VI. Eastborough

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I step cautiously toward the motionless train, its sleek, angular design is different from any transit system I am familiar with. There are no windows, only a smooth, metallic exterior that reflects the dim light from the platform. The doors are sealed shut, but as I get closer, a faint hiss of hydraulics breaks the silence, and they slide open with upmost precision.

 

Inside, the train is eerily pristine—not abandoned, but untouched. The walls are lined with rows of contoured seats, each embedded with dormant TV-like screens. There are no manual controls—only an empty space where a conductor’s panel might have been.

 

As soon as I cross the threshold, the doors seal shut behind me, and without warning, the train comes to life. A soft blue glow pulses along the interior walls, and the cabin gently vibrates as the rail engages. I barely have time to find a seat before the train accelerates smoothly, silently, the platform outside vanishing within seconds into darkness. 

 

The speed is disorienting. There’s no traditional sensation of movement—no lurching, no rattling of tracks. The entire experience is frictionless, like gliding through empty space. The interior remains silent except for the soft hum of the rail underneath. Then, faintly, a voice—not spoken aloud, but coming from the interface embedded in the nearest seat. The display flickers to life with a single line of text:

 

DESTINATION: POD 4, SECTOR 33

 

A map blinks onto the screen, showing a sprawling network of underground tunnels—my current location, marked as a tiny blue dot, is traveling toward a larger hub several miles away. The display shifts again. A status update appears:

 

“Passenger acknowledged. Transit in progress. Estimated arrival: 14:12:23.”

 

Passenger? A chill runs through my spine. I hadn’t interacted with the system at all—yet it recognized me. The train continues through the vast tunnel system, passing through intermittent flashes of dim emergency lighting. Occasionally, the tunnel walls reveal glimpses of side corridors, sealed maintenance doors, or branching routes leading elsewhere.

 

I watch the display, waiting for more information, but the system remains silent. It doesn’t ask for confirmation, doesn’t prompt for interaction. It already knows where I’m going. 

 

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the train begins to decelerate. The transition is seamless. As the train slows, the dark tunnel outside gives way to another platform, larger than the first. The architecture is different—more advanced, more refined. Whatever this place was meant for, it was built at a later stage in development.

 

The doors slide open. The platform is empty. Unlike the abandoned station before, this place still appears functional. The air is fresher, the lighting more consistent, the walls free of dust and decay. It feels occupied, even though no one is here. Ahead, a corridor branches off from the platform, leading deeper into the facility. This isn’t just another transit stop—it’s an entrance. To what, I don’t yet know.

 

A soft chime sounds from behind me. The train doors remain open, waiting, as if expecting me to step off. I feel I have no choice but to leave the train and confront whatever is at the other end of this terminal. I take a few cautious steps into the long, winding corridor ahead. The walls are functional, lined with reinforced plating and embedded lighting strips, similar to the tunnels I passed earlier.

 

Scuff marks, tire treads, and faint traces of grime and dust buildup along the edges of the floor suggest that freight has moved through this space recently. This corridor was—and still might be—used for transporting materials. As I walk, the passage twists and turns, climbing gradually.

 

The corridor eventually leads to a flight of metal stairs, the first real architectural shift from the underground facility. I ascend cautiously, my footsteps echoing against the hollow steps. At the top, a thick industrial door stands slightly ajar. Pale, natural light filters through the opening—a stark contrast to the artificial glow I’ve been following.

 

Pushing through, I emerge into a vast, empty warehouse. The ceiling is high, lined with suspended light fixtures. Rows of abandoned shipping containers and freight pallets sit in neat alignment, as if they were left in the middle of distribution. A few have logistics labels with strange symbols, some of which I don’t recognize.

 

At the far end of the warehouse, a wide loading dock stands open, revealing a sliver of the outside world. Beyond it, a suburban landscape stretches into the distance. Rows of buildings, roads, and quiet streets—eerily familiar, yet distinctly different. 

 

As I step outside, I realize something unsettling: I haves no idea where I am.

 

I walk through the grid-like industrial area, which eventually gives way to something looser, more organic. The streets now are wider, dustier, and lined with buildings that don’t quite match in height or style. Some are modern but weathered, while others look cobbled together from repurposed materials. There’s no strict uniformity here, no sense of rigid urban planning like New Hinton.

 

I see unpaved side streets, where strings of colorful lights crisscross above open-air cafés and taverns. The sidewalks are cracked in places, but no one seems to mind. The people here move at a slower, more deliberate pace—not sluggish, but unhurried, as if they aren’t constantly keeping track of time.

 

Murals and hand-painted signs cover the walls. Some depict abstract shapes and symbols, others feature quotes or poetic phrases, many of which I’m not familiar with. A few make me pause, like one scrawled in fading paint outside a bookshop:

 

“Time is a mirror, and we are the hands that touch its surface.”

 

There’s a warmth to the town, but also a strangeness. It’s not just the physical differences from New Hinton—it’s the way the people interact, the way they regard me with open curiosity but not suspicion.

 

I step into a central square, which isn’t exactly a traditional town center. Instead of a courthouse or towering office buildings, there’s a communal space—an open-air market mixed with cafés, bars, and makeshift outdoor bookstores. A group of people sit cross-legged near an old stone fountain, engaged in deep conversation. One of them gestures animatedly, speaking about something I can’t quite hear. A street musician plays an instrument I don’t recognize—stringed, but the sound is eerily resonant, almost meditative. A small stall sells hand-bound books, many without titles, as if the covers are meant to be inscribed by the reader. At a café with wooden benches and vines creeping up the walls, a chalkboard menu features a drink called “The Lucid Blend”—whatever that means. 

 

The people dress in a way that feels both old and new—practical yet expressive. Some wear loose, flowing clothes; others mix old-world styles with modern fabrics. I immediately notice more beards, more long hair, more scarves and jewelry made from natural materials. The people carry a certain energy—one that seems more self-directed, less constrained by the expectations of a traditional society.

 

I hesitate, scanning the town square for something—anything—that might further lead me in my journey. Then, I spot him—a boy about my age, leaning against the edge of a stone fountain, watching me with quiet curiosity. He has dark, unruly hair and wears a simple linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

 

“You’re not from this place,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Why are you here?”

 

I hesitate, then exhale. “I’m not sure.”

 

The boy studies me for a moment, then nods. “You’re looking for something.”

 

I blink. “I guess so.”

 

He smiles slightly. “So, what are you looking for?”

 

I hesitate. I’ve been asked variations of this question before, but somehow, coming from him, it feels sharper, more precise—less like curiosity and more like a test.

 

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I just know there’s something I need to understand.”

 

He exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah, I’ve met guys like you before.”

 

“Guys like me?”

 

“The spiritual seekers.” He gestures vaguely at me. “You think you’re different from everyone else, but you’re not. The others just follow their routine, and so do you—except yours is more complicated and you dress it up as a ‘journey.’”

 

A flicker of annoyance rises in me. “That’s not true.”

 

“Isn’t it?” He cocks his head, sizing me up. “You came here thinking you’d find something, didn’t you? Maybe a wise old man who would pat you on the head and hand you an ‘Enlightenment Certificate’?”

 

I narrow my eyes. “That’s not what I—”

 

He cuts me off. “Then what? What do you actually expect to happen? That one day, some hidden door in your mind will swing open and—boom!—you’ll finally get it?”

 

His words hit harder than I expect. I clench my jaw, trying to brush them off. “You wouldn’t understand.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t I?”

 

There’s something about the way he says it that makes me pause. He’s testing me, waiting to see if I’ll push back.

 

I exhale through my nose, the tension simmering. “Do you always test people like this?”

 

He grins. “It’s a gift.” Then, after a pause, he adds, “Name’s Rohan, by the way.”

 

“Vic,” I reply automatically.

 

Rohan smirks. “Nice to meet you, Vic. Even if you’re a lost cause.”

 

I roll my eyes. “And here I thought you were warming up to me.”

 

Rohan shrugs. “You remind me of someone. He didn’t know what the hell he was looking for either.”

 

I tilt my head. “What happened to him?”

 

Rohan grins. “He figured it out. But he hated the answer.”

 

For a moment, we just stand there, neither of us speaking. The tension lingers, but something about it feels cleaner—like the air after a storm.

 

Rohan gestures toward a narrow street leading away from the square. “Come on. If you’re still set on playing this game, I’ll take you to someone who can mess with your head better than I can.”

 

I hesitate, then nod, not having anywhere else to go.

 

We walk in silence for a while. But something about the quiet between us has changed. It’s not quite trust, but it’s something.

 

We leave the town square and weave through the narrow streets, past hand-carved wooden doors and walls covered in ivy. The deeper we go, the quieter the town becomes, until we reach a modest building at the edge of a small garden with dozens of pairs of shoes and sandals sitting outside the door.

 

“We’re in luck,” Rohan says, “Adi is doing his usual afternoon question-and-answer.”

 

I step through the doorway, uncertain of what awaits me. Inside, a diverse group of people is gathered in a small room, sitting casually on the floor, some on cushions. They seem to come from all walks of life—some resembling the spiritual seekers I’ve read about, while others have the air of intellectuals. A few lean forward intently, jotting down notes like eager students hanging on a professor’s every word, while others sit in a relaxed, meditative posture, eyes gently closed, trying to absorb the moment, as if by osmosis.

 

At the end of the room, an old man sits cross-legged on a low, covered platform, his gaze calm yet piercing. I was expecting someone, perhaps, in silk robes, lighting incense, but he appears no different than any other man I’ve encountered on the street here. He looks…well…ordinary, like a street vendor; that is, nothing remarkable at first glance. 

 

On one side of him is a fan running, sitting on top of a folded newspaper, stirring the warm air, and on the other side is a devotee wearing thick glasses with a cassette player resting in his hands, capturing the teacher’s words for posterity.

 

The walls of the room are lined with what appear to be framed pictures of saints, or perhaps venerated teachers. Other than that, there is no furniture except for two folding chairs occupied by an older couple in the back. Two open windows provide lighting and ventilation, thinly veiled by drapes. And there’s a stairwell that leads up to a second floor, which, I assume, is the residency of the old man. 

 

He studies me for a moment and then gestures for me to sit on the floor. There is no room, but he insists, and asks the group to make space for me at the very front, which causes an interruption as the group shifts and realigns itself. Nevertheless, people are accommodating and don’t appear annoyed by the disturbance. I would’ve preferred to have stayed in the back where I could just observe and not be observed, but that’s no longer an option. 

 

Next, someone politely reminds me to remove my shoes. I do so and take them outside. When I come back in, I nervously make my way to the front, trying hard not to step on any fingers or toes. I take a seat on the cold, hard floor, a bit tense to be rubbing shoulders with those sitting so close next to me. 

 

“Now, what were you saying?” asks the old man waving at a woman sitting at the center of the room. Her dreadlock hair lumped like a mound on top of her head is absolutely primeval. In contrast, her face appears as soft and rosy as a baby’s. 

 

“I can’t accept this idea that the world is just ‘play’,” she says in a serious tone. 

 

The teacher watches her for a moment before responding.

 

“What’s wrong with ‘play’? I think you’re looking for it to have some kind of purpose. Only those who feel they are lacking something need purpose. Until you feel complete, perfecting ‘you’ will always be the purpose. Am I right?”

 

The woman’s expression tightens some more, as if she knows he’s right but refuses to acknowledge it.

 

The old man continues, “But if someday you find yourself complete and not lacking anything, then you will actually begin to enjoy the world and won’t feel it to be a burden. To others, you might appear to be working hard in the world, making a living and dealing with family issues like everyone else, but that is only what it looks like,” he says before providing an example. “Football players on a field appear to be working hard too, but they know it’s all just a game; that it’s all just sport.”

 

She shakes her head. “Are you suggesting that the universe is just about having a good time? That it’s all for nothing?”

 

The teacher exhales softly, his patience unwavering.

 

“The universe is perfect as it is,” he says. “The universe is not only perfect, it’s beautiful. It has beauty, which it creates for the sheer pleasure of it.”

 

“So, then, beauty is its purpose!” the woman presses.

 

The teacher, now visually agitated, leans back slightly. “Enough with this talk about purpose! Why does the world need to have purpose? Purpose implies that it needs to be corrected, that something is not right. The universe’s aim isn’t beauty, the universe is beauty. Does a rose try to be beautiful? No, it just is. By its own nature it’s beautiful! In the same way, the universe is perfection itself without any effort on its part.”

 

Next, the woman desperately tries to make it all tie together somehow, “My understanding is purpose completes itself via beauty.”

 

“How do you define ‘beauty’?” shoots back the teacher, now raising his voice. “Isn’t it bliss that is the essence of beauty?”  

 

“That I am is obvious. That I perceive is obvious. That I am happiness, well,…”

 

“If I am were obvious, you wouldn’t have to worry about being happy, because you would know you are happiness. But because you are distracted by what you aren’t, and can’t stay focused on what you are, you miss being happy. That is all.” He waves his hand showing he’s done with her question.

 

I feel like it’s the first day of high school and I’ve somehow mistakingly wandered into the advanced calculus class. Unfortunately, there is no running for the exits. 

 

“You,” pointing at me, “Who are you?”

 

I blink. “Um, my name is Victor.” I turn behind me timidly to acknowledge the others. “Thank you for having me.”

 

“You’re ‘Victor-thank-you-for-having-me’?” asks the old man.

 

A few in the room snicker quietly. 

 

I shift awkwardly, “No, no, just Victor. My friends call me Vic, actually.”

 

“But who are you?” he repeats.

 

I am bewildered by the question and don’t know how to respond.

 

“Um, I just told you, I’m…”

 

“WHO. ARE. YOU?” he repeats, with emphasis on each word.

 

I pause long enough to gain my composure before telling him, “With all due respect, sir, shouldn’t the question be, ‘What am I?’”

 

The old man leans back and flashes a rare grin at the devotee sitting next to him.

 

“Good, good,” he says seemingly pleased. “So, then, what are you?”

 

“Well, I don’t know. That’s what I want to find out,” and then, for whatever reason, maybe it is being so far away from home, or maybe because I am so nervous, I just off-load everything at once in one long, strung-out sentence: “You see I’m on a bit of a quest after I had this kind of death experience when I was younger but couldn’t make much sense of it and learned a lot about myself but still don’t understand everything from it and so I ran away from home and then encountered this strange underground train that eventually brought me here and now I’m here but really don’t know where I am and frankly…I’m a bit lost.” I take a breath and try to slow down. “So, not only do I not know who—or better—what I am, I don’t know where I am.” And then I finish with an abrupt, “Did that answer your question?” followed by 3 - 4 seconds of absolute silence from the room. At the same time, I feel another death experience coming on, or at least the desire to have one.

 

I brace myself, expecting the old man to lash out or, at the very least, send me to the back of the room. But next, his piercing gaze—the kind that breaks through ignorance like an ice pick—softens and transforms into a vast ocean of compassion.

 

“Well then, welcome to Eastborough. I’m sorry the journey was so long and arduous for you. I hope you find what you’re looking for. In the meantime, my assistant in the back can help you find a place to stay.”

 

I respond with my palms together and a deep bow—something I have never done before but feel compelled to do all the same, out of profound gratitude. You see, it wasn’t only what the old teacher said, but what I felt he had transmitted. I can’t describe it, I have never felt so…cared for, not even by my own family. It felt like the universe had directly spoken to me. My eyes begin to well up as I feel the happiness the old man briefly spoke of before.

 

After the talk, I linger near the doorway, the energy of the room still clinging to me. The assistant—Susan, I think her name was—gives me a kind smile and asks if I’d like assistance finding a place to lodge at. I hesitate, glancing back at the gathering, the quiet hum of conversation filling the space.

 

For a moment, I almost say yes. I could stay here for a while. Let everything settle. Try to make sense of what just happened. But the restlessness is already creeping back in.

 

I shake my head. “Thank you, but I think I should keep moving.”

 

She studies me for a beat, then nods as if she expected that answer. “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”

 

Outside, the evening air is cool, and the city feels different now—not less alive, but more calm. Lanterns flicker in the marketplace, casting long, shifting shadows across the cobblestone streets. Adi, the old teacher is waiting for me.

 

I pause when I see him standing at the edge of the garden, hands clasped behind his back. He regards me with that same knowing expression he held during the talk—like he sees more than what’s in front of him.

 

“You are not staying,” he says.

 

It isn’t a question.

 

I shake my head. “No.”

 

He nods, as if confirming something for himself. “There is a town, just beyond the hills,” he says. “Sundarville. Go there in the morning.”

 

The name is unfamiliar. “What’s in Sundarville?”

 

The old man smiles faintly. “Many more who can help you.”

 

I frown. “Help me with what?”

 

His eyes glint with something unreadable. “That is for you to find out.”

 

I exhale slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. I could push him for more, but I get the feeling it wouldn’t do any good. Whatever he means by help, it isn’t something he plans on explaining.

 

He glances toward the street. “Rohan will take you.”

 

I turn my head just as Rohan steps out of the shadows, arms crossed, watching me like he’s already bored of whatever is about to happen next.

 

I let out a short breath. “Of course he will.”

 

The teacher only smiles.

 

Rohan steps forward, giving the old man a small, respectful nod before turning to me. “Looks like we’re traveling together now.”

 

I shake my head, smirking slightly. “I was about to say the same thing.”

 

The teacher places a gentle hand on my shoulder. It’s a brief touch, but something in it steadies me. There’s a weight to him—not physical, but something deeper. Like his presence alone anchors me for a moment before I drift away again.

 

The old man steps back, his gaze soft but firm. Then, without another word, he turns and disappears into the house, the door creaking softly as it closes behind him.

 

The silence that follows is heavier than I expect.

 

Rohan lets out a sigh. “Well. That was mysterious as hell.”

 

I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

 

He jerks his head toward the street. “Find a place to sleep. We leave at first light.”

 

The first hints of dawn are just beginning to touch the rooftops of Eastborough when I step outside. The streets are nearly empty, save for a few early risers setting up their stalls in the marketplace. The air is crisp and still, the remnants of night clinging to the city like a thin veil.

 

Rohan is waiting for me by the fountain, arms crossed, watching the town slowly wake up.

 

“Ready?” he asks.

 

I glance around one last time.

 

For a moment, I think about staying.

 

The teacher’s words, the warmth of the gathering, the feeling of having a place where I could belong if I let myself—all of it pulls at me, just for a second.

 

Then I take a step forward.

 

And I don’t look back.

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Continue to Part VII: Charlatans and Sages

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