Lucy and the Essence of Things E-Book

Anya Kaldek

• Herausgeber: Ayna Verlag
• Kategorie: Ratgeber
• Serie: Waves of Time Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 178

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Who were you before the world told you who you are?What is the powerful destiny of your thoughts? And do you truly know the meaning of the dark night of the soul?Lucy stands before the ruins of her life when a tragic event in her family forces her to travel to Spain. An extraordinary journey beginsone that will change her forever.On her path, Lucy stumbles upon an ancient secret, meets a mysterious master, and discovers a place of profound, transformative energy. With each step, she unravels deeper truths about her own existenceand the interwoven future of humanity.Follow Lucy on her journey into a life of self-discovery and empowerment.Inspiring. Adventurous. Eye-opening.The Waves of Time Trilogy is an invitation to see the world through new eyes. This story has the power to shift your perception of realityand transform your life."In a world where we are constantly fed negativity, it is more important than ever to cultivate high-frequency thoughts and bring them to life in our minds." Anya Kaldek"This book carries a profound intentionto cleanse our minds from polluted thoughts and walk the path of joy!" Reader review

Leseprobe

Lucy and the Essence of Things

The Path out of the Matrix

Volume 1

Edition 2025

Copyright © Anya Kaldek

All rights reserved

Table of Contents

 

Ibiza, 1854

The Departure – A Step into the Unknown

On the Path of Destiny

The Arrival

To Recognize Is to Choose

Breaking the Chains of the Past

When Thoughts Take Root

Dreams Whisper in the Wind

Between Light and Shadow

Eloy

Moraira

Life in the Mirror World

The Silence After the Last Farewell

Echoes of the Past

The Message

Everything is a Thought

Food for Body and Soul

The Triangle of Silence

Off to Ibiza

Dream or Reality?

In Search of the Hidden Treasure

Back with Aramis

A Visit to Anísch

When Souls Recognize Each Other

Everything Is One

Needs

The Voice Within You

The Secret of the Tablets

Know Who You Are

The Language of Nature

The Pulse of the Collective Soul

Light – The Eternal Guide

Surfing the Wave of Change

A New Beginning

Epilogue

Vita

The Journey Continues

Ibiza, 1854

»Miracles come to those who believe in them.«

The storm raged wild and relentless off the coast, yet the eerie glow beneath the water’s surface mesmerized the crew, leaving them frozen, powerless to act. The first mate’s fingers dug into the railing. What was that light, shimmering down there? Just moments ago, they had been hauling in their meager catch when a monstrous wave surged toward them, towering high before crashing down with brute force. The boat spun like a child's toy, tossed helplessly by the raging sea. That was when they first saw it—the light. It shot up from the ocean floor at breakneck speed, spreading across the open sea like wildfire. Drawn to it as if under a spell, they could barely tear their eyes away before the next wave came hurtling toward them, an unstoppable force of destruction. The storm shrieked through the night. The boat groaned under the onslaught, shuddering violently before nearly splitting in two. Wood splintered and shattered around them. The fishing net tore open, surrendering its captive creatures back to the wild currents. Among them, something metallic caught the light—a two-hand-wide, golden box that had been ensnared in the net. Now, it too slipped away, sinking back into the depths.

Eyes wide with horror, the captain watched the next monstrous wave barrel toward them, knowing it would be their end. The boat capsized, and the sea swallowed the crew whole. Water closed over their heads, pulling them deeper into the abyss. But then—the impossible happened.

A sudden current surged through the depths, seizing the exhausted men and sweeping them upward. In a final, powerful rush, the wave carried all four sailors to shore, depositing them, breathless but alive, onto the wet sand. By the next day, news of the miracle had spread across the island and far beyond its shores.

That same morning, the golden casket found a new owner—right there on the beach.

The Departure – A Step into the Unknown

»That one day that can change your life begins anew every morning.«

Oh, great. Just what I needed—now this, too. The museum fired me. My job as an archaeologist? Gone. Clutching the impersonal termination letter tightly in one hand, I leap onto the departing tram and manage to grab a seat by the window. Three years. That’s how long I worked there. Okay, granted, it wasn’t the dream job I had hoped for. The last few months had mostly been monotonous desk work. I knew I wasn’t signing up for Indiana Jones-style adventures, but was a little excitement really too much to ask? The tram’s cold windowpane cools my overheated forehead. My fingers twirl a long strand of hair—like they always do when I’m unsettled. As my thoughts circle around my wreck of a life, my gaze drifts into nowhere. The streets are crowded with people, their collars pulled up high against the cold. Expressionless faces move through the city’s grey chill.

Is this it? Is this what life looks like? Dragging yourself to a job day in, day out—just to pay rent, insurance, and, if you’re lucky, afford a week of vacation once a year? Coming home exhausted, only to collapse in front of the TV?

*

Back in my plain two-room apartment, I drop onto the couch. The place is functional, moderately comfortable—bare walls, a cheap grey carpet from the hardware store. Against one wall, a few framed pictures lean, waiting in vain for me to decide where to hang them. The brown dresser and coffee table are leftovers from the previous tenant. I never really settled in here. As dusk falls, I notice the small red light blinking on my answering machine—its steady pulse almost hypnotic. With a sigh, I get up and press play.

A foreign number flashes on the display. Strange. Now I’m curious.

»Hola, this is Pedro from Spain. I’m a friend of your father’s. Please contact me as soon as possible at this number. It’s important. Hasta luego, Señora Lucera.«

I stare at the answering machine, motionless. Father? How long has it been since I last heard from him? Sixteen years. That’s how long. I cut ties back then. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take him anymore.

I have no idea if or how I should respond, so I do nothing. Exhausted from the day, I retreat to my bedroom.

Memories rise to the surface. Spain. My family was always drawn to that country. As a child, I spent my summers there, staying with my grandmother in a small Andalusian village. Some thought she was odd, but to me, she was everything. She was the first person who ever made me feel truly safe.

That was so long ago. The warmth of those cherished moments washes over me, lulling me into a deep sleep. I dream of the same towering rock I’ve seen so many times before—rising from the sea, surrounded by endless water. At its base stands a man. His hunched posture betrays his age. He doesn’t move. He just waits. For something. Or someone?

It’s nearly eleven when I finally roll out of bed. The bathroom mirror is merciless. The dark circles under my eyes are souvenirs from years of mind-numbing office work. The pale skin—well, that crept up on me over time. Okay, for thirty-seven, I’m still in decent shape. But I can’t ignore the signs of getting older.At least I still have my long brown hair. But is that enough to find someone who’ll put up with all my quirks?

First things first—a shower. Maybe I can wash away my worries along with the grime of yesterday.Of course, the phone rings just as I step in. Wrapping a towel around my hips, I tiptoe to the phone and pick up.

»Hola, Señora Lucera. This is Pedro. I’m a friend of your father’s. I know you haven’t been in touch with him for a long time, but I have sad news.« My hand starts to shake. I manage only a quiet, »Okay.«

»Your father passed away a few days ago. He had been very ill these past months. On Wednesday morning, he didn’t wake up. In the end, his lungs gave out. The funeral will likely be next week.«

Silence.

»Señora? Did you hear what I said?«

»Yes… yes, I did.«

»I’m very sorry for your loss. I know this must be sudden, but he asked me to give you something personally. Can you come to Spain?«

My brain stalls. I need time to process this. I mumble something about calling him back, just to buy myself a moment. We exchange numbers, and I slowly set the phone down.

My legs feel like jelly. I collapse onto a chair, trying to untangle the whirlwind of thoughts in my head. Father is dead. I’m… stunned? Am I actually affected by this? I didn’t expect that. Not after everything he put us through. A shiver runs down my spine. Only now do I realize I’m still wet, still wrapped in nothing but a towel. »Okay, Lucy, deep breath. Enough with the advanced self-pity!« I scold myself and disappear into the bedroom. Over the years, I’ve mastered the art of not letting emotions get to me.

Dressed in my ripped favorite jeans and a loose shirt, I finally sit down with a cup of coffee. I replay the conversation in my mind. What, for heaven’s sake, does Pedro have to give me? Did my father somehow stumble into money and decide, in his final moments, to remember me? Yeah, right. Not likely. And why does Pedro assume I’d just drop everything and fly to Spain?

My stomach growls, demanding attention. I shove the thoughts aside. The fridge is practically empty—again. I grab my keys and head out to the bakery. At the kiosk, an ad for unbelievably cheap flights to Spain catches my eye. A sign? Nah, I don’t believe in that stuff. Besides, I hate flying. Being crammed into a tin can, hurtling through the air at breakneck speed? No, thank you.

Munching on a roll, I wander aimlessly through the streets. It’s spring, but much too cold for the season. I hunch my shoulders against the chill. How long has it been since I was last in Spain? I was a child back then. A flicker of curiosity sparks inside me. How had my father spent these last years? Did he start a new family? In the end, did he regret what he had done to me?

Something tells me that if I go to Spain, I’ll get more answers than I have questions.

»Well, Lucy? You’ve got nothing to lose here.« I could just pack up and go. The museum owes me severance pay, so I’m financially covered. It’s May—the best time of year. Sitting by the sea with a glass of sangria sounds pretty damn good right now. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll make it in time for the funeral. Not that I’m ready to admit it, but some small part of me wants to be there.

Okay, time to ask Pedro for the address. No harm in checking where this place is on the map.

On the Path of Destiny

»Set out on a journey and let the magic of new experiences unfold.«

Once I make a decision, I don’t waste time. According to the route planner, it’s 2,000 kilometers to Moraira—the town where my father spent his final years. The best time to escape Germany’s soul-crushing traffic? Sunday. That’s two days from now. »Alright, Lucy. Spain, here I come!« I call out, psyching myself up as I start packing my bag. No need for goodbyes. The thought stings, just a little. Making friends was never my strong suit.

*

Sunday morning. The sky begins to break open above the highway, faint streaks of light teasing at the sun, though a light drizzle keeps the familiar German gloom intact.For years, my old, rust-red Volvo has been my most reliable companion. It has seen me through long journeys and lonely hours, silently carrying my tangled thoughts through every move, every transition.

I’ve been on the road for a while now. The French border is just ahead. A slight tingle of excitement flutters in my stomach. I love the South—the sun, the sea, the people who live with a hunger for life, free from the weight of northern solemnity. The border crossing is uneventful. I glide onto the smooth, well-kept French highways and wonder—how is it that southern Europeans manage to build roads like this, while back home, they can’t even finish an airport in ten years?

After eleven hours of driving, just outside Montpellier, my eyelids grow heavy. My stiff joints demand rest. The next motel will do. The room is bare but clean, and I sink into sleep without a second thought.

*

The next morning, birdsong eases me gently into wakefulness. Through the open window, the warm sunlight spills onto my bed, caressing my skin like a promise of better days. I take a deep breath. It smells like the South. A slow smile spreads across my face. »Please, just let me stay here forever,« I murmur into the pillows. But the thought of my destination nudges me back into motion. A quick, uninspiring breakfast of stale white bread, and soon I’m back behind the wheel. Above me, a sky of pure, dazzling blue stretches endlessly ahead. By noon, I catch the first glimpse of the sea. A deep, glittering blue in the distance. My heart leaps. »Yes! Lucy, you’re doing great!« I cheer myself on, grinning.

The Spanish border comes and goes, just as uneventful as the last. And suddenly—I’m in Spain. The landscape shifts around me. At first, pine trees dominate the view, then come the orange groves, the almond trees. On one side, the land rises into high mountains and rolling hills dotted with whitewashed houses. On the other, the vast, shimmering sea stretches into eternity. The highway winds along the coast, guiding me ever southward.

2,100 kilometers later, I reach the Benissa exit. My GPS leads me another twenty minutes toward the coast. I crank down the window, filling my lungs with the thick, salty air. The night is warm and still, the sky above a dark canvas scattered with stars. Then, in the glow of my headlights, the sign appears. Moraira.

A few moments later, the lights of the small town twinkle playfully on the sea’s surface. I have arrived. Lining the streets, the terraces of small restaurants and tavernas are still lively, their final guests lingering over drinks. Waiters clear away empty glasses. A few night owls wander home beneath the soft glow of streetlights. I turn into a narrow, old side street. My GPS confirms: You have reached your destination. I park in front of a small guesthouse.

»Moraira, here I am.« Exhausted, but exhilarated, I step out of the car. The moment my foot touches the ground, a shiver ripples over my skin. Something about this place—about being here—makes the air feel different.

The Arrival

»You don’t see special people—you feel them.«

I had booked the little hotel on the way, the only one with a vacant room. Lucky me. The orange glow of the streetlights filters through the branches of tall pines, casting flickering shadows across the parking lot. A low stone wall in earthy tones encircles the property like a protective embrace. I step through a wooden archway draped in trailing vines, entering a courtyard dotted with orange and lemon trees. Rustic wooden tables stand waiting for guests, their presence dwarfed by an ancient olive tree at the center of it all.

There’s a small annex and a main building, their facades alternating between white stucco and exposed natural stone. Everything here seems rounded, softened by time—except for the angular frames of the walnut-colored wooden windows, from which warm light spills into the night. Above the heavy antique door, a golden-lettered sign bears the hotel’s name. The door groans as I push it open. Inside, the glow of the inn’s dining room and the rich aroma from the kitchen welcome me like old friends. I set my bag down in front of the reception desk. »Hola!« I call out in Spanish, waiting for a response. My gaze wanders through the room. The inn has seen many summers, yet its worn terracotta tiles, dark wooden furniture, and the countless candles flickering in their holders exude a charm of their own.

»Buenas noches, Señora Lucera. Welcome to Moraira.« The voice comes from nowhere, deep and resonant. I spin around, startled, and for the briefest moment, forget to breathe. The most intense eyes I’ve ever seen pierce straight through me. A sensual, almost boyish mouth contrasts sharply with the weathered skin of the older man standing before me. His white-gray hair falls past his shoulders.

»Oh, you speak German,« I say, relieved at the easy communication. He nods with a warm smile. »Did you have a fulfilling journey?« An odd choice of words. Maybe his German isn’t as good as I thought.

»Yes, thank you. The drive was pleasant.«

»I’m glad to hear it,« he replies, handing me a check-in form. I obediently fill it out and receive my room key in return.

»Up the stairs, first door on the left. Take your bag up, and I will prepare you something to eat,« he says in a friendly but firm tone.

»Thank you, but I’m not hungry.«

»Oh, but you should be,« he murmurs before disappearing into the kitchen.

»Great, Lucy. What a start,« I mutter with a smirk. The man is certainly… peculiar. I head upstairs, stopping before a heavy wooden door. Room number three. The number is carved into a small triangular plaque. When I open the door, I’m pleasantly surprised. The room is spacious and inviting. I toss my bag onto the red sofa by the window. I’m exhausted, but disappointing my host doesn’t sit right with me. The night is still warm, so I slip into a light T-shirt and a pair of cut-off jeans. A splash of water on my face, and I hurry back down the small staircase to the dining room.

»Pick any table in the garden. At this hour, you have your choice,« comes his voice from the kitchen.

I settle at the nearest table by the entrance. Above me, the night sky is breathtaking, a vast canopy of stars. Through the treetops, I catch a glimpse of the moon, its light dancing across the sea like a thousand diamonds. The rhythmic chirping of crickets hums through the pines along the street. »Beautiful,« I whisper, absorbing the moment with all my senses.

I’m lost in thought when, suddenly, the table before me is filled with small plates and bowls. The old man must think I haven’t eaten since I left home. Exotic spices perfume the air—sweet as honey, sharp with heat. The vibrant colors of the dishes awaken an unexpected hunger. Last comes a carafe of deep red wine, completing the meal. »Please, enjoy,« he says. Amazed at the variety before me, I manage a simple »Thank you« before taking my first bite.

»Wow. This is incredible,« I say, my mouth full. »And to think I wasn’t even hungry.«

My host plucks a lemon from a nearby tree, inhales its fragrance, and walks toward me. »Once you realize how many choices you have, your appetite comes naturally.«

Another strange turn of phrase. I set down my fork and study him more closely. His movements belong to a man of great age, yet his expression is sharp, alert—youthful, even. Those pale blue eyes seem to see far beyond what is visible.

»Please, sit down,« I say, motioning to the chair across from me. »What should I call you?«

He takes the seat with ease. »People call me Aramis.«

I lift my glass. »People call me Lucy.« I smile at him, amused by this odd little encounter.

»Salud, Lucy,« Aramis toasts. »In Moraira, all pleasant people call each other by first name.«

»I like that. Have you always lived here?«

»No. I was drawn here a few years ago. It was time to set up camp.«

»You don’t strike me as a typical innkeeper.«

»That’s because I’m not. I’ve spent my life serving people in a different way. I am a researcher. An observer of human nature.«

»That sounds mysterious. Can one make a living from that?«

Aramis smiles. »In a way, yes. And you? What do you do with your life?« He’s deflecting, I note. »Do you have a loving family? A fulfilling career?«

A wry chuckle escapes me. »No. Neither. Right now, I’m in freefall, and I can’t see where I’m going to land.«

»Sounds like you could use a flight controller.«

I laugh. »Yeah, you might be right about that.«

»I’d like to offer you my knowledge,« Aramis says. »How much it will help, I can’t say. Expect nothing—but be ready for everything.«

There’s something about him—his presence, his words—that draws me in. Normally, I’m guarded around strangers. But Aramis… there’s something different about him. What could he possibly teach me? I have no idea. But something deep inside tells me I should listen.

»Why not?« I say, meeting his gaze. »After all, I have nothing to lose.«

To Recognize Is to Choose

»Who were you before the world told you who you are?«

What did you mean earlier—about having a choice?«

Aramis takes a slow, measured breath before answering. »Once we understand how the world truly works, we gain the ability to choose. Until then, we are never truly free in our decisions.«

I frown, trying to decipher his words. »What decisions are you talking about?«

»Well, the choice of a partner, a career, how we live. Even how we nourish our body and mind—we don’t make those choices freely. We are unconsciously guided by our conditioning.«

»But I make my own decisions about whom I date or what job I take,« I argue.

»Do you?« Aramis raises an eyebrow. »You decide based on your beliefs. But where do those beliefs come from?«