"Wake up, you lazy brat!" Linda yelled, her voice sharp enough to cut through the thickest fog of sleep.
She tapped furiously on Rickon's leg, which was resting on the side of the worn-out living room couch.
He was stretched out like a dead man, lost to the world.
"I said wake up!" Linda's voice escalated, and the taps grew into solid slaps against his thigh.
"Your peers are out there doing something meaningful with their lives, while you're here sleeping your life away like a pregnant cat!"
Rickon groaned, the sound a low rumble of protest.
He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, the dim light of the living room stabbing at his sleep-fogged senses.
"Mom, what is it this time? Can I just have a moment of peace in this house?"
Linda, who had just returned from the hospital, let out a long, weary sigh.
The exhaustion was written in the lines around her eyes. She was a nurse, and the overtime shift she'd covered for a friend had stretched her patience thin.
The sight of her son, a recent high school graduate with no job and no ambition, doing absolutely nothing, was the final straw.
"Peace? You want peace?" she retorted, her hands finding her hips.
"I told you to do the dishes this morning. I told you about the laundry, too. Look at this place!" She gestured wildly around the room.
An unsteady stack of pizza boxes leaned on the coffee table, and a row of dirty plates and glasses stood beside the sink, visible from the living room.
"Everywhere is rough and untidy. You do nothing all day but eat and play your stupid video games!"
Rickon finally pushed himself into a sitting position, the springs of the old couch groaning in protest.
He ran a hand through his messy, unkempt hair. "Ma, I didn't think…"
"You didn't think? Of course, I know you didn't," Linda snapped, her face flushed with anger.
"You never do! Because if you had a brain to think, you would know what to do at the right time!"
Linda took a sharp pause, her eyes scanning the room as if searching for another infraction.
Then, a new, more urgent thought struck her.
Her expression shifted from anger to a flicker of concern. "By the way, where the hell is your sister?"
The question hit Rickon like a physical blow. His blood ran cold. The video games, the nap, the chores, all of it vanished from his mind, replaced by a single, horrifying realization.
Yara!
"I'm fucked!" Rickon exclaimed, the words a choked whisper. He scrambled off the couch, his earlier lethargy gone, replaced by a frantic, heart-pounding panic.
He bolted into his room to pull on a shirt, his movements clumsy and rushed.
Linda, a storm of hunger, anger, and fatigue, stood motionless, her hands planted firmly on her waist as she watched her son's panicked scramble.
She didn't need to ask, she knew. He had forgotten.
Rickon burst out of the house, not even bothering to tie his shoes, and sprinted down the street like a boy being chased by a mad dog.
The afternoon sun beat down on him, but he barely felt it. His mind was a whirlwind of guilt.
His little sister, Yara, was a gem. At just thirteen, she possessed an intelligence that far surpassed her years, a quiet brilliance that saw her consistently at the top of her class.
She was a beautiful girl, with long dark hair and warm brown eyes that always seemed to be observing, understanding.
He arrived at Yara's school, his lungs burning, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The school grounds were deserted, unusually quiet in the late afternoon. Then he saw her.
She was sitting alone on a small bench by the security stand, her posture perfect, her school bag placed neatly beside her.
She was staring at the patterns in the sand, her focus so intense it was as if she were watching her favorite cartoon unfold in the grains.
A profound wave of shame washed over Rickon. She looked tired and hungry, the very picture of patient abandonment.
Catching his breath, he called out her name, his voice hoarse. "Yara!"
Her head snapped up, and for a moment, a trace of disappointment crossed her face before it was replaced by a gentle smile.
She stood up sluggishly as he approached, her small body looking so vulnerable.
"I'm so sorry," he panted, bending over to rest his hands on his knees.
"I… I was caught up with some activities and I wasn't able to get here in time." It was a pathetic lie, and they both knew it.
Yara didn't scold him. She didn't cry. She simply walked over and gave him a hug, her small arms wrapping around his waist.
"I'm glad you came," she replied, her voice soft.
The simple, forgiving words twisted the knife of guilt in his gut even deeper. "I got you your favorite chocolate," Rickon murmured, his voice thick with emotion as they turned to go home.
He slung her heavy school bag over his own shoulder and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close.
Later that night, a fragile peace had settled over the house. After a dinner eaten in relative silence, the family gathered in the sitting room.
It was their routine, a time to decompress, discuss their days, and occasionally indulge in some light-hearted gossip about the neighborhood.
Their current fascination was the new gay couple next door, whose neat garden was a source of both admiration and endless speculation.
Rickon's dad, Michael, a tall, bald man with a neatly trimmed moustache and a distinctive patch of white in his beard, picked up the remote control.
He was a man of practicalities, a mechanic whose hands were always stained with a bit of grease, and he had little time for trivial things.
With a decisive click, he changed the channel from the football match Rickon had been engrossed in.
"Who's that? Who changed what I was watc..." Rickon's protest died in his throat as he turned and saw the remote in his father's hand.
He had assumed it was Yara, who sometimes teased him by hiding it. But meeting his father's stern, no-nonsense gaze, he backed down instantly.
He let out a deep sigh and sank back into the couch, muttering under his breath about the injustice of it all.
The screen flickered to a news broadcast. A serious-looking female anchor was speaking.
"…reports are still coming in, but what we know is that astronomers across the globe are tracking an unprecedented celestial event."
The screen cut to an interview with a man in a lab coat, identified as Dr. Tariq Nadir, an astrophysicist.
He had a harried, sleep-deprived look about him. Behind him, complex diagrams of orbital paths glowed on a large monitor.
"To be clear," Dr. Nadir said, his voice resonating with a gravity that pulled everyone in the room to attention, "this is not a comet or an asteroid from within our own solar system.
Its trajectory is hyperbolic, meaning it's a visitor, an interstellar object that has been wandering through the Milky Way for perhaps millions of years."
Michael grunted from his armchair. "Fear-mongering. They'll do anything for ratings these days."
Linda shushed him gently, her curiosity piqued. "Let's hear what he has to say, Micheal."
"What makes this event historically significant," the scientist continued, pointing to a simulation on the screen, "is its projected path.
In three days, this object, which we've designated 'XG-7', is set to pass directly between the Earth and the Sun."
The simulation showed a dark, unlabeled planet moving steadily along a path that intersected the line between the Sun and a small, blue Earth.
"A planetary eclipse of this nature, caused by an object from outside our solar system, has never been recorded in human history.
We simply don't know what to expect."
Rickon, who had been sulking, now found himself leaning forward. The annoyance about his missed football match was forgotten.
There was an unnerving seriousness in the scientist's tone, a lack of the usual media hype.
"So it's just going to block the sun for a bit? Like a big moon?" Rickon asked the room.
Michael scoffed. "It's nonsense. Probably millions of miles away. They're making a mountain out of a molehill to scare people.
You watch, tomorrow they'll be selling 'XG-7 survival kits'." He chuckled at his own joke, but no one else joined in.
The camera focused back on the scientist. His face was grim.
"We are urging the public to remain calm, but also to be prepared for potential atmospheric and gravitational anomalies. The truth is, we are in uncharted territory."
The news report ended, and the channel cut to a commercial for a new brand of laundry detergent.
The sudden return to normal felt strange. For a few moments, the room was silent, and the cheerful jingle from the television felt completely out of place.
It was Yara who broke the silence. She had been sitting on the floor, cross-legged, a thick book open in her lap. But she hadn't turned a page since the report began. Her dark eyes were wide, fixed on the blank TV screen.
"I'm not going to school on that day," she said, her voice small but firm, cutting through the heavy air.
Michael turned to her, his skeptical expression softening.
"Now, pumpkin, you heard the man. There's no need to be scared. It's just scientists getting excited about a new rock."
"It's not a rock," Yara insisted, looking up at him. There was no trace of childish fear in her eyes, instead, there was a deep, unsettling certainty.
"He said they don't know what will happen. Something feels wrong."
Linda looked from her daughter's unusually pale face to her husband's dismissive one. A knot of maternal anxiety tightened in her stomach.
"Maybe she should stay home, Micheal. Just to be safe."
"Linda, you can't be serious," he sighed, annoyed.
"We can't let the girl skip school because of some sensationalist news report. What are we teaching her? To hide every time the TV tells her to be scared?"
"It's not that," Yara said, her gaze unwavering. "I just know. I'm not going."
Rickon watched the exchange, a strange chill creeping up his spine.
He had seen Yara determined before, usually about a complex math problem or a book she wanted to finish. But this was different. This was a quiet, unshakeable conviction that felt older than she was.
The lazy boy who had forgotten his sister just hours earlier now felt something different, an unfamiliar, cold dread that slowly ate at him.
The comfortable, predictable world of football games and arguments over chores suddenly felt fragile, as if it were standing on the edge of a great, unknown darkness.