I don't know if this is freedom, but it's certainly the closest thing to feeling free that I've ever experienced in my entire life. I've even erased thoughts of escaping from my mind. Here, it's like I'm on vacation. I am. I've been lazing around for a month now. No more early mornings and long days under the sun with that darn cotton. No more rotten mattresses. No more tattered clothes. Now, I sleep every night on a mattress that molds to my body and provides warmth or coolness as needed. Now, I sleep in late. I enjoy rich feasts for lunch and dinner. I think I've eaten more meat and fish in the past month than in the previous ten years. I shower with very hot water. I watch football on the Screen every afternoon. However, I can't leave this house. I can't reach the city. No, this is neither freedom nor can it ever be.

That mysterious man accompanying Paris turned out to be her father, Matt Stonecraft, a bald and reserved man. Every time I look into his eyes, they seem sunken, lost somewhere, probably due to work. The name and surname of her father were the only words Paris dedicated to me when I arrived at their house that day. They live on the outskirts of the city, far from the skyscrapers and close to the sea. I can't see it from my window, but I can smell it. It's a humid, salty smell that sticks to your skin, a sticky sensation completely invisible. Quite the opposite of what I'm used to. It's a huge house, with two floors and a garden at the back. I stayed in one of the rooms Paris offered me: well—lit thanks to a large window from which I can see the skyscrapers of the city center and the porch; it has a large bookshelf with books of all sizes and colors, as well as a desk with one of those electronic machines and a large Screen to watch football and the news.

After that first day, I only see Paris at night, during dinner. She leaves early and returns late. We barely talk, not even with her father. She's a reserved girl. Despite that first impression, I remember a few days ago when I saw her smile. I was leaning against the window facing the street. She was leaving the house, her hair flowing freely and well-made up. A blond boy with a perfect smile was waiting for her, seated on his airmobile. They shared a fleeting kiss on the lips, and she climbed onto the back. That same night, before dinner, she silently slid into what had become my refuge. I was lying on the bed, flipping through channels, looking for an interesting game, as only third-division matches were being played. As soon as I saw her, I sat up. She smiled and slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans as she walked around the room.

—I hope you're comfortable here—she said, without me answering, as she perused the books on the shelf. —I used to come to this corner of the house when I was little. It was the only place where I couldn't hear the voices and screams of Dad and Mom in their daily fights. That's why we settled you in this room; I know you'll be fine here.

—Well... thank you—I replied. With that melancholic look, she seemed older. I didn't know what else to say.

—I want you to be patient—she said, sitting next to me on the edge of the bed. I could smell the perfume emanating from the scarf around her neck. —I know this house is big, but sometimes it feels very small. Lately, I've been very busy, and we can't go for a walk or talk about all the things we need to talk about.

—Yes, I think you owe me a lot of explanations. I still don't know why I'm here.

—And I'll tell you everything, but when the time is right. I must say, though, that it's something very important, and that's why it's dangerous...

—Dangerous? For whom?

—For me, for you too. For the Provinces...

—Go against the State of the Provinces? Sounds too good... — The United Provinces protect slavery. Without it, I would be free.

—It's not going to be easy.

—Whoa, whoa. Hold on a second. Paris, could you at least tell me what you do? Are you a spy for the Intelligence Service or something? You leave early and come back late; you barely have time for yourself...

She burst into laughter, and she did it more and more when she saw my bewildered face.

—Eric Moon, you have a lot to learn in the city. I'm just a simple historian.

—Historian?

—There are, fortunately still, certain studies that go beyond science and technology, and one of them is History. They're called dead subjects because they don't allow for the material advancement of society.

—What are they for, then?

—For the cultural and intellectual advancement of society—I didn't quite understand what she meant by the technical language she was using, but I tried to concentrate on grasping it. —I only dedicate myself to piecing together puzzles of the past. What happened, who were the protagonists, why it happened, and what were its consequences.

Paris explained to me that she had loved books since she was a child. Her father, an important scientist who sold himself to different Companies, gave her forbidden books obtained through smuggling. After discovering that she was clumsy in the sciences, she decided to study History at the University of New America, where she started at sixteen, with only two classmates and an old professor, Mr. Meyer. After three years, she graduated and didn't get any job offers from the Provinces or any Company, so she decided to start researching the history of slave rebellions for the University. A topic that was practically unknown and had little interest. Nobody wanted to read about slaves.

—One day—Paris continued her story—my father brought me another one of the illegal books he got. It had handwritten annotations in very old handwriting, talking about the Collapse— She paused to look at me and gauge my amazement. —Do you know anything about the Collapse? —I shook my head. What does that matter? —Nobody knows anything about the Collapse. After that, the era we live in began. But we don't know what happened before or during. What if there were thousands of years of history before the Collapse?

—My head hurts just thinking about it, Paris—I confessed. I don't have her intellectual capacity, and I don't get into the smallest details.

—The strangest thing is that when interviewing the man who provided my father with the forbidden books, he explained that he found them during his dives in the sea. He claimed to find constructions and all kinds of remains underwater. My father dismissed him as crazy, which is why he resorted to the black market. However, I believed him, shaping a theory that I'm developing about the Collapse to understand slavery. It's been a year of investigation, going through digital archives, documentary archives, books, old oral stories, and more... but it hasn't allowed me to progress much.

—And what do I have to do with all this if I can barely understand it?"

—A lot, Eric. You're going to help me because I need a lot of help.

—But I'm not a historian, and to be honest, I don't believe in your theory.

—It doesn't matter. I knew it was you when I saw you, and then I confirmed it when I saw your Bible.

—Witch? —I laughed.

—Intuition—she winked at me.

—It's one of the last memories I have of my mother, Lunetta. The Bible, I mean. That's why it's so important to me. I barely knew her. She died... well, she was condemned to death by the State. Since you're a historian, maybe you could find out something...

—I'll help you, Eric. Just like you're helping me.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

—That boy, the one from this morning, is he helping you too?

—Edgar? No—she smiled—he's... someone special. You know.

—Your boyfriend.

—Something like that... Dad doesn't like him. He says he has a bad feeling about him.

—He has an airmobile—I concluded as if that possession made the person we were talking about better.

Since then, we haven't had such a serious and intimate conversation again. We've indeed talked about soccer. I've shared my passion for this sport, and although she doesn't like it much, she knows some players and teams. Other times, she has asked me about my life, about what my life was like. She was interested in the thoughts and experiences of a slave. When I speak, Paris understands me. And I understand her. I don't see her like the other girls on the plantation, with those crazy desires to seduce them and make them surrender to me. I think, since Sophie's scare, I won't have the same luck or the same desire with women. Paris seems different. A year older than me, self—made since she was little. Her father hadn't spent much time at home when she was little, which is evident in how independent she is. What I don't know is what happened to her mother.

I have too much time to think. Too much. It's the only downside of not having a way to kill time. My head is filled with Paris's stories, which I only half believe. Greg Gordon would be cursing me if he saw me right now. Lying in bed with strange devices in my ears, playing music that goes straight to my brain. Doing nothing. Not learning a trade. But seconds later, I dismiss it. I know I won't go back to him. I'll escape, as Clarise said. There must be somewhere for me, somewhere. But my priority now is to learn more about my mother. To find out what happened to her. Sometimes, I remember her and get excited, thinking that I can piece together the puzzle of her life and do her justice. Other times, I drown in tears because I don't even have a clue where to start. Then, there's the uncertainty of Paris and the help I have to provide her. I rack my brains trying to figure out what it could be, but I only conclude that she bought me for six months and has already wasted one.

—Are you going to keep me locked up here forever? —I confront Paris's father, tired of watching soccer, eating popcorn, and sleeping. He's wearing the white robe, the one he only takes off when we gather at the dinner table.

—It's almost ready—he responds coldly as he takes off the robe and hangs it on the sofa in the living room. Paris is about to arrive home.

—What? —I don't know what he's talking about.

—She'll explain it to you—he says, putting on his glasses and pointing to the sound of the keys twisting in the lock of the front door.

Paris closes the door behind her. She's wearing heels and a scarf around her neck, as usual. Some books stick out of her bag. She looks tired and looks me directly in the eyes with those gray headlights she has as if they were melting me. I know she was surprised to see me in the living room. I don't usually go out much, especially when they're at home. She'll have to understand that loneliness, as necessary as it is, also kills. And I, who am too accustomed to it as a slave, have been dying for a long time. I need to go out, breathe, run. This house doesn't offer freedom. This house is more like a prison than the plantation itself.

—I have everything ready, daughter. Just a couple of finishing touches left.

—Really, Dad?

He nods with his eyes closed, and Paris surprises him with a hug. Paris starts laughing. I smile at her without understanding why. I don't know what the hell they're talking about. All I know is that she seems like the happiest girl in the world, and I'm happy for her. I don't know what sense it makes: I'm still her slave.

—Now is when you tell me the secret, and we all laugh—I say politely, trying to poke their conscience.

—Mr. Eric Moon, secrets must be kept until the right moment.

She struts around me, reminding me of the Paris from the public auction, not the quiet and shy girl I've been observing for the past month. She's happy. She makes a face when she sees that I don't respond and extends her hand to me. I look at her and nod. I'm too hesitant to take her hand.

—We'll be back in fifteen minutes! Have dinner on the table! — she shouts to her father. Then, she forcefully grabs my hand and pulls me out of the house.

—Come on, it's time I showed you something.

She's excited. It's clear on her face that something has changed; she doesn't have those dark circles she used to cover with makeup. Nor does she have that cold, tired expression that was typical of her after a day of intense reading and searching for new sources to support her wild theory. Now I understand why she talked about it being dangerous. I'm going to help her, as a slave, to search for the origins of the current Provinces, and that might not sit well with the elite. Nor with the Companies. The privileged always try to hide where their privileges come from. Maybe Paris was warning me about that a few days ago.

We step off the porch of the house, and I feel like I shouldn't be doing this. It's like crossing an imaginary line that separates my world from the world of free people. I stop before reaching the sidewalk. Paris clings to my arm energetically, and we start running. I run, squeezing her fingers tightly, following behind her. I feel the wind on my face, blowing in a way that, combined with the speed, causes some uncontrollable tears to escape. I see the airships up above, in the skyways, the city center in the distance, the houses of the outskirts, and the palm trees and vegetation of the streets we traverse. The parks. The children are playing on the slide. The promenade. I see the sea. I see it for the first time. I hear its relentless waves.

—Run, or we'll miss it! —Paris urges me.

I mimic her. I take off my shoes, roll up my pants, and start running, feeling for the first time the soft, fine sand of the beach between my feet. Paris keeps running, and for a moment, I think she's heading straight for the sea. I'm scared of the water; I can't swim. I catch up to her, and we sit down at the water's edge. She points to the horizon.

—I don't know how many times I've come here every evening when I've felt frustrated. Every time, things haven't turned out as I expected. It was comforting. Sadness was less sad.

Her words make complete sense when sitting with our feet wet; the sunset gives way to night. The sky, light blue and orange, blend into purple tones with the navy blue of the sea and the darkness that precedes the night. It's a vision that overwhelms me. I didn't know such beautiful things existed in the world and that a slave could see them.

—This is freedom, Eric—Paris says, passing a hand over my back, rubbing it as if trying to heal the years of slavery I've endured.

—I'm still a slave.

—Not for long.

—Five months, and I'll be property of the Provinces again.

She turns to me and looks me directly in the eyes. The wind tousles her hair.

—I promise you one thing, Eric Moon: if you trust me for the important mission we have ahead, I'll give you your freedom.

—Be careful what you promise, Paris. Sometimes, promises can't be kept.

—I can give it to you, Eric. All of it is for you. You'll understand little by little.

I nod uneasily. She speaks so directly, so confidently, that I believe her.

—It will be difficult.

—Life is.

I fall silent and continue to gaze at the sea while the wind continues to whip around us. Nightfall descends more and more, and it starts to get cold.

—Today, I spent the whole day trying to find out something about your mother, Eric. I wanted to find something that would cheer you up and do it to make you fully trust me—Paris says. Upon hearing her first sentence, my hair stands on end, not from the cold, and my pupils dilate. I'm eager to know what she's found out. —But...I'm sorry to say that I haven't found anything. I couldn't find the death record under the name Lunetta Moon. It's most likely that she had another last name, her maiden name.

—My mother's name was Luna Moon. She never got married, or so I've been told.

—She must have gotten married, Eric. In the Civil Registry, in your birth certificate, Lunetta Moon is listed as the mother and slave, and Simon Moon as the father and slave.

—Simon Moon...my father. A slave.

—Exactly.

—The Halls didn't tell me about him. No one told me about him—I say, getting furious. —Do I have a father?

—He's supposed to still be alive; there's no death record for Simon Moon.

Thanks to Paris, my life has taken a 180-degree turn. And I must thank her for it. She's my owner, temporarily, but she treats me as an equal. As a free person. So now I have a lead to start with. My mother doesn't appear in the records, probably because of her sentence. But my father does. And if I find him, I'll be able to piece together my mother's story. Become a historian, like Paris.

—Thank you, Paris. It's something...I don't know how to thank you.

—You don't have to. It's a show of trust and respect. It's a way of telling you that we both need each other—our faces are inches apart. —I can help you find your father, and you can help me find the truth about our world.

—You know, Paris? The Eric from a couple of months ago would have taken advantage of this moment and kissed you—I boast.

I look into her gray eyes and think she's the woman I've shared the most intimacy with. Not even Sophie. Paris can become a friend, a true friend. I know her desires, aspirations, and concerns, most of which are related to her work, which is her passion. She, I know, knows more about me than I can tell her, as if we'd known each other forever.

—You know, Eric? The current Paris would have slapped you— she says.

We burst into laughter.