chapter 12
14 April 2050
Avira (18 years old)
Today is Zoan’s 24th birthday. I wished him at midnight on call. We talked for exactly one minute and thirteen seconds before he had to disconnect because he was busy.
I asked him if he was partying, but he said no, he was working, caught in the middle of some dealing. Still, to make myself feel miserable, my brain refuses to believe that he’s always so busy with work, and not with the things people his age usually are.
After that, I stared at all twenty-two photos of him in my phone, one after another, then forced myself to sleep,while imagining things about my adopted brother that I shouldn’t.
I reach downstairs, find Wendy in the kitchen. “Good morning, world’s best chef,” I say cheerfully.
Wendy is Pa and Ma’s chef’s daughter. She took her father’s place last year. She’s around Wen’s and my age, so we bonded easily. She became our friend in no time.
She grins. “What are you doing in the kitchen, my lady?”
A smile blooms on my face. “Today is Zoan’s birthday, and I want to make a cake for him.”
“Ahh, that’s why praises are being spread so early in the morning,” she teases.
I groan dramatically. “Come on, don’t talk like I’ve never praised your cooking before.”
She grins wider. “Not with this much enthusiasm.” She places a big mixing bowl in front of me. “So, our mission is to make an edible cake in one go.”
I nod solemnly.
She hands me a box of flour. “Alright, follow the instructions closely. If you mess up, I’ll handle it. But no guarantees if it’s a big mess-up.”
I laugh and take the measuring cup she passes me. “One cup of flour,” she instructs.
I carefully follow her orders, step by step. The batter slowly comes together, smelling faintly of vanilla and sugar. When it’s finally in the oven, I hover in front of it,peeking through the glass to watch the transformation of what I put in.
“It won’t start talking even if you keep staring at it. Leave it and come here to prepare the icing.”
I salute. “Yes, boss.”
After what feels like ages, the oven finally pings. I dash to it and open the door. Wendy hands me gloves, I pull them on and carefully take out the cake. It looks exactly like the cakes in the videos, so visually, it’s perfect.
I place it on the counter, pick a small piece from the side, and pop it into my mouth.
I grin and give Wendy a thumbs-up. “It tastes more than edible.”
I transfer the cake onto a plate and start working on the icing. After writing Happy Birthday Zoan along with a tiny cartoon of a black-suit-wearing man, I step back to admire my work. It looks like something a child made, but I’m confident it will taste far better than it looks.
I take a picture and send it to Zoan with the text: ‘If you want to eat this delicious cake made by me, come here before 7 in the evening.’
I bite the corner of my lip and press send, holding my phone tightly in my hand. Hoping, wishing, praying he agrees. I haven’t seen him since the New Year party at Uncle Maksim’s place in Russia, and I want to see him desperately.
The message comes back. Just one word, but it stops my rapidly beating heart for a few seconds.
Zoan: ‘okay’
I stare at the four letters, reading them over and over.
Wendy’s chuckle pulls me out of my phone. She’s just put the cake in the fridge. I raise an eyebrow. “What are you getting so happy about?”
“I’m getting happy over your happiness,” I say, grinning. “You’re showing all your teeth with that ridiculous grin of yours.”
