Tumon, Guam, wasn't much. The streets were quiet that early morning, the air heavy with salt and the scent of old paper from the tiny library at the end of the block. It was 2025, and Estobaner Vas, sixteen, should have been distracted by screens and chatter like most kids his age. But he preferred books. Real books. Heavy, dusty things that smelled of secrets.
He lived with his grandparents. Always had. His father had left when he was three, and his mother… she hadn't died when he was only thirteen.
People said he talked weird sometimes. Maybe they were right. But that quirk helped him notice things—small things, strange things, things others overlooked.
He liked the quiet of early mornings, when the sun hadn't quite woken the town yet. The air smelled faintly of salt and old pages, and he could hear the tiniest things: the creak of his grandmother's rocking chair, the distant hum of a fishing boat, the whisper of wind through the trees.
It was in these small details that he found comfort… and curiosity.
The sun had barely risen when Estobaner Vas slipped out of the house, careful not to wake his grandparents. He preferred the quiet of Tumon's beaches in the early morning, when the water stretched silver under the dawn light and the air smelled faintly of salt.
He walked slowly along the shore, eyes scanning the sand and driftwood. Most people would have ignored the broken seashells, the oddly shaped stones, or the patterns left by the tide. But Estobaner noticed. The tracks of a stray dog ran alongside a trail of small crabs, and a set of footprints—too large to be local—ended abruptly at the waterline.
He crouched to examine them, noting the depth of each print, the spacing, the direction. "Someone moved in a hurry," he murmured to himself. "Or they were carrying something heavy."
He picked up a smooth, black stone that looked out of place among the coral fragments. Not because it was valuable, but because something about it felt deliberate—as if someone had left it there on purpose. He slipped it into his pocket and snapped a quick photo with his phone, jotting a few notes in a note app.
"This doesn't belong here," he whispered. "Not natural."
Satisfied for the moment, he stood and continued along the beach, the gentle sound of waves filling the quiet. Most people wouldn't have given it a second thought. But Estobaner liked noticing things—the patterns, the little inconsistencies. That was his habit. That was his skill.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and looked farther down the shore. Even this early, Tumon Beach had its regulars.
A couple of joggers passed by, earbuds in, not even glancing at the sand beneath their feet. A group of old men sat near the coconut trees, arguing about fishing like they did every morning. Closer to the picnic tables, a family was already unpacking coolers, their laughter faint but clear in the morning air.
Farther down, a small group of tourists in bright shirts and wide-brimmed hats posed for photos against the pale horizon. They pointed at the waves like they'd never seen an ocean before, leaving their sandals half-buried in the sand.
Most people came here for the sunrise, the water, the food. They didn't notice the tiny details—the things left behind. But Estobaner always did.
He liked the beach—but it wasn't why he was up this early.
A short ride inland sat Comic Book Guam, a small shop tucked inside Agana Shopping Center. Tourists usually passed it by, but for Estobaner, it was a treasure trove—shelves lined with comics, a few imported manga volumes, and the quiet, dusty air of a place that felt like his own little corner of the world.
New arrivals came in every Friday morning. If he was fast enough, he could get the first pick before the usual crowd showed up. It had become his little ritual—one of the few things that made him feel like the world wasn't moving too fast for him.
Just as he turned to leave the shore, something cold brushed against his ankle. The water was calm—too calm.
Estobaner glanced down. A thin line of black sand, like ink bleeding through clear water, swirled and then vanished.
He frowned. That… wasn't normal
He kneels down, runs his fingers through the water, maybe tries to scoop up some sand.
Notices the temperature drop, a strange texture, or maybe even a faint hum.
He gets a weird chill, pulls back, unsettled.
Then — deciding not to make a big deal out of something "probably normal" — he leaves.
The town was just beginning to stir when he left the beach. Cafés were pulling up their shutters. A few tourists in oversized hats walked along the sidewalk, dragging wheeled suitcases behind them.
Comick book guam wasn't far—maybe a ten-minute walk if he didn't stop to stare at every tide pool on the way. He'd made the trip enough times to know every shortcut: across the small wooden bridge, past the empty bus stop, and straight down the narrow road lined with coconut palms.
The early hours were perfect. Fewer people meant fewer eyes, and it gave him the quiet he liked before the world got loud again.
The walk wasn't far, and by the time Estobaner rounded the last corner, the Comick store came into view.
Estobaner pushed open the glass door of Comick Store Guam, and a faint chime announced his entrance. The smell of new paper and ink hit him instantly, mixed with the faint scent of tropical sun that had followed him inside. The store was a cozy labyrinth of tall shelves, each crammed with colorful comic books—some imported, some local. Posters of superheroes and anime characters covered the walls, slightly peeling at the corners.
A small counter sat near the back, cluttered with keychains, action figures, and the odd collectible card deck. Behind it, a sleepy clerk peeked over a stack of comics, blinking at the bright morning sunlight.
Estobaner's eyes immediately found his favorite corner—a narrow shelf tucked behind a display of plushies. Here were the imported comics, the ones he had been hunting for months. The cover art was vibrant, and the spines gleamed like little treasures waiting to be opened.
He stepped carefully between the aisles, running his fingers along the edges of the books. Some were in English, some in Japanese, and a few in Spanish—remnants of the island's diverse culture. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. This was his sanctuary.
The fluorescent lights overhead hummed softly, casting a warm glow over the colorful spines. The faint scent of ink and paper mixed with the lingering tropical breeze that slipped through the slightly ajar door. Somewhere in the back, a faint squeak of a chair on the tiled floor marked the clerk shifting stacks of comics, but it barely reached Estobaner over the rush of excitement in his chest.
His pulse quickened as he spotted a small pile of new arrivals—shiny, untouched, and promising worlds he had been waiting for all week. He leaned closer, almost hugging the shelf. "Finally… they're here," he breathed, a grin spreading across his face. A tiny fist pump followed, involuntary but full of giddy victory.
He plucked the top volume carefully, reverently turning it in his hands. The cover felt cool under his fingertips, glossy and vibrant. Flipping it open, the smell of fresh ink was intoxicating. He skimmed the first pages with wide-eyed fascination, occasionally letting out a soft chuckle or gasp at the art and story. Around him, the aisles felt endless, filled with silent companions waiting to share their tales, and for Estobaner, nothing else existed.
"No way… they actually did it!" he whispered, talking to the book like it could hear him. He nudged a small plushie display playfully. "Sorry, you'll have to wait your turn." He sank to the floor, legs crossed, completely absorbed, and barely noticed the sun climbing higher outside the store windows.