Tears dripped down her cheeks as she cradled her infant son, holding him close as if he might vanish if she loosened her grip. The baby boy gazed up at her with clear, unspoiled eyes, a deep, soulful blue that matched the luster of his dark hair. Tiny teardrops rested on his rosy cheeks, glistening before she brushed them away with a gentle hand.

Despite his mother's soft sobs, the baby did not cry. In the warmth of her arms, he felt secure, comforted by the rhythm of her heartbeat and the steady flow of her affection. Her face, though blurry to his young eyes, seemed to radiate an elegance that broke through his hazy vision.

"Oh, my dear boy…" she whispered, rocking him as tears slid down her cheeks, "I thought I was strong enough to do this…"

More tears fell as she gazed into his glimmering eyes, her heart swelling at the sight of his tiny, delicate fingers wrapping around her thumb. She felt the warmth and innocence of his touch, a sensation that filled her with both love and a deep ache.

"My sweet boy," she choked, tears streaming steadily now as her protective instincts surged within her. She wanted nothing more than to shield him from the world's harshness, to keep him close forever.

"I wish I had more time with you… I wish I could look at your face all day long." She managed a weak smile through her tears as her son gripped her thumb tighter, as though he could understand her sorrow and share in her pain. "I want to see you grow up, see you take your first steps, hear your first words… I want to be there for it all."

A deep ache spread through her chest as she thought of all the moments she would miss, all the memories she would never have with him.

"Live freely, my sweet boy," she murmured softly, "and don't let others' judgments weigh you down. Be brave, and kind, and follow your heart, whether it leads you to many friends or just a few."

As she spoke, a pair of hands appeared, reaching to take the child from her arms. Her heart broke as she resisted, holding him tighter for a moment, knowing she had no choice. Her grip loosened, and as her child was gently pulled from her, her voice trembled.

"No… wait… there's more I want to tell you…"

Her words lingered in the air as her son's small hand slipped from hers. "Vasir kutty, my sweetest boy, my truest love…"

As he was carried away, a tear formed in the baby's eye. It hung there, quivering, before it slid down his cheek.

—

With a shudder, nine-year-old Vasir jolted awake, his heart pounding as he blinked in the morning sunlight streaming through his window. He raised a hand to his cheek, feeling the faint trail of a tear that had dried halfway down his face.

The curtains were drawn open, and his Ammi—his grandmother—stood by the window, hands on her hips, her gray hair glinting in the light.

"Enough sleeping!" she announced. "Get up and get refreshed!"

Rubbing his eyes, Vasir tried to cling to the fragments of the dream. But they slipped away, leaving only a vague sense of warmth and sorrow. As he puzzled over the memory, his dog, Spike, bounded up onto the bed, showering his face with enthusiastic licks.

"Ugh, enough, Spike!" Vasir laughed, pushing the shaggy white dog away.

He scrambled off the bed, bolting out the door and into the cool morning air, where he could finally answer nature's call. Just as he finished, he heard his grandmother's voice calling through the walls.

"Vasirrrr! Did you wet the bed again?"

"No!" he shouted back, his voice frustrated yet resigned. "I keep telling you, Ammi, it wasn't me! Spike slept next to me again!"

Hearing his name, Spike tilted his head, staring up at Vasir's grandmother with his innocent golden eyes. Tabatha chuckled, giving Spike an affectionate pat on the head, well aware of his habit of snuggling up to Vasir and sometimes causing these misunderstandings.

Tabatha, whom Vasir called Ammi, was his only family. Together with Spike, their loyal, wolf-like dog, they lived in a small cottage on the edge of the village. Spike had a wild, almost otherworldly appearance, and his distinctive scent often made villagers uneasy, but to Vasir and Tabatha, he was family.

When Vasir re-entered the house, he found Tabatha in the kitchen, her slight hunch visible as she stood by the stove, preparing breakfast with the ease of someone who had honed her magic for decades. A gentle shimmer of water appeared at her fingertips as she conjured ingredients, and with a wave, she lit the stove with a flicker of fire magic. Chopped vegetables floated from the cutting board and dropped into the pot.

"What's for breakfast, Ammi?" Vasir asked, coming closer.

She turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "Did you wash your hands?"

A jolt ran through him as he realized he hadn't. Without answering, he spun around and placed his hands over the washbasin, concentrating as he tried to summon a ball of water. A single droplet appeared, swelling larger and larger until, with a loud *splash*, it burst, drenching him from head to toe—except for his hands.

Tabatha laughed, her eyes twinkling. "Now that's what I call a perfect way to fail a task. At least your training to build mana reserves is working." She patted him on the head as he sheepishly grinned.

"Having a lot of mana is useless if you can't control it, you know. Look at the mess you made!" she said with a smirk. "Now, clean it up."

His grin quickly faded as he grabbed a cloth to wipe up the puddle.

"Your talent may not be water magic after all, Vasir," she mused thoughtfully, "or perhaps I should train you harder."

The thought of harder training made Vasir shiver. He cleaned up with a pout, mumbling, "I don't think your talent is water magic either, but you can control it perfectly…"

"Oh, really?" she teased. "Are you comparing yourself to someone who's been practicing magic for decades?"

He pouted even more, but his grandmother's rare talent in magic was something he respected deeply. Known as a healer, Tabatha's abilities were well-known in the village, even if her magic intimidated some.

She softened, watching Vasir, her pride growing at the sight of his sharp, observant nature. As he finished drying his hands, she gave them a quick rinse herself, summoning a precise jet of water that she shut off with a flick of her fingers.

Just then, the front door creaked open, and footsteps echoed down the hall. A familiar voice rang out.

"Smells amazing in here! What's for breakfast, Ammi?"

Tabatha chuckled. "That boy has a knack for showing up right as food's ready," she muttered with a smile.

Vasir grinned, rolling his eyes. "Ammi, if you think of him more like Spike, you won't be surprised at all."

She laughed, both of them looking toward the kitchen entrance as their visitor appeared—Raveer, Vasir's closest friend, and their almost-daily breakfast guest.