In a quiet, beautiful place, butterflies fluttered gently above the flowers. A little girl approached a figure resting in the shade of a tree. Only the lower part of his body could be seen, the dark fabric of his black suit catching the light, while his upper half was hidden beneath the shadow of the shrubs.
This was the scene dancing in Sikakama's mind as she dozed in the upper row of the wide lecture hall, her open book shielding her face like a small wall.
"Miss Sikakama?" the professor called from below, holding his book in hand.
Edward, sitting beside her, quickly nudged her foot from below. Startled, she woke instantly and stood up, clutching the book in her hands.
"Yes, sir."
"Miss Sikakama, can you answer the question?" the professor repeated patiently.
Her eyes scanned the pages, trying to find the correct spot.
"104," whispered Edward mischievously.
Sikakama read aloud, but her answer was incorrect—a result of Edward's little prank. A few muffled laughs rippled through the hall.
The professor raised an eyebrow but quickly moved on.
"Mr. Alex, your turn," he said.
Alex answered confidently, earning an approving nod from the professor.
Sikakama sat back in her seat, realizing she had been tricked. She tossed the book at Leonard, and it flew through the air, striking his head.
"Ay," he exclaimed.
Sparks flew with each clash of swords during their training, and Sir Aldric smiled with approval.
Later, as they rode their horses along the riverbank, Sikakama's eyes followed the shimmering flow of the water, reflecting the golden light of the setting sun, its surface sparkling like scattered stars. The gentle murmur of the river filled the air.
"Master, do you ever feel… as if you've lived certain moments before? Seen faces you've never met, yet felt drawn to them? Everything feels… familiar, even when it shouldn't," she asked softly.
Sir Aldric glanced at the flowing river and explained gently, "Ah… that is what some call déjà vu. It is as if your mind tastes the very stream of time itself."
"Déjà vu?" she repeated, surprised.
"It is more than a trick of the mind," he said, pausing to let the sound of the river fill the silence. "Each person has a role in this world. Our choices influence the paths of others, and theirs influence ours. Déjà vu… is like a faint echo of these connections. Threads link you to people, places, and moments that feel strangely familiar. You haven't lived them exactly, but your soul—your awareness—senses the pattern of life."
Sikakama frowned, trying to grasp the meaning.
"So… the feeling that I've been here, or seen them before… it's not a mistake?"
"Not at all," Sir Aldric replied. "Nature whispers that everything is connected. You, like all others, are part of a larger tapestry. Whether memory or fate, it is real—your consciousness recognizes patterns the conscious mind cannot yet explain.
It's been three years, Sikakama. The time has come for you to choose your path."
As they guided their horses through fields turned golden by the sunlight, Sikakama's gaze drifted toward the horizon. Amid the shimmering stalks of wheat, she thought she saw something—or someone—standing there, motionless. And then, as if swallowed by the light, it vanished.
The hall buzzed with voices as the students gathered in their formal uniforms. On the high platform stood Lady Grace, holding bundles of letters sealed with official crests.
Her voice rose with a ceremonial tone:
"Today marks the beginning of your journeys beyond these academy walls. These letters bear your names—an invitation from the teams that have chosen you."
A tense silence followed. Each name she read was met with murmurs of joy, clapping, and shining eyes. One student leapt to his feet to claim his letter, another smiled shyly and bowed with gratitude.
Sikakama stood tall in the line, her back straight, eyes fixed on each letter being handed out, waiting for her own name to be called.
Name after name… letter after letter… until the noise dwindled, and the rows began to thin. The bundles in Lady Grace's hands grew smaller—until nothing was left.
The hall quieted. Laughter and chatter faded into the distance as students departed with their letters, some embracing friends, others eagerly discussing their futures.
But Sikakama remained, frozen in place, staring at Lady Grace's empty hands.
Sikakama hurried after Lady Grace and her assistant as they stepped down from the platform.
She stopped a few paces behind them, her tone polite but uncertain.
"Um… Lady Grace," she called softly, a faint, nervous smile on her face.
"I think there might be a mistake. My name—perhaps it was accidentally left out?"
Later, in Lady Grace's office, the woman sat calmly at her desk, quill set neatly aside. She spoke without looking up:
"No request has arrived in your name yet. Perhaps there was some delay… but it may still come within the week."
The next morning, Sikakama sat beside the postbox. Her gaze lingered on the cobbled path, waiting for the courier to appear.
Hours passed. No one came.
The following day, she did the same. Knees drawn close, hands resting on them, her eyes never left the road. Passersby glanced at her curiously, some with pity, others with indifference. To pass the time, she sometimes walked a few steps back and forth, or idly kicked a small stone, sending it skittering across the cobbles.
When the sun finally sank behind the towers, the courtyard fell quiet. The postbox stood still, cold, and empty—holding no letter with her name.
Sikakama walked back inside, her footsteps soft against the floor as she moved down the quiet corridor.
Then, a familiar voice called out, low but clear.
"Sikakama."
She stopped and turned toward him. Edward was already there, carrying his bag, his steps calm and steady.
"Did you receive the recruitment letter?" she asked quietly.
He replied coldly, almost resigned.
"What's the point? In the end, my father will make me his heir, whether I want it or not. The factories, the contracts, the endless duties… all of it will fall on me."
He held out his hand.
"I just came to say goodbye. Take care of yourself."
Their hands met in a brief, firm shake. Silence hung between them for a moment. Then, with a small wave, Edward turned and walked away toward the castle gates where his guards were waiting.
Sikakama stood frozen. Suddenly, a thought struck her. She gasped and hurried through the twisting corridors, her footsteps echoing against the stone. She reached a narrow staircase, climbed quickly, and burst onto a high balcony overlooking the main gate. Leaning on the cold stone railing, she scanned below.
There he was—Edward, at the gate. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted as loudly as she could, her voice carrying down.
"Wait! You never told me—why did you join the Academy in the first place?"
He paused, looked up, and his voice carried clearly up to her.
"At first? To see how common people live."
She frowned and muttered under her breath.
"Idiot…"
A soft laugh floated upward.
"I'm joking. It's a family tradition. Goodbye, Sikakama."
Her lips curved into a small smile as she raised her hand high over the stone ledge.
The guards surrounded him, and soon he disappeared through the gates. From the balcony, Sikakama watched until he was gone.
For the first time, the place seemed strangely silent. Was this truly the same place she had once known? Outwardly, nothing had changed—everything remained as it always was—but her feelings had. Everyone was gone, and only she remained, burdened with the weight of memory. They leave, yet their presence lingers, haunting you. Even if you stay, the place loses its meaning when the people who gave it life are no longer there.
Paths intertwine and destinies weave together like threads on a loom, as if guided by an unseen hand of fate. We meet in circumstances we never planned, brought together by places as though they themselves conspired to unite us. Little by little, before we even realize it, we become familiar in each other's eyes, sharing silence and air, even when only a few steps apart. We know each of us walks a road already drawn, yet a quiet hope lingers within: that fate, one day, will be kind enough to let our paths cross again.
Sir Aldric walked down the corridor, and before reaching his office, he noticed Sikakama leaning casually against the doorframe.
Sikakama told Sir Aldric that she had not received any message yet and that she didn't know what to do next. She suddenly felt as if she didn't belong anywhere, as if her life was passing without purpose, with nothing waiting for her at all.
The master looked at her gently, a faint smile on his lips.
"Feeling out of place, feeling oppressed by difference… these are burdens every soul carries when it refuses to fit the mold. But listen well, Sikakama: it is not weakness to be different. It is the seed of your own path. The question is—will you run from who you are, or will you accept yourself and walk your own way?"
His voice lingered in her mind long after.
Sikakama wandered deeper into the forest, where the shadows of towering trees twisted together like heavy curtains. As she moved, she remembered Sir Aldric's words, echoing in her mind as if he were speaking to her now:
"There is a secret place within this forest, a lake hidden from ordinary eyes. Those who dare to look into its waters will see the path they are meant to follow. But beware… the lake does not choose for you. It only reflects what is already inside you."
The memory of his voice guided her steps, pulling her forward even as doubt and uncertainty weighed heavily upon her heart.
She felt lost along the path, unable to find what she had come searching for, until at last she decided to turn back. Yet no sooner had she pulled the reins than the horse began to move on its own, as though some unseen force were guiding it deeper into the forest, far from the road she knew.
"Hey—what are you doing?" she tried to pull the reins, but the animal pushed forward, sliding down a small slope. She was thrown from the saddle, landing roughly on the ground. Wincing, she rose.
"What's gotten into you…?"
When she lifted her gaze, the forest had transformed. Sunlight poured through the branches, and the gentle sound of trickling water filled the air. Before her stood a stone statue of a woman, hands cupped before her as water spilled from them into a wide, shimmering lake. Birds scattered from its surface, leaving soft ripples behind.
Sikakama stepped closer, her breath catching. Slowly, the ripples faded, and the lake grew still, until her reflection stared back at her from the water's glassy surface.
In that silence, she understood.
The answer was not hidden in some secret lake or carved in stone—it had always been within her. The path was hers to choose, and hers alone.