Days turned into weeks, and still Steele lay motionless on his bed, eyes wide open yet unseeing. The village healers came and went, their magic soothing the physical injuries but unable to rouse the boy from his strange slumber.
Steele's mother, Elowen, sat by his bedside, her face etched with worry. She gently stroked his hair, whispering, "Come back to us, my little one. Please."
Milo hovered nearby, guilt weighing heavily on his young shoulders. "I'm sorry, Mom," he said for the hundredth time. "I should have watched him better."
Elowen reached out, pulling Milo into a tight embrace. "It's not your fault, love. Accidents happen."
But as the days wore on, hope began to fade. The house felt hollow without Steele's laughter, his endless questions, his boundless energy.
Then, one unremarkable afternoon, everything changed.
