CHAPTER 3 — THE ADULT MIRROR
The school grew quieter as evening fell, when only the main hallways remained lit with cold lights—too white, too empty. The echoes of footsteps amplified against the concrete walls.
Adults believed they ruled those spaces. They believed that their experience, their institutional authority, made them immune to manipulation.
That day, Aurelian discovered they were wrong.
---
It all began with a calculated misunderstanding. Professor Lennon stopped him after class, when the other students had already left.
"Aurelian, could you stay for a moment?"
He stayed. He smiled with the exact mixture of curiosity and respect.
"Of course, professor. Is something wrong?"
She closed the door gently, signaling seriousness but not hostility. Aurelian catalogued the gesture instantly.
"I received a report suggesting that it was you who changed the essay deadline on the digital board. It may have been an honest mistake, but we need to talk about it."
Aurelian blinked once. Slowly. He let the information process at the appropriate speed: not too fast (guilt), not too slow (false confusion).
He hadn't done it. But the accusation opened a door of irresistible design: the opportunity to invert the narrative.
"Professor," he said softly, with a slight hint of concern, "I think I know what might have happened."
She tilted her head, surprised by the cooperative response.
"The digital board system… sometimes I update it when you ask me to, remember? To help with deadlines. Maybe I copied a date incorrectly without realizing it. It was that afternoon when you had the urgent meeting with the principal. The one about the budget issue."
No word was technically false. He hadn't said "I did it." He had only suggested a plausible correlation, a reasonable mistake within a shared context of stress.
Adults don't need complete lies. They need a narrative frame where they can fit their own guilt, their own distraction, their own exhaustion.
---
Professor Lennon tried to remember. Aurelian analyzed every micro-gesture with clinical precision:
The crease between her brows (rising anxiety)
The almost imperceptible sigh (accumulated fatigue)
The hand unconsciously brushing the folder on her desk (a search for control over something tangible)
"I… yes, I did have that meeting," she admitted, her voice less firm. "It was a very stressful day."
"I'm very sorry, ma'am. I think I assumed you had told me the new date. I heard it while you were organizing the exams from the previous class. It could've been a misunderstanding on my part. I should have asked to confirm."
The sentence was a perfect trap, designed to awaken her sense of pedagogical responsibility. No good teacher wants a student to carry the weight of an error that might be communicational.
Professor Lennon's eyes widened with genuine concern. No longer for the rule violation, but for the emotional well-being of the student in front of her.
"No, no, Aurelian. If it was a communication misunderstanding… then I should have been clearer. You've been so responsible this year, always helping. I don't want you carrying this as if it were your fault."
There it was: complete surrender.
She herself began to build the alternative narrative, filling every gap with her own insecurities. Her mental noise—the guilt of the overworked teacher, the doubt of the imperfect adult—flooded the space Aurelian had strategically left empty.
"Lately I've been exhausted. The administrative changes, constant meetings, evaluations. I probably said the date out loud while thinking about something else. I sometimes talk to myself when I'm stressed. I'm sorry if I caused any misunderstanding that affected you."
Aurelian said nothing more. His silence became the perfect catalyst. In that void, she projected her entire self-correcting narrative.
Finally, she gently touched Aurelian's arm with a maternal gesture.
"There will be no sanction. You're an excellent student and a great help. Thank you for your honesty in talking about this."
Aurelian looked up with humble, almost vulnerable gratitude.
"Thank you for understanding, professor."
---
When he stepped into the hallway, the last light of sunset streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows. The corridor was empty and silent.
But it was not the natural silence of a building after classes. It was an internal, electric silence, charged with new understanding.
Adults were easier than teenagers. Much easier.
Adults lived tired, guilty, overloaded with responsibilities that made them constantly doubt themselves. Aurelian only had to push the correct piece of her conscience slightly for Professor Lennon to build on her own the entire story she needed to believe in order to sleep peacefully that night.
---
The revelation was not about the lie itself, but about something deeper:
People do not want objective truth. They want the version of truth that guarantees mental peace and coherence with their self-image.
Give me your "preferred truth," and I will give you control over your reality.
---
That night, while he completed his homework with impeccable efficiency, he thought:
If I can control what an adult remembers, if I can modify the perception of someone older, trained, with years of experience… then I can control any narrative.
Truth is not a rigid fact carved in stone. It is a form. A mold. Soft, malleable clay.
And I am the only one who has truly understood how to shape it.
He closed the notebook carefully. Turned off the desk lamp. The room fell into semi-darkness, lit only by the streetlight filtering through the window.
In the darkness, Aurelian smiled.
If I can rewrite the memory of the wise, I can rewrite the perceived reality of anyone.
My silence is not passivity. It is absolute control.
The noise of the world remained outside: cars, distant sirens, dogs barking, muffled conversations.
But in that room, Aurelian had built a temple of perfect order.
And now he knew, with mathematical certainty, that he could expand that temple to encompass everything he touched.