On the Path of Eternal Strength.-Chapter 62 - 60 Where the world did not hurt

There were still echoes of the melody in the air. Not as real sound, but as an emotional trace that floated among the four bodies waiting in silence. The bus stop was a functional structure, without ornaments, without pretensions of beauty. Just a metallic module, with a solar panel at the edge, a long, cold seat, and a digital screen that marked the upcoming schedules as if the lives waiting were just more data. But even that space, neutral and forgettable, seemed different with them there. They did not occupy it. They overflowed it.

Valentina was sitting between Sebastián and Virka. Her feet did not touch the ground. Her singing had stopped, but her breathing still retained the rhythm of the melody. She played with her fingers, intertwining them as if each gesture were part of an invisible symphony. Óscar, a few steps away, did not speak. He observed. As if trying to record the scene without breaking it.

The bus did not take long to arrive.

First came a distant hum. Then, the turn of the headlights as it took the final curve. And finally, the complete presence: an elongated vehicle, polished indigo blue, with olive green stripes crossing it like clean scars. The color was not vibrant. It was dense, almost military, with a sobriety that made it seem older than it was. The doors opened with a hydraulic whisper. There was no welcome announcement. Only the sound of the world yielding one step.

Inside, there were already close to thirty people. Most were adults, with faces empty of context, as if they had shed their names upon boarding. Some looked out the window. Others dozed. None spoke. None sang.

Sebastián stood up first. He did not give the order. He simply offered his hand to Valentina. She took it naturally, and stood up as if the scene had been rehearsed long before. Virka needed no words. She flanked her on the other side. Óscar was the last to move, watching how that small figure walked toward the bus as if crossing a portal into a world that did not yet exist.

The ascent was brief. But it was not light. Not because it took effort... but because the silence of the other passengers grew denser with their presence. No one stopped them. No one asked. No one understood.

And yet, all eyes followed them.

Not as a threat. But as instinct. As if every person there, deep down, knew that this white-haired girl did not belong to the statistics.

They chose the seats at the back. Not for isolation, but for space. Óscar sat on the aisle side. Sebastián took the seat by the window, with Valentina between them. Virka positioned herself just on the other side, with her back to the window, in a posture that seemed comfortable but was in fact strategic. The bus started moving.

The movement was smooth. The buildings began to slide past on the other side of the glass. Towers, cables, hybrid structures of metal and synthetic vegetation. The city continued with its artificial flow. But inside the vehicle, everything was slower. As if the air weighed more.

Valentina looked out the window, but she did not seem interested in the landscape. Rather, she seemed to be remembering. Her face was calm. And her lips, though they made no sound, moved slightly, perhaps repeating the song that had been born in her steps.

Óscar broke the silence in a low voice.

—The trip isn’t long —he said, without turning completely—. My house is in a mixed zone. Not very far from here, but quieter. There are real trees. Or so say those who planted the area.

Valentina looked at him. She didn’t ask anything. She just nodded.

—Are there high places? —she said suddenly.

Óscar smiled. He didn’t mock her.

—There is one. A lookout. If it isn’t closed by protocol, we can go up.

The girl nodded again, as if she had already decided. She wasn’t smiling. But she shone. Like a precious stone under shadow.

Sebastián said nothing. But his hand rested on hers firmly. Without squeezing. Without letting go. Virka observed the faces on the bus like someone reading the wind. Not with paranoia. With certainty.

The journey continued. There was no music. There were no announcements. Only the hum of the engine and the light brush of the air. But among the four of them... there was still something of the song left. Not in sound. In rhythm. In that particular way of inhabiting the instant as if it were worth more than everything that comes after.

And so, amid steel, concrete, and artificial wind... the bus carried them toward another setting. A new one. One where Óscar would no longer be just the boy with the bun. And Valentina would not be an alien presence.

The world kept turning.

But in that vehicle... something was being founded. Something that neither the city nor names yet knew how to name.

The line of buildings began to compact. The straight edges of the structures stopped seeming like empty scenery and became living margins of an urban network that, the deeper they went, the denser it grew. They were no longer just streets: they were ramifications, bifurcations that cut space into layers, into heights, into passageways that ascended over artificial hills and descended into tunnels like veins sunk in concrete. The edges curved to reveal passages, stairways, platforms that connected cubic houses to one another with suspended bridges or corridors covered in opaque light.

Everything seemed designed so that movement would never stop.

The houses were sober structures, square-based, joined by clean lines and precise angles. Some were fitted atop others, forming symmetric blocks with intersecting accesses. The stairways did not only go up: they coiled between the walls, branched into subterranean routes, fed internal networks of silent trains that vanished beneath the ground. There were routes for suspended buses, others for cargo, others that led nowhere except to internal plazas with real trees —small, delimited, but real—.

Óscar raised a hand toward the window, without dramatics, only to point out the inevitable.

—This is already my zone —he said in a neutral voice—. We’re entering a functional residential district. Here the houses are built around the core. Everything is designed for connectivity. Minimal loss of time. Maximum efficiency.

Sebastián did not respond. His gaze followed every crossing, every bifurcation, every segment as if reading the logic of a living creature. He did not seem impressed, but he was attentive. Valentina, between them, leaned a little closer to the window.

—Are all those houses attached? —she asked, with a tone more curious than surprised.

—Yes —Óscar nodded—. They connect from the inside or through external corridors. Some have vertical access, others only by ramps or stairways. It all depends on the family that lives there.

Virka did not move. But her gaze passed from structure to structure as if evaluating escape points, blind angles, possible routes of retreat. Not with distrust. Just with nature.

The bus turned onto a wider avenue. In the distance, rising among the low constructions, a skyscraper of compact design appeared, without shine or dome, but with a gravitational presence. It was not beautiful. It was dominant. Its lines were straight, its façade dark. And at its base, as if it had sprouted from the concrete, a circular esplanade opened, surrounded by small shops, access ramps, technical plazas, and walkways that connected it to other nearby structures.

—That’s the core —Óscar said, without needing to point at it—. The building is a little over two hundred meters tall. But it isn’t residential. It’s a self-service center. From there the distribution for the entire hive that surrounds it is coordinated.

—Hive? —Valentina murmured.

—That’s what we call it —he replied—. Everything is arranged as if the houses were cells around a center. The building stores, distributes, feeds. There’s no need to leave the system to survive. Every house is connected. Some call that control. Others, efficiency. I don’t care.

Sebastián didn’t comment on anything. But his gaze locked onto the building as if he had seen it in dreams. Virka didn’t speak either. Only her expression grew sharper, more closed.

The bus began to slow down. Stops in that area were more frequent, but not louder. Most of the passengers continued without saying a word. Everything seemed to function without the need for interaction.

Valentina turned her face toward Óscar. There was no doubt in her voice anymore. But neither was there the ease of absolute trust. Only the balance of someone who no longer fears... but still does not fully give herself.

—And where do you live, Óscar?

The way she said his name marked a clear boundary: there was no distance... but neither was there forced closeness. She respected him. She did not yet claim him.

Óscar smiled faintly.

—Right behind the building —he replied—. That’s where my house is. One of the inner cells. From there you can see the central plaza. We’re one stop away. As soon as it stops... we get off.

Valentina nodded. She didn’t seem hurried. She didn’t look forward. She only turned back to the window, where the skyscraper no longer seemed like a destination, but a line on a map she had decided to memorize.

The bus moved on.

And they, without knowing it, were approaching not only a house... but another invisible frontier. One where the world would continue to seem orderly on the outside, but where decisions —the real ones— would begin to take shape without prior architecture.

The bus decelerated in silence, as if it understood it should not interrupt the density of what surrounded them. The stop was located just behind the skyscraper, in an area where the concrete seemed to stretch endlessly, yet organized. The vehicle came to a halt beside a slightly elevated platform, without announcements, without crowds, without protocols. Only the soft sound of the brakes. Only the space offering itself.

—We’ve arrived —Óscar said without turning completely, his voice as neutral as the architecture around them—. Time to get off.

Valentina looked at him, then at Sebastián. She didn’t need approval. She stood up with the certainty of someone who knows the next movement is already written. Virka accompanied her without words. Sebastián moved just behind. Óscar stepped down first, and the others followed.

The surface of the platform was smooth, slightly glossy, as if it had never been touched by human error. In front of them rose a connective structure: a wide tunnel of opaque glass, without ornaments, linking the stop directly to the urban hive. The doors slid to the sides as soon as they detected their presence. There was no sound of opening. Only a slight change in air pressure, as if the city were holding its breath.

Upon entering the tunnel, the ceiling lights turned on with almost choreographic precision. Each section lit up in sequence, and the floor —with white lines dividing the direction of traffic— revealed itself beneath their steps like a ceremonial passage. The walls were completely white, without marks, without advertising panels, without signs of chaos. Everything there seemed to have been designed to contain silence.

They moved forward without haste. The echo of their footsteps bounced softly. Valentina kept the backpack on her shoulders, her small hands gripping those of her parents. Óscar walked ahead with the natural ease of someone who no longer needs to look back to know he is being followed. The light accompanied them without dazzling them.

The tunnel curved slightly downward, as if descending into a structural throat. At the end, a wider threshold opened up at once, not through violence, but through scale. The core of the hive revealed itself like an amphitheater without an edge: an enormous circular plaza, surrounded by layers of paths, superimposed levels, escalators that went up and down in different directions, glass elevators that moved like vertical organisms. Each entrance was marked by a different color. Some with red light, others blue, others green or amber. There was no confusion, only options.

And at the center of everything, dominating the symmetry, rose a colossal tower, cylindrical in shape with an expanded base. It was the heart of the skyscraper. From its interior extended elevated corridors that connected with the different sectors of the hive: shops, residential modules, recreation areas, technical posts, evacuation stairways. Everything converged there. Everything was born and ended in that core.

Valentina stopped.

Her mouth opened slightly, not out of fear, but from such a pure mix of wonder and recognition that it was impossible to fake. She slowly turned her face toward her companions, her expression still suspended between surprise and fascination.

—It looks like my books —she said in a clear voice—. The ones where there are labyrinths. With many doors. And different paths.

Óscar laughed. Not mockingly. With recognition. His voice was a brief vibration, warm, informal. As if he knew exactly what image had formed in her mind.

—Yes. That’s how it feels the first time.

He looked forward again. His face grew slightly more serious, without ceasing to be the same.

—But it’s easy to get lost. So don’t wander off. Stay close.

Valentina nodded immediately. She didn’t answer. She simply stepped one pace closer to Sebastián, took his hand firmly, and then sought Virka’s with the other. The contact was not fearful. It was firm. The kind of gesture only children make when something excites them so much that they don’t want to let go.

Óscar moved forward without looking back. And they followed him.

The pace was not hurried, but neither was it slow. Valentina walked in the middle, holding onto both of them without difficulty, her backpack swaying gently on her back. Her eyes traveled over every corner of the surroundings, as if she wanted to remember everything in order to draw it later.

Sebastián did not speak. There were no words needed. Virka walked without showing clear emotions, but her presence was an absolute outline, a living certainty that needed no definition.

There were no dangers in sight.

There were no lines of combat nor traces of surveillance.

There was no need to think about fleeing.

Just a passage. A new route. A walk without blades.

The air was artificial, but clean. The lights did not blind. The silence did not weigh. Everything seemed suspended in a calm that was not common, but neither was it false.

Thus, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, the four of them moved forward through the corridors of the urban labyrinth, following the rhythm of a city that, for once, demanded nothing.

And in the middle of that unhurried transit, in the immensity of the skyscraper that connected lives with brutal efficiency, Valentina walked without fear.

And they, at her side, walked without pain.

Thus, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, the four of them moved forward through the corridors of the urban labyrinth, following the rhythm of a city that, for once, demanded nothing.

And in the middle of that unhurried transit, in the immensity of the skyscraper that connected lives with brutal efficiency, Valentina walked without fear.

And they, at her side, walked without pain.

The next stretch split into two curved corridors, each bordered by plates of dim light that marked alternative routes. Óscar stopped for a few seconds, without changing the rhythm of his breathing.

—We can go the direct way —he said— or take the one that goes by the maintenance ramps. It has lights that change color.

It was not a question. But Valentina felt it as an invitation.

—Can we take the colorful one? —she whispered, lifting her face slightly.

Óscar nodded with a light gesture.

—Of course. But stay close. Some parts get a bit tangled.

They turned left. The corridor descended with a gentle curve, and the ceiling lights reconfigured as they moved: from functional white to deep blue, to purple, to leaf green. The floor was smooth, but showed transverse lines that activated faintly when stepped on, drawing soft waves that vibrated and disappeared like water beneath glass.

Valentina watched them with her eyes wide open, but not with the surprise of someone seeing something impossible... rather with the hunger of someone who was finally seeing something she wanted to understand.

—Does it move when I walk? —she asked, without taking her eyes off the floor.

—Yes —Óscar said—. It does so only with you.

—And if I jump? —she tried, and did so without waiting for an answer.

The waves shot out in concentric rings that crossed one another. The girl laughed, softly, but with a real vibration in her chest. She didn’t jump again. She didn’t make a game of it. She only nodded, as if that reaction were enough to confirm that the world was seeing her.

They continued descending to a lower platform. On the sides, small ventilation ducts showed motionless blades and unlit lights. The corridor narrowed. But at the end, a gallery opened with internal views of the central tower. Escalators floated between levels, crossing suspended walkways with amber-light railings. Glass elevators went up and down like capsules that breathed. And throughout the space, doors with chromatic edges marked private, technical, or residential routes.

—It’s like everything speaks with colors —Valentina said, without raising her voice.

Óscar smiled.

—That’s what children say. That this part is like a rainbow code.

Valentina didn’t answer. But her hand gripped Virka’s a little tighter. They went up a curved walkway toward one of the internal balconies. From there, the design became more labyrinthine: some routes descended to enclosed courtyards, others climbed toward residential corridors. There were open areas with benches embedded in the wall, dark screens, recycling modules, and silent hatches that connected to lower systems.

—What happens if someone gets lost? —she asked, without fear, only out of logic.

—The system scans you —Óscar replied—. And takes you to the center. No one disappears here... unless they want to.

The girl blinked. She didn’t ask anything else.

A few meters ahead, an intersection with three open entrances extended like a crossing of arteries. Óscar turned for the first time.

—We can take the ramp on the left side. It’s longer, but there’s a fountain in the middle.

—A fountain? —Valentina repeated, now without the veil of wonder. She was a child trying to put in order what was inside her.

—Yes. It has lights too. Sometimes there’s sound. Do you want to see it?

Valentina thought about it. She looked toward the corridor. Then at Sebastián. And then she nodded.

—Just for a moment —she said, seriously.

They moved forward. The fountain was a low, circular structure, with internal jets that did not splash, but instead spun in spirals within the water. The lights were soft: warm white, faint red, blue. There was no sound yet, but that didn’t matter. Valentina approached, leaning just enough to look without touching.

—Is it alive?

Óscar shook his head.

—But it imitates being so. Like almost everything here.

She stayed a moment longer. Then she straightened and said, with the firmest voice of that day:

—We can keep going now.

There were no replies. Only footsteps.

The next curve led into a narrower area. Not for lack of space, but by design. The houses were closer together. The corridors had doors without numbering. The walls were a soft gray, covered with luminous panels that imitated afternoon light. There were plants in floating boxes, some with visible moisture. And at the far end, a black door, without a visible frame, lit up when Óscar approached.

—That’s it. 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

Valentina stopped just before the threshold. She didn’t ask if they could go in. She only lowered her head slightly. Her voice was so low it almost seemed like a thought.

—It doesn’t look like the ones in my books.

—And is that good or bad?

She thought about it. Then she said:

—It’s different. But that’s not bad.

Óscar activated the access with a gesture. The door opened inward with a soft sound. It didn’t reveal the whole house. Only the vestibule. A voiceless entry space.

Valentina took one step forward. She didn’t look back.

And the other three followed her.

The first thing they saw was not a living room. Nor a kitchen. Nor a home.

It was a promise of strangeness.

Just past the threshold, the entry area unfolded like a conspiratorial wink at the unexpected. There were no neutral foyers or bland furniture. There was an old coat rack where scarves hung as if they were part of an exhibition curated by nostalgia. Jackets of different styles—some military, others retro, others impossible to classify—waited like witnesses suspended in time. On the side wall, a lightweight bicycle frame floated, suspended as if ready to cut through the air. And right above the inner door, handwritten in ink that seemed old yet alive, a phrase greeted them without permission or apology:

“Welcome to the center of the universe. Don’t take off your shoes, no one here intends to float.”

Valentina read it silently. Her lips made no sound, but her eyes did.

They shone as if she had just entered a secret dimension.

—Do you want to see everything? —Óscar asked with a smile.

The girl did not hesitate. Not out of courtesy. Not out of obedience. But because of an emotion she barely understood, yet which was already beginning to belong to her.

—Yes —she said, with a small but steady voice.

Then, as if he were guiding an archaeological expedition rather than a domestic tour, Óscar began to walk with soft but deliberate steps, extending a hand to point out the areas, the objects, the details that gave the place its shape.

The apartment’s layout was open, without interior walls limiting the view. Everything was a single living space, without compartments, as if ideas, scents, and memories coexisted within the same breath.

—This is the living room... although it’s also the kitchen, the dining area, and the study... it depends on the hour —he explained, turning his torso slightly—. No one here put names to the spaces.

The girl nodded solemnly. As if she understood. As if she too hated labels.

The old turntable rested on a low metal shelf, surrounded by an unstable stack of vinyl records that looked on the verge of collapsing, yet held firm like an old warrior. The covers showed strange faces, dark cities, lettering in French, in Russian, in a language that perhaps only sounded at dawn. Instrumental jazz, soft post-rock, trova, Balkan music...

—My mom used to say that some songs aren’t listened to, they’re breathed in —Óscar commented, almost to himself.

Behind him, Sebastián watched in silence, hands in his pockets and body relaxed, yet alert. Virka, farther back, seemed like a calm specter, as if the environment were analyzing her instead of the other way around.

—And that? —Valentina asked, pointing at a guitar with paint dripping down it.

—That’s my dad’s guitar. One day he filled it with wine and then let it dry. He said it was purified.

—Does it work?

—Of course. Everything weird works.

Several guitars hung on the walls, each one different. One had signatures on it. Another had colored strings. Another looked like it was made of branches. Valentina wanted to touch them all, but she didn’t. She only looked at them like someone memorizing something sacred.

They passed in front of a wide sofa, with irregularly shaped cushions, covered by a hand-woven blanket. The rug that accompanied it was not a rug: it was an incomplete map. Ethnic tones, winding drawings, fragments of ancient symbols.

In one corner, almost hidden among books and a floor lamp, an action figure caught her attention.

A samurai. But not a classic one. It was futuristic, dark, with glowing eyes and a double sword.

—Only twenty of those exist. —Óscar lowered his voice—. It was a gift from someone who is no longer here.

The sentence was not explained. And it did not need to be.

Valentina turned toward a wider wall and her expression changed. Photos. Dozens of them. All with the same invisible thread: love without pretense. Óscar’s parents in different settings: festivals, chaotic kitchens, rainy streets, forests with lights. Both with eccentric aesthetics, big glasses, scarves, mismatched backpacks. They were always smiling. But never out of obligation.

Next to the photos, medals and diplomas hung framed. They were not academic. They were for art exhibitions, cultural projects, alternative fairs. And among all those rectangles of social validation... a drawing.

Valentina stepped closer. It was a hand-made painting: thick lines, explosive colors, distorted faces.

—Did your parents make it?

—My mom. On a bad day. That’s why the colors.

—It looks like a good day.

—It depends on where you’re looking from.

Then came the kitchen. It didn’t smell like detergent or gas. It smelled like history.

The old tiles showed wounds and restorations. Some were mustard, others turquoise, some simply survivors. The siphon coffee maker rested next to an Italian one. Both used. Beside them, an open notebook revealed recipes with crossings-out. One said:

“Very good, but it lacks revolution.”

The dining table was made of heavy wood, with chairs of different styles: one tall, one low, one with wheels, another padded. The refrigerator had magnets with phrases like:

“Today is not a bad day. It’s a complex day.”

“Toast always falls on the side that matters.”

“Doubting is better than obeying.”

Valentina looked at everything with enormous eyes. She didn’t touch. She didn’t ask much. She just absorbed.

And then she saw a low shelf, almost at floor level, next to the sofa. It wasn’t large. But it held wooden figures, handmade toys, small animals carved by hand, and a box of broken crayons.

Valentina crouched down, as if it were her altar.

Óscar said nothing. He only watched her with a slight smile.

—I always knew you’d come —he murmured.

The phrase was not poetic. Nor prophetic. It was simply true.

And although no one answered, in that instant, for one exact second, the home ceased to be only his.

___________________________________________________________

END OF Chapter 60

The path continues...

New Chapters are revealed every

Sunday, and also between Wednesday or Thursday,

when the will of the tale so decides.

Each one leaves another scar on Sebastián’s journey.

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Thank you for walking by my side.

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