Echoes from the Depths

 The underground was never a place for the weak. In the deepest layers of the city, where the air grew heavy and the silence oppressive, survival was a daily challenge.

 There were no promises of freedom, let alone success. Everyone was trapped in an endless cycle of grueling work, unreachable dreams, and hopes that withered before they could even bloom.

 The castes defined the life of every individual in the underground, inherited at birth like an inescapable burden. The only hope of climbing higher was the Selection Process, open only to those turning twenty that year. But this hope, distant and elusive, rarely materialized.

 Divided into six castes, the underground world was sustained by predetermined roles. The higher the caste, the better the living conditions and the greater the privileges. At the top were the First and Second Castes, living closer to the surface, home to leaders, scientists, and the knowledgeable elite. At the other extreme, in the deepest, darkest recesses, the Sixth Caste toiled in mining and energy production, sustaining the system at the cost of their own lives.

 In the middle of this system was the Fifth Caste, where Helena lived, playing a vital yet invisible role. Farmers, fishermen, and animal caretakers, they ensured the upper castes never faced hunger, though their own resources were scarce. Here, synthetic lights replaced the absent sun, and chemical fertilizers were the only hope for keeping crops alive in barren soil.

 Helena had long grown accustomed to this reality. The underground was all she knew, and the repetitive, exhausting daily grind left no room for greater dreams. The rules were clear: adapt or succumb to despair.

 That day, like every other, the sound of the clock echoed through the corridors, marking the start of yet another workday. The dim, yellow lights flickered on, illuminating the gray hallways and the concrete walls that framed Helena's world.

 She got up, slipped on her worn shoes, and put on her faded jacket before casting a brief glance through the small window in her room. The view was always the same: a row of simple, identical houses, enclosed by the towering walls of the Fifth Caste. Outside, workers were already moving, carrying tools or herding small livestock.

 In the kitchen, her mother, Mira, stood holding a cup of coffee. The strong aroma filled the tiny space.

 "You're going to trip over something rushing around like that," Mira warned with a half-smile, watching her daughter grab a slice of bread and stuff it into her mouth.

 "Planting day. Can't be late!" Helena replied, already heading for the door.

 "Remember what I told you, Helena…" Mira began, but her words were drowned out by the sound of the door closing.

 Helena stepped out onto the streets of the caste, hands buried in her jacket pockets. The dense air carried a metallic smell that never disappeared, a constant reminder of the underground's harsh conditions. She passed hurried neighbors, nodding absentmindedly at a few familiar faces.

 She made her way to the farming fields, which were nothing more than vast greenhouses lit by artificial lamps attempting to mimic sunlight. The work there was tough and often thankless. As she adjusted her tools to start the day, she overheard murmurs from a nearby group.

 "They've started talking about this year's Selection Process," said an older woman, her face lined with years of hardship. "Registration opens in two weeks."

 Helena tried to ignore the conversation but couldn't help the spark of curiosity it ignited. Like everyone in the Fifth Caste, she'd heard stories of people who had tried and failed. The few who succeeded were never seen again, as if the system erased their stories entirely.

 "It's a waste of time," muttered a young man beside her. "They only pick those already at the top, the ones they can control."

 Helena didn't respond, but unease stirred within her. Though skeptical, the thought of attempting the Selection Process had never completely left her mind. She knew the odds were nearly impossible, but she couldn't help wondering: What if?

 As the day wore on, the chatter about the Process seemed to linger in the air, a constant reminder of the few options available to escape their predetermined fate.

 Helena glanced up at the artificial sky of the greenhouses and thought about what her mother would say if she knew she was considering signing up. After all, the whispers of the underground were never just murmurs… Sometimes, they were calls to something greater.