young! Sunday would—
(Anming would've laughed: Your brother could never stay mad at you. I'll be the one who dies.)
(To Sunday, even if Robin nuked Penacony, the planet itself was at fault.)
In the amber-lit classroom, Anming pretended to admire the sunset while interlacing their fingers.
Robin ducked her head, stealing glances until he pulled her into his arms. She stiffened, scarlet to her earlobes.
For all her boldness, the little bird froze when theory became practice.
"Anming..."
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
Shoulders touching, palms fused.
[Age 15]
You taught Robin piano in stolen hours, composing her debut single—a song worthy of her voice.
[Age 16]
Your public appearances beside Gopph skyrocketed your fame. "Fallen Prodigy" headlines resurrected your past, though the title rang hollow now.
[Age 17]
As a novice pastor, Sunday sought meaning through Harmony's teachings. Gopph's design unfolded—he'd soon guide lost souls as a full-fledged reverend.
"Rare."
"What is?"
"You're not attached to Robin."
In the chapel's hush, Sunday cradled a black-bound text, his serene smile laced with lethality. He'd made peace (mostly) with their relationship.
(After walking in on them holding hands on the sofa, what choice remained? At least they kept it chaste.)
It wasn't Anming he objected to—just the inevitable.
Robin's heart had been his since that piano room afternoon.
"Need Robin as a chaperone now?" Anming took the book, examining the gilded statue. "You've been troubled."
"People come here begging gods for futures." Sunday watched the penitents. "Harmony's light embraces all... yet light alone cannot guide."
Gods existed, but distantly.
"Above the multitudes," he murmured, "there must be one—to bestow the future. That is true 'Eden'."
"So you'd play god?"
"I'd ensure fairness for all." Sunday chuckled. "But Robin's happiness is enough."
Perhaps Eden was mere fantasy.
He didn't see the resolve flicker in Anming's eyes.