The morning sun bled softly over the skyline of Neo-Lagos, gilding the solar panels on the rooftops and the glass spires that punctuated the city's silhouette. It should have been a bustling scene of life and sound, a chorus of streets and voices, but the city remained quiet—too quiet, as if it were holding its breath. Ireti Adeola stood at her bedroom window, the weight of her royal lineage pressing heavily on her shoulders. The world outside moved with precise gestures and muted motions, each person performing their part in a choreography dictated by decades of law and expectation.
Her fingers traced the edge of the marble windowsill as she watched children hurry to school, their small hands waving and pointing, lips moving in shapes that never produced sound. Traders bargained with exaggerated gestures, their eyes flicking nervously, making sure every signal was perfect. The city was alive, yet sterile, vibrant yet muted—a paradox that made Ireti's chest tighten.
"Princess," her handmaiden intoned softly, appearing behind her. Even her voice, though low, seemed cautious, careful not to disturb the omnipresent quiet. "Breakfast is prepared."
Ireti turned, brushing the curtain aside, and nodded. Her steps across the polished floor were deliberate, measured, reflecting the upbringing of a royal who had learned to move without drawing attention. She arrived at the dining hall, where the long table gleamed beneath the filtered sunlight, polished to a reflective sheen that caught the soft rays.
King Adeola sat at the head, his posture impeccable, his expression a mask of composure. Synthetic words dripped from his mouth, each syllable carefully calculated. "Good morning, Princess," he intoned, though the voice was not entirely his own. "You have duties today. Do not forget them."
Ireti bowed slightly, the weight of his expectations settling on her even before she lifted her tray. She picked at the food absentmindedly, her mind wandering to the city beyond the palace walls. Outside, the neon markets shimmered silently, streets hummed with invisible activity, and the air seemed charged with energy that never expressed itself in sound. Even in the presence of royalty, Ireti longed to step into the ordinary world, to feel the pulse of the streets, to hear what had been taken from everyone.
Breakfast passed in a quiet symphony of movements: knives scraped gently, cups clinked softly, but no sound dared escape beyond the polished hall. Her younger siblings moved with careful precision, eyes downcast, lips pressed into measured lines, as if any deviation might summon consequences they could not imagine.
Later, she moved to her transport, a sleek hovercar waiting in the courtyard. The car's solar panels caught the morning sun, casting fractured rainbows across the marble beneath. Her bodyguard walked beside her, silent but vigilant. He signed quickly with his hands, a warning not meant to frighten but to remind: "Do not forget who you are, Princess."
Ireti's gaze drifted to the streets below. Children darted between silent vehicles, hawkers performed their elaborate gestures, and yet she could not help but envy them. Even in their muted state, they were freer than she was, unbound by palace walls and endless expectation. Her pulse quickened with a longing she could not voice, and she clenched her fingers into fists at her sides.
Arriving at school, the gates shimmered under the morning sun. Uniformed students moved like quiet specters, whisperless greetings exchanged with gestures and signs. Ireti descended from the hovercar, her posture perfect, regal even in her subdued movements. Amara, her bright-eyed friend, caught her wrist in excitement. "You're quiet today," she signed, leaning in, curiosity in every gesture. "Something on your mind?"
Ireti forced a small smile. "Nothing," she signed back. The truth—the suffocating reality of her dual existence—was too dangerous to share, even with a friend.
Inside the classroom, the teacher's presence was imposing yet silent. Chalk scraped against the board, white dust curling into the air in silent arcs. Students copied notes diligently, pencils scratching paper in rhythm, their concentration absolute. Ireti's gaze kept drifting, drawn to the shapes of shadows moving across the walls, imagining what voices might sound like if they were permitted, if only for a fleeting moment.
Her thoughts tangled with memories of yesterday's reflections—the silent market, the strange rhythms she felt in her chest—and her mind spiraled with questions she dared not voice. Why was the city quiet? Why had music, laughter, and ordinary noise been erased? Was it truly peace, as the Council insisted, or a prison too vast to understand?
Amara nudged her arm. "Pay attention," she signed, eyes wide with concern. Ireti blinked, forcing herself back to the present. Her pencil moved mechanically, but her mind remained tethered to the unsolved mysteries of Neo-Lagos.
By midday, the sunlight fell sharp across the courtyard as Ireti joined her friends for a quiet lunch. Plates were passed in measured gestures, words replaced with precise motions. She picked at her food, yet her senses remained alert, detecting the faint flickers of movement that suggested life and energy lurking just beneath the city's enforced quiet.
Taye, a boy in her class with a sharp gaze, leaned in. "Princess, you seem distracted again," he signed, watching her closely. "Something bothering you?"
Ireti shook her head, hiding the tension coiling in her stomach. "Just tired," she signed back. Truth felt too dangerous, her curiosity already a fragile rebellion against the world she had been born into.
The afternoon dragged with deliberate slowness. Lessons were completed in silent efficiency, and Ireti's eyes kept straying to the cityscape beyond the classroom walls. Neon panels shimmered, holographic projections danced silently across streets, and even the ordinary clatter of life was stripped away. She imagined voices, laughter, music, anything that might pierce the suffocating quiet.
When school ended, she walked home along the familiar streets, each step measured, each motion careful. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that seemed almost alive. Even the wind carried restraint, brushing leaves without sound, teasing the edges of her awareness with faint vibrations she alone could perceive.
Returning to the palace, the corridors felt heavier, the walls closing in as if aware of her thoughts. Servants moved in precise choreography, footsteps measured to perfection. Her father's synthetic voice echoed faintly in distant halls, carrying his commands to the council, the air heavy with the unspoken rules of their world.
Ireti lingered in her room, staring at the patterns the moonlight made across her walls. Stained glass fractured the glow into shifting shapes, light bending into angles that seemed almost alive in the stillness. Her fingers traced these patterns, tapping lightly against the armrest of her chair. Once. Twice. Each tap was soundless, yet it vibrated through her bones, a rhythm only she could feel.
The city outside continued in its silent routine, oblivious to the stirrings of her heart. Neo-Lagos slept under the careful watch of the Council, convinced that order lay in silence. But within the princess, a pulse had awakened, small yet undeniable.
Ireti closed her eyes, letting her imagination wander to worlds beyond this quiet prison. She pictured voices calling, music spilling from open windows, children laughing freely, drums beating in open squares. She tapped her fingers again, keeping time with a rhythm that no one else would hear, a secret rebellion against a world that had forgotten its own life.
For the first time in many days, hope threaded through her chest. A fragile, trembling thing, but hers entirely. And though Neo-Lagos remained cloaked in silence, Ireti Adeola, daughter of the council leader, princess of a city that had long forgotten its songs, dared to imagine a world that could sing again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The rhythm was quiet. The world was still. But something had shifted.
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