Aurora Creamery

The city of Eryndor gleamed like a jewel of glass and steel, every tower pulsing with light as though the skyline itself had veins. Hover-drones buzzed above the streets, their sleek wings humming as they carried silver vials of medicine from tower to tower. Holographic banners promised perfection: Cure guaranteed. No pain. No fear. No failure.

It was said that sickness had been defeated here—that no illness was beyond the reach of science. But perfection was only for those who could afford it. And for the rest, whispers still lingered of diseases that slipped between the cracks, of wounds no machine could mend.

Down in the quiet lower district, tucked between shuttered storefronts and flickering neon signs, there stood a small shop with frosted windows and a fading sign that read:

Aurora Creamery.

Most people passed it without a glance. Ice cream was a relic, a silly indulgence from a time before nutrient patches and engineered meals. Who needed dessert when you could have a pill that provided everything your body required?

But inside the shop, the air was colder than the streets outside, mist curling like smoke across the tiles. Behind the counter, Arin Kael bent over a silver bowl. His dark hair fell loose around his face, shadowing the circles beneath his eyes. His apron was dusted with frost.

He wasn’t just stirring cream. He was listening. Measuring. Balancing. Each motion deliberate, almost reverent.

Shelves behind him gleamed with glass jars labeled in his careful handwriting: Moonflower Nectar. Cypress Tears. Ironroot Shavings. Strange ingredients collected from forgotten corners of the world, remnants of knowledge no lab recognized.

Arin dipped a spoon into the mixture and brought it to his lips. The lavender swirl melted on his tongue—smooth, delicate, almost alive. He closed his eyes, waiting for the flicker, the shift, the miracle.

But nothing came.

He sighed, setting the spoon down. “Still just ice cream.”

The words felt heavier each time. Still only flavor. Still only dream.

He thought of his mother—her laughter fading to silence, her hand cold in his. The doctors had promised her life. The machines had promised her years. And yet, she had slipped away, swallowed by a sickness no cure could touch.

It was then that he had made his promise: if science could not heal, then he would. Even if the cure was found in something as ordinary as a scoop of ice cream.

The bell above the door jingled softly.

Arin’s head snapped up. He rarely had customers at this hour.

A boy stood in the doorway, maybe twelve years old, thin as a reed with pale skin and too-large eyes. His clothes hung loose on his frame, his shoes scuffed nearly through. He clutched a few coins in his hand, knuckles white around them.

“Is it true?” the boy asked, voice trembling. “They say your ice cream can… help.”

Arin’s chest tightened. He wanted to deny it, to laugh and wave the boy away, to insist it was only rumor. Safer that way. Safer for both of them.

But the boy’s gaze held him. Wide, desperate, clinging to the last thread of hope.

Arin’s eyes flicked toward the freezer. Toward the jars that pulsed faintly, waiting.

His throat felt dry.

He swallowed hard, unsure if the choice he was about to make would change the boy’s life—or end his own.

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