The Youngest Blue Cellodian: Prologue - A Sidewalk Slam Book.

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Prologue: The Reading Child

Yero was only two years old when he began reading Earth.

Not its texts or transmissions — he read Earth itself. Through the thin resonance veils of the Cellodian Reflection Field, he pressed his hands to the membrane of reality and watched.

At two years old, a Cellodian is not quite solid, not quite sound. They shimmer between form and frequency, their bodies more idea than matter, their thoughts humming in loops no language can hold. They do not cry or crawl — they resonate. Most spend their early cycles learning to hold a single shape or echo a single tone. Their memories form before their bones, and their questions arrive before their names. To be two, in Cellodian terms, is to begin choosing which parts of the infinite to keep.

Earth came to him like a fever-dream of rhythm: erratic, loud, glowing, alive. Its people moved in linear loops, unaware that their time was shaped by sound. They were untrained, untuned — and still, they reached for meaning.

From the Field, Yero watched a small city pulse in the southeastern edge of a continent. Atlanta, they called it. The year: 1997.

That’s where he first felt Jerry.

A nineteen-year-old poet on a skateboard, Jerry moved like someone listening to music only he could hear. Words followed him. Time noticed him. Sometimes — only sometimes — he stepped onto a sidewalk and vanished, just for a breath. And when he returned, the air behind him shimmered like it had been rewritten.

Yero leaned closer.

Through the city haze, three more signatures began to burn. One was David — quiet, brilliant, too smart for the time he lived in. He built circuits out of things meant for toys. Yero sensed that David’s mind would one day bend time itself — though not for himself.

Then came Sophie, skating down sunlit pavement like it was canvas. She moved in arcs that ignored gravity. The world tried to catch up with her, but never could. A future legend, Yero thought. A movement wrapped in a person.

And always, always nearby, was Ruma. Sharp. Curious. She caught stories others didn’t know were unfolding. Her camera wasn’t just glass — it was a promise. Someday, she'd build one of the most powerful media empires Earth would ever see.

The four of them didn’t know they were being watched.
They didn’t know their futures were already forming around them like chords waiting for resolution.

Yero called them The Four Frequencies.

The elders said Earth was too chaotic to learn from — "a premature resonance, not yet worthy of observation." But Yero knew better. He could feel it in Jerry’s movements, in the silence that followed his words, in the way he sometimes disappeared from his own timeline only to return with fire behind his eyes.

Jerry wasn’t just skating.

He was traveling.
And someday, he would face beings across time itself — in battles not of violence, but of verse. Words against eternity.

Yero wasn’t supposed to open the Earthline without a guide.
He did it anyway.

Because when Jerry vanished on that Tuesday afternoon — five seconds gone in the middle of a sidewalk in south Atlanta — Yero felt it in his bones.
Like a note returning to a song that hadn't been written yet.

He pressed both palms to the veil and whispered into the hum:
“I see you.”


The Youngest Blue Cellodian. Chapter 1 a Sidewalk Slam Book is Coming Soon to Time's Library.