Saturday dawned quieter than usual. Lucy woke without the alarm's urgency, lingering in bed to listen to pigeons cooing on the roof. The house seemed to breathe differently on weekends, as if even the walls knew they could rest.
He shuffled into the kitchen still in pajamas. His mother was already awake, uniform on, sipping coffee stronger than she should, bills scattered across the table.
"Morning," Lucy muttered, rubbing his neck.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she said with a soft smile, though her tired eyes betrayed her. "No school today doesn't mean you get to laze around."
Lucy chuckled.
"I know, Mom. What can I help with?"
She pointed to a shopping list.
"We need a few things from the market. You can go after breakfast."
The morning passed peacefully. Lucy helped with dishes, dressed simply, and before leaving, grabbed his notebook. He opened it briefly and wrote:
No school today. But the threads won't vanish.
I want to observe them in the neighborhood.
He slipped it into his bag like a tool.
The local market buzzed with life. Fruit stalls glistened, vendors shouted over one another, children darted between crates. The air smelled of bread and spices.
Lucy walked with the list, but his Eyes did the real work. Threads stretched everywhere:
Blue mothers scolding children.
Green couples laughing.
Gray men hauling heavy bags.
It was a web as complex as any classroom.
At the bakery stall, an argument broke out. A young man shouted at the shopkeeper.
"I told you I already paid yesterday!"
"And I told you you still owe me two loaves!" the baker snapped.
Threads flared: a red line of fury, and over the boy, a shifting gray-black. Visions struck Lucy—coins hidden in an empty drawer, a younger brother crying of hunger, guilt burning in his chest.
Lucy clenched his teeth. He had to act, but gently.
"Excuse me…" he said, stepping closer.
Both turned to him. He breathed deep.
"He's not trying to cheat you," Lucy told the baker. "He's having a rough time. Maybe what he meant was he'd pay later."
The baker raised a brow. The young man lowered his eyes, cheeks burning. The red thread slackened.
After a long pause, the baker sighed.
"Fine. But bring me what you owe on Monday."
The boy nodded quickly and left, muttering thanks.
Lucy felt the Eyes dim. He had intervened without tearing anything apart. Perhaps that was the key: truth as a bridge, not a hammer.
Back home, he unpacked groceries with his mother. She noticed his distant look.
"Something happen?"
"No… nothing important," Lucy said, though inside he knew he'd learned something vital.
Later, while she napped on the sofa, he opened his notebook quietly:
Today I mediated without breaking a bond.
Sometimes saying less is saying enough.
The Eyes are not only for judgment… they can be for understanding.
That evening at dinner, his mother asked about Emily.
"You haven't told me about your friends lately. Do you still talk to that girl who used to play here when you were kids?"
Lucy flushed.
"Yeah, we talk sometimes…" he muttered.
She gave a sly smile but didn't press.
Still, as Lucy washed dishes, his mind drifted back to Emily—the fragile blue thread, the faint pink flickers. And he wondered if one day he'd face not only others' sins, but his own feelings for her.
Before bed, he wrote a final line:
Quiet days weigh more than they seem.
And with that thought, he surrendered to sleep.