"Code of Silence"

It was perilous to use words in the dark city of Atris. The government's Lexicon Committee strictly regulated language, turning ordinary speech into a list of uninteresting, officially sanctioned words. An unexpected metaphor, a deft word choice, or a candid admission were all grounds for arrest in case of creative departure. Vocal alteration surgery was the cruel form of punishment, removing all color and nuance from the voice and leaving it lifeless and monotonous. It meant losing your voice to break the code.

Being a reserved poet by nature, Kal had eluded notice for many years. He stayed within the lines, spoke only when it was absolutely essential. He would say, "Good day," and "The weather is favorable." "I am well," he would respond to a neighbor who inquired about his well-being. He had mastered the art of playing the silent game. Beneath layers of caution was his actual self, the one who enjoyed the pleasure of vowels and the sharpness of consonants.

But the urge to write never left him.

Kal's compact apartment was nestled in a historic neighborhood where buildings leaned too close to one another, creating a cramped atmosphere in the streets. There, late at night, he scribbled in secret, scrawling poems on bits of paper. The way the words flowed was almost illegal, like forbidden love. He wrote songs dedicated to freedom, to the soft melody of free-spirited human voices, and to feelings too strong to be crushed by official government scripts.

Kal quickly came upon a community of people that shared his interests. The Atris underground poets spoke carefully and softly, in whispers. On coded paper that crumbled in the presence of light, they exchanged poems. They had their first meeting in dimly lit cellars, far from the eyes and ears of the city's constant surveillance. Here, there was a verbal uprising instead of a physical one. It was little and delicate, yet vital.

That's how Kal got to know Mira, a fierce woman with a defiant voice. Her voice was as sharp as a sword, and she had previously been an orator—a rare speaker in a public forum. Though she hadn't been apprehended yet, her poetry was becoming bolder and more intimate. The gathering muttered about revolution, but the dread made their voices tremble. Her fervor and unwavering resolve to be quiet drew Kal in.

After an especially dangerous meeting one evening, Mira placed a folded piece of paper into Kal's hand. "To you," she muttered. Spread the word, if you dare.

Later, in his apartment, Kal opened it, heart palpitating. Simple but deadly was the poem:

"We are undone in the silence.

You will observe how rapidly

the soul deteriorates if you remain silent."

It was an appeal for insurrection and a call to arms. Kal was aware of the dangers, though. It would be the end if something similar was discovered.

He tried to resist, though.

He revised the poem, incorporating his own verses to make it even more impactful. Then he hid copies in the city's cracks during the dead of night. He dropped them into the hands of strangers at the market, glued them onto decaying slum walls, and slid them under doors. Every poem was a tiny act of rebellion, a light in the shadows.

Over the city's loudspeakers the following day, the Lexicon Committee issued a warning, saying, "Unauthorized speech detected." Violators are going to be caught. Any questionable activities should be reported.

Even while hearing about the government's worry made Kal's stomach turn, there was a small thrill involved. Conversations were taking place. He sensed it from the wary looks that were exchanged in the market, from the way strangers averted their eyes little too deliberately. His remarks were reverberating across the city. However, the risk was also present.

They soon arrived to retrieve him.

Early one morning, two authorities in dark clothes showed up at Kal's door. They gave him a paper without saying anything. "Deviant linguistic activity detected," it said. "Surgical report for voice correction."

Kal's throat constricted. This marked the end for him—his voice, his work, his existence.

Even though they weren't handcuffing him, their presence was oppressive. He looked at his neighbors' deliberately neutral faces as they marched him through the city streets, as though they hadn't just watched him get jailed for something as trivial as poetry.

The clinic's white, impersonal walls were sterile. After taking everything from him, Kal was put in a small room and told to wait. His gut twisted at the thought of losing his voice permanently. He could already feel its absence seeping in.

But then something unexpected occurred as the door opened and a doctor stepped inside. With her mask on, Mira stepped in, but Kal could tell who it was from the determined expression in her eyes.

Hersing, she grabbed his arm and said, "Come on."

There wasn't time for reflection. With his heart racing, Kal trailed behind her as they hurried through strange hallways. Guards shouting behind them reached his ears, but Mira knew the path. Mira never paused, even when Kal's breath came in sharp gasps and the hallways seemed to go on forever.

Just as the light was rising, they exploded into the open air. A few recognized faces from the underground poetry group were among the tiny group waiting. They would pursue him.

"Kal," a panting Mira said. "We must leave now. They'll pursue us. However, we have a secure home outside of the city. You'll be alright.

Feeling too overwhelmed to talk, Kal nodded. He looked around at the other people, each one giving their life to save him. Though it was terrifying, he felt optimism for the future. He wasn't completely lost. Not quite yet.

"The Committee thinks they own our voices," murmured Mira as they passed through the tiny streets. But we'll continue to write. We will continue to communicate. We can't all be silenced by them.

Something odd and fierce settled in Kal's chest. His voice still belonged to him even in this uncertain dawn, even though the metropolis behind them was a cage of words.

And he remained powerful as long as he had a voice.