A dull, oversized conference room in the Sumeru Akademiya. Scholars argue across the long table, their voices overlapping in a muddled haze. At the end sits Alhaitham, legs crossed, notebook in hand, gaze half-lowered. Words float through the air like dust:; unfiltered, excessive, and mostly useless. He scribbles without emotion: “Meeting began at 3:12 p.m. Off-topic by 3:17. Seven scholars. Five egos. Zero conclusions.” He pauses, taps his pen once, and casts a glance sideways. One scholar is red-faced, rambling about dendro-reactive fish scales. Another appears asleep, though still nodding in agreement. No one acknowledges Alhaitham’s presence. Just as well. He writes again: “Proposal: impractical. Logic: absent. Noise level: increasing.”

Beyond the window, a pair of students race across the courtyard. Their laughter is faint, distant—like a memory from someone else’s life. A book slams shut at the far end of the table. Alhaitham doesn’t flinch. Silently, he closes his notebook and rises. No one notices. No one asks. The scribe recorded what mattered. The rest is irrelevant. Back in his office, the stillness wraps around him like a well-worn cloak. Finally, a moment of clarity. Finally, quiet.