I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  The image of the maid conjuring water from thin air was burned into my brain like a memory I hadn’t lived so much as absorbed. It didn’t make sense. It shattered everything I thought I knew about reality. And it haunted me—in the best way.

  I had to try it.

  I’d watched her perform the spell over and over. The way her voice flowed into a soft rhythm, the way her hand hovered over the jar, the way that faint blue light shimmered around her palm—it was like a lulby and a miracle at once.

  And it drove me crazy.

  That morning, I sat cross-legged on the pantry floor, bathed in snted rays of sunlight. The stone beneath me was cool, and the faint scent of dried herbs clung to the air. My mother and the maid were outside, hanging undry. The house was quiet. Perfect.

  I exhaled, raised my hand, and whispered the words exactly as I remembered them. Every sylble, every tone.

  Nothing.

  I tried again. And again.

  Still nothing.

  This was my fourth attempt in three days. The chant was right. The timing was right. I had seen it work. So why wasn’t it working for me?

  Maybe… I wasn’t magical after all.

  That thought hit me harder than I expected. If the god had given me nguage, but not magic—what kind of “second chance” was this supposed to be?

  But no. That couldn’t be it. I had to be doing something wrong.

  I rubbed my eyes, thinking it through. If this world ran on magic instead of physics, maybe it wasn’t just about words. Maybe it required something more.

  Intent.

  The maid always looked calm, focused—like she was seeing something in her mind. Not just saying a spell, but imagining it.

  I sat up straighter, raised my hand again, and closed my eyes. As I whispered the chant, I pictured moisture in the air gathering together—cool droplets forming, coalescing into a ball.

  “Solm ve’el nara…”

  A flicker. A pulse.

  My eyes snapped open.

  A single droplet of water floated above my palm.

  I gasped—then colpsed.

  The world spun. My forehead hit the floor. I y there, panting, my chest hollow and my limbs heavy. Whatever I had tapped into—it drained me.

  I slept for hours.

  When I finally woke, I was starving. Only after food and another long nap did I feel even close to normal. My magical energy—because that had to be it—was gone. But slowly, it returned.

  The next day, I tried again. This time, I got a full sphere of water. I was exhausted, but I stayed conscious. A breakthrough.

  That was the start.

  Each morning, I found time to sneak away, to chant and focus and cast. I trained in secret, always pushing a little further—draining my magic to the limit, resting, and repeating.

  Magic, I realized, worked like a muscle. The more I used it, the stronger I became. The water spell stopped knocking me out. Then it stopped exhausting me. Then I could cast it several times in a row without colpsing.

  I began to refine it. The spell that once sputtered and wobbled now floated smooth and still.

  But as I got better, something else changed.

  The maid started to notice.

  “I thought I filled this yesterday…how is it still full ?” she muttered once, eyeing the water jar.

  That was my cue to relocate.

  I moved my training to the guest room. It was perfect: quiet, empty, and had a window that opened into the garden. I could release the water spells out the window, avoiding suspicion.

  There, I trained. Every drop summoned was another step forward.

  Soon, I got bold. I started trying other spells.

  The wind spell came first. The maid used it to dry clothes. A soft swirl of air that spun like a mini-tornado. It took days of mimicry, but eventually, I summoned one of my own.

  I named it: Air Vortex.

  Next came fire.

  My mother sometimes lit the stove or the firepce with a flick of her finger. The fme was tiny—but terrifying. I knew I had to be careful. Fire didn’t forgive mistakes.

  So I practiced sparingly. A wisp of fme. A flicker at best. But I managed it.

  Each spell came easier with time. My magical power grew. Control sharpened. And the spells became bigger

  Then came the real breakthrough.

  One morning, I was practicing as usual. I raised my hand, distracted, not even thinking about the chant—just watching the clouds drift past the window.

  Water formed in my palm.

  No words. No focus. Just will.

  I froze. Then tried again—intentionally this time.

  Again, water appeared.

  No chant. No ritual.

  Just mastery.

  I tested it with the Air Vortex. It worked. Wordless, but real.

  Fire… barely. A flicker. Still unstable. But it happened.

  Wordless casting wasn’t just possible. It was freedom.

  Spells were commands. Chants were keys. But if you knew the door well enough… you didn’t need the key anymore.

  The thought thrilled me. This world… it had rules. And those rules could be bent.

  I stood at the window, letting the water sphere drop outside into the garden. A soft breeze brushed my face, carrying the scent of grass and woodsmoke. I smiled—not out of happiness, but hunger. Not for food. For more.

  This was mine now.

  Not as Haruki.

  As Kenji.

  ****

  Then the seasons shifted.

  Winter crept in. The windows fogged, the hearth burned longer, and the pace of the house changed.

  My training slowed. The guest room was occupied more often. Sneaking away became harder.

  So I paused. Watched. Lived.

  Father stayed home more. There were days when he would start lifting me into the air, ughing as I squealed—real, honest ughter. We sat by the fire, and he told stories. His voice was deep, calming. He spoke of fme kings and star-tamers. I understood the words now—but more than that, I understood the feeling behind them.

  Warmth. Safety. Home.

  Mother—Eleanor—wrapped me in bnkets and watched the snow fall, singing songs that made my chest ache with something I couldn’t name. She called me her little blessing. She looked at me like I was the future.

  One morning, she took my hand and whispered something. I didn’t catch every word, but I didn’t need to.

  Love doesn’t always need transtion.

  Even with grief buried deep, the days weren’t empty.

  Then one day, the rhythm changed.

  I was pying with a wooden block near the stairs when the door burst open. Father’s voice followed, excited and out of breath.

  “They’re coming!” he said. “They said they’re spending New Year with us. It’s been so long… almost four years.”

  Voices dropped to quiet conversation. Mother ughed softly.

  Someone important was coming.

  Someone who hadn’t been here in years.