Noethea

From a very young age, even in the earliest days of my childhood, I could already see them.Not with the disturbing frequency that would come later, but yes — they were already there. Silent, ethereal, almost shy. I told my mother. We visited countless doctors, renowned specialists, but none of them could offer a rational, let alone scientific, explanation for what I was witnessing.

I remember with clarity Dr. Kansey — a well-known neurologist — who, after extensive testing, suggested the possibility of schizophrenia. It was the first time I heard that word, heavy with stigma and mystery.

I spent countless hours undergoing brain scans and neurological exams. Hours that dissolved into time, never to return. Moments when my childhood should have been filled with games, laughter, and lightness, but instead became laced with tension and strangeness.

Why did it have to be this way? That question echoed constantly in my young mind. Why?There was no answer. And that consumed me.

But there was something that disturbed me even more deeply: the shiver. It always came before... A chill that ran down my spine, like a silent warning that something was near.And that wasn’t all — there was something else. I knew, instinctively, whether a person was good or evil, just by looking into their eyes. A sharpened intuition, almost supernatural.

My mother used to say I had an unusually sharp sensory perception — almost a gift. At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what she meant. But as I grew older, I began to develop this ability more consciously. And now, at my current age, I feel confident in saying that I do, indeed, possess a sixth sense — refined, sensitive, and undeniable.

I didn’t just feelthings before they happened — I knewthem.Not with the clarity of a prophetic vision or some mystical revelation. It was more like a breeze before a storm, a subtle vibration that signaled what was to come. I still haven’t entirely understood this connection.But by sharing this brief account, I sincerely hope that, together, we might find some answers.

It was an ordinary Wednesday afternoon. The sky was clear. Nothing seemed out of place. Until suddenly — there she was again. But this time, she appeared with the intensity of lightning — like the flash of a powerful camera. My heart raced.And before I go any further, forgive me for the lack of etiquette: allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Lory. Lory Fox. And at twenty-two years old, I can say — without hesitation — that I am a survivor. When I was fourteen, I experienced one of the most defining and traumatic moments of my life. I had a vivid premonition that the house would collapse. It was a bitter sensation, an unshakable certainty that gripped me without any logical explanation. I ran and managed to get my family out of the house.All of them — except for little Pitty, my goldfish. My quiet companion, who remained in his aquarium. I mourned him for a long time. But you need to understand how it all unfolded.

That afternoon, my father was exhausted, collapsed on the bed after a grueling night shift.Convincing him to leave was nearly impossible. I came up with an absurd excuse — I told him an unexpected aurora borealis was appearing in the sky.But he could barely form a sentence.My mother, already back from an errand, insisted there was absolutely nothing outside.

Still, I felt as though an invisible hand was pressing hard against my chest.An overwhelming urgency took hold of me — as if a silent voice were screaming inside: Get them out. Now!

My mind was racing. A whirlwind of thoughts, emotions — and that damned feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

After relentless pleading — like water carving stone over centuries — my father finally got up. He left the bed reluctantly and stepped outside.Then, as if the universe had been waiting for that exact moment, the sinister cracking of the house’s beams echoed loud and clear. It was the omen. A late warning that the worst was moments away. And then it happened.

Everything was gone.

All that remained of our home were ruins and broken memories. We managed to salvage a few old photographs — images we now keep as relics of a time that will never return. But the truth is, we had to start over. Not just rebuilding the house — but rebuilding our trust in the world.

I remember clearly the way my father looked at my mother — not with despair, but with a kind of curious astonishment, as if something within him sensed that all of it was part of a greater mystery.Then, they both turned to me. They knew — even if in silence — that I had felt it before it happened.

The entire neighborhood had already gathered outside, watching the wreckage and offering kind words and sympathetic glances. The house insurance took care of providing us with a new home and covered the compensation, which made our move to the house we live in to this day much easier.

Ah, yes… forgive me again.Sometimes my mind spins like an uncontrollable whirlwind of thoughts and memories — it starts down one path and, before I realize it, it’s veered onto another. Back to what I was saying: we were talking about thatWednesday.And no, the house didn’t collapse that day. It was only one of many events that revealed these heightened senses of mine — still mysterious, even to me.

That Wednesday was thick, unsettling, almost unbearable in its strangeness. I have to reach deep into my vocabulary just to try and express what I lived through.

As I mentioned before, the first sign was a sudden flash — like the burst of a camera going off directly into my eyes. A blinding white light filled my vision.My heart raced, beat out of rhythm — even fibrillated from the sheer shock of it.

I was in the living room, lying down, simply staring at the ceiling, lost in complete daydream.Suddenly, everything took on an orange hue, as though a sepia filter had been draped over reality — nostalgic, disturbing, and strangely out of time.

And I thought: Am I going blind?

There was nothing normal about it. I even considered the possibility of a serious medical issue, something urgent that needed to be investigated.But then again — what is “normal”? Who draws the thin line between the natural and the unnatural?What we call “real” may be nothing more than a fragile, collective illusion — subjective, shifting, and uncertain.

Apologies. I’m digressing again — a frequent occurrence in the labyrinth of my mind.

Moments later, the déjà vu struck.One of those so vivid and precise it makes your spine tingle.My mother walked into the kitchen and then made her way to the living room, carrying a tray with a glass bottle of water and two drinking glasses. She was probably going upstairs for her usual reading session.She’s always been a tireless reader, and I admire her deeply for that.I’ve never been able to keep up with her pace — one book per week! I read slowly, but I held on to the hope that, with persistence, I’d one day conquer as many pages as she had.Each book is a new flavor — and I wanted to taste them all.

That’s when it hit me — like an invisible stone thrown straight at the back of my head. I instinctively reached for my neck, as if I could touch the pain, even though it was abstract.And in the very next moment, I saw it: She fell.

The tray, the water, the glasses — everything shattered on the floor in slow motion.My mother had slipped… on nothing.

I leapt to my feet and ran to her.

— Mom! Mooom! — I cried out, panic-stricken.

There was blood. A lot of blood, flowing from the back of her head. A shard of glass, maybe.Desperation blurred my senses.

Luckily, my wristwatch had an emergency call feature.With trembling hands, I pressed the button and called for help. I rushed back to the kitchen, soaked a cloth quickly, and pressed it against the wound.

I wasn’t prepared to deal with any of this — but I did what instinct demanded: protect, support, sustain.

My head throbbed. A sharp pain pulsed through my brain, as if something inside me were about to explode.

Dizziness and a terrible wave of nausea took over me. It felt as if my body were rejecting that reality. I wanted to stay there, by my mother’s side, waiting for the paramedics — my unknown heroes — the way a victim waits for the police after a brutal crime. But my body couldn’t take it.

I fainted.

Even unconscious, I noticed something strange — I wasn’t falling into the usual darkness that comes with fainting. No. It was that color — the pale orange — still glowing behind my closed eyelids. A nauseating hue. Had I died? Was it possible that, in this place where I now found myself, death was… orange? Suddenly, everything became suspended. The pain had stopped. The nausea was gone. I felt… light. Whole. But confused.I looked around — if “looking” is even possible in a place without form — and found myself immersed in an infinite orange void. A space without ground, without sky, without direction. A place outside of time.

I thought: Did some system in my brain collapse? Did my synapses short-circuit, like the wiring of an old house during a thunderstorm?And with that thought, I remembered my old house. And my little fish, Pitty. Could he be somewhere in this ethereal world? Everything seemed to last an eternity… But maybe it was only a few seconds.Maybe I was lying on a hospital stretcher. Maybe I was being scanned again. Maybe my brain was just trying to shield me from reality.Stay calm, I told myself. Breathe.But then… something unexpected happened.I opened my eyes and realized: I had never left the couch. My mother had never fallen. It had all been… a dream?An unfulfilled premonition? A delusion?

She walked into the living room again — exactly as before — with the tray in her hands. The déjà vu hit me like a jolt. — Let me help you, Mom! — I said, rushing toward her.

She smiled, surprised. — What a helpful daughter! — she said, touched.

I took the tray from her hands and carried it up to her room. She smiled again, her eyes warm with pride — though maybe a little suspicious.Did she think I wanted something in return?Maybe.But that’s okay.

The truth is, not even I understood what had just happened.And you, dear reader… you probably didn’t either.

But believe me: this was only the beginning.

I got the sense you might be judging me — so let me address that.After all, what’s a 22-year-old girl doing sprawled on the couch in the middle of the afternoon?First of all, I didn’t say what day of the week it was — so don’t go jumping to conclusions about my life choices. I felt judged just by the possibilitythat someone — maybe you — might be judging me.

But we live in modern times, and if I wanted to, I could easily have sent my boyfriend off to work while I stayed home — laughs. No, I don’t have a boyfriend.Can you imagine? With this heightened sixth sense of mine, it’d be a walking disaster.Awful!

Maybe that’s exactly why I tend to be more solitary. I like to study — a lot — about all sorts of things.And read… oh, how I read. Especially the works of my dear John S. Meinlem. I should probably add a few more laughshere too, don’t you think?

Have you read Enigma Universe?If you’re enjoying my story so far, you really should add it to your reading list — seriously. More laughter here.

But let’s get back to the thread.Blessed be our modern times!

Can I tell you something before I continue?Of course I can. I’m the one narrating this, after all — lol.

Since childhood, we’ve heard the same advice from our elders: “Study hard so you can become someone in life.”Well, when I turned 18 — after finishing high school and right before starting college — I noticed something curious: The people making the most money often hadn’t even finished formal education. They were, in truth, shrewd survivors of this unpredictable social jungle, skillfully navigating the pathways where money flows.And that money — make no mistake — flows with almost mathematical precision through the world’s most economically influential sectors. It was thanks to my hunger for books, ever since I was a child, that I picked up on this pattern — even if just superficially.

Still, I chose to pursue two degrees at the same time: Business Administration and Accounting. Yes, two. Like I said, I loveto study.

I fast-tracked some classes, raced against time, and in the end, I earned those beautiful diplomas.After that, I interned at the Heptagonal School — they paid peanuts, barely enough to eat decently. At the time, I felt an urge to act decisively, to find something that would actuallybring financial return.Let’s be honest: at this stage in life, we live in a world where money can, in fact, bring a bit more dignity and comfort. Wouldn’t you agree? Money helps. Of course it does.

But don’t get me wrong — I’m not a materialist.Far from it. I’m not one to fill my house with useless trinkets that lose their value overnight.But I’ve always stood by this one right: to order food at home now and then, or indulge in a little dessert...That’s my right. Did you know that?

And it was in that context — equipped with some knowledge and a whole lot of curiosity — that I decided to open my own online store. The desire also came from the observations I’d make during my daily bus ride to my internship. Yes, I was great at what I did — and when I decided to leave, well... that’s another story. I’ll get to that in a second.

As I was saying, during that constant back-and-forth through the streets, I noticed something: a lot of physical stores would open... and then close just a few months later. I studied their average profit margins and noticed something interesting: stores that sold accessories, clothes, and decorative items had better margins — especially when they tapped into feminine sensibilities.Products that cost mere cents in China would be sold here as luxury items for R$89. Yes, that was my field of study: consumer behavior.

But even with those juicy profit margins, many shops still closed down. I realized that I myself had changed: I no longer went out shopping, not even to malls.If I went out at all, it was to catch a movie — and even that was becoming rare with ticket prices through the roof. I switched to streaming services and let go of that lingering anxiety.

At work, we talked more about books than we did about movies or TV shows.That’s why I never felt pressured to keep up with pop culture trends. The organizational culture at the Heptagonal School was truly fascinating. They say working at Google is magical — well, I’d say this place was too.

Then, after analyzing the whole scenario, I opened my little online shop. The beginning was rough. I invested heavily in products and, at first, the returns were tiny. I remember the day I made R$100 in sales and found out my profit was... R$3.29. That’s right.After taxes, it was enough to buy a strawberry candy.But that was okay — it was just the beginning.

A year later, my store was already making me more money than the internship ever had. Sales kept climbing, month after month. It was time to move on.And this was the moment — the one I promised to tell you about — when I decided to resign.

Director Lino called me into his office and explained how the company’s hiring policy worked. He said he’d been following my work and that he’d recommend me for a Specialist position, with the possibility of being promoted to Analyst.Naturally, the salary would be a lot more respectable — and it would cover my little indulgences, like an occasional dessert or a pizza on the weekend.

He offered it kindly. But I declined. I explained what I was working on — my store, my dream. He was happy for me, supportive, told me he’d help in any way he could to ensure my eternal happiness. So sweet! I love that place. Seung-Hyun, the Korean specialist I worked with, still messages me when he runs into financial trouble. I help him. For free. He’s a kind soul. I think he trusts me more because of my Asian features — my eyes are a blend of European and Eastern traits. Yes, I do think I’m cute!