Majlis

QUANTUM CHOICE CHRONICLES Space: QUANTUM CHOICE MODELS Reality: Oasis Artifact: Butterfly Name: Majlis Brief Description: Pearl Value: Succession IPR Registry Date: absent First Contact Date: 2025 (presumably) Contact History: based on unconfirmed eyewitness accounts Fragment Content: Layla stood before the old wind tower in Al Fahidi, feeling like a fraud. Her boss expected a report from her on the "synthesis of traditional Arab aesthetics with futuristic trends," and her only thought was that she understood nothing. She had been sent here from a cozy office in central London because of her distant Arab roots. But she completely failed to understand this city — the Crystal that pierced the crimson-carrot dunes at sunset and soared into the sky. She took out her new smartphone and turned on the camera, hoping technology would illuminate something for her. Turning around to set the location, Layla called up hints. The interface of the AR application "Dubai Landmarks" began displaying dry data: "Tower. Barjeel technology, 19th century" - a passive ventilation system allowing room cooling by 12 degrees. Boring. Useless — why did Smith think only she could handle this? Tourists were leaving the old city. Dusk was thickening, and the air seemed to thicken too. She tasted sea salt on her tongue. And the smell of a campfire. And fried fish. And then, as a final note, from around the corner of a nearby building came the smell of coffee. And unexpectedly, somewhere nearby, rough, calm male voices were heard. “Pearls are not mined,” said one voice, old as the wind. “They are accepted as a gift. The sea gives you not a stone, but a test. If you endure — you gain prosperity. If not — you gain a lesson.” “Lessons won't feed a family, Father!” said another voice — young, passionate, full of despair. “The world is changing! Artificial pearls from Japan are cheaper than sand. We dive for ghosts. We need not fairy tales, but real money!” The old voice took a sip, and the quiet sound of a date cup being placed on the sand followed. The sound was very familiar. It drowned out everything else. Layla felt there were other men around, and their gazes turned toward the elder. “We dive for ourselves,” his voice resembled the creak of old wood. “Down where it's dark and there's nothing to breathe.” And then everything inside Layla trembled. She suddenly began to understand they were speaking Arabic, a language she didn't know. But the meaning penetrated her head as clearly as the light of a single star in the void. And immediately she felt this void. Reality was slipping away. The silence around became deafening. Her cozy office and successful career—her entire life was dissolving. Layla felt she was irrevocably going mad. From the terrible cold inside and in a desperate attempt to return to familiar reality, she pulled her head deep into her shoulders, clenched her smartphone in her hand, and stared deeply into it, as into the only window back. But it only got worse. The camera looked at her bare feet. Feet that just a second ago had sneakers from the latest collection. Wiggling her toes, she felt with her skin the still-warm cobblestones of the old street. And then with horror she saw a trembling pattern on the stones. It was as if made of cold fire, shimmering either like an infinity symbol or butterfly wings. And immediately the sign soared upward, pulling Layla's hand with the smartphone along. The screen was rigidly tied to this being. Yes — it was a Butterfly. Pearl. Formidable. Majestic. Alone in complete emptiness. In a gust of invisible wind, all memory of the past and all possible futures flew straight into Layla’s consciousness. It felt as though her head was about to burst. She witnessed quarrels and reconciliations, the birth of ideas and the death of hopes. They were pain and joy, spreading their wings in the infinity of her mind. “Do not be afraid,” she suddenly heard a Voice. And for some reason, Layla immediately understood it was from the future — and believed it unconditionally. She wanted to see him, to be near him. Always. She knew he was human. Her human. But she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the Butterfly. “Majlis,” escaped from Layla and echoed into the future. “Thank you,” the Voice immediately replied. “Their choice hasn’t been made yet. Our choice hasn’t been made.” And then Layla was gone. She simply dissolved into the pearlescent light. It was a very dark night around her. Lanterns softly illuminated the yellow walls. The smartphone lay on the stones, deep veins of cracks running across its screen. Her consciousness snapped back. Couldn’t handle the strain — the hardware must have been too weak, Layla thought, somehow mundanely. But what was that? she asked herself with the same unnatural calm. A mystical revelation? A play of light and shadow? A hallucination born of longing for lost roots? She couldn’t prove it, couldn’t even describe it. No answer came. Layla returned to the old city the next day. And the next. And again, and again. Nothing like that ever happened again — but something inside her had shifted. Indelibly. For the first time in many years, she felt not anxiety about the future, but an aching, inexplicable anticipation. Somewhere deep in her soul, the image of a stranger smoldered — someone she felt she somehow knew. One day, sitting in a cozy café by the water, she deleted all the drafts of her report. Instead, she opened a blank page and wrote the only thing that came to her mind: "Dubai is not a place. It is a state. A state of dance, in which past and future fiercely whirl. Here, time is not a line but a depth, at the bottom of which I seem to have glimpsed my own reflection. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him, or if I’ll find answers. But because of this, I now know exactly who I am. And I am here!"

Author: spatiallyar