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Chapter 4: The Wind's Whisper
The years had passed in a blur of laughter and love for Hayyan, now affectionately nicknamed "Hay" by his mother. His days were filled with the warmth of family, his father's steady presence, and his mother's unending affection. Hayyan's life in the village had been peaceful and content, but beneath that tranquility, he had begun to feel something stir within him.
At the age of eight, Hay had developed a deeper connection with his surroundings. He would often sit quietly, observing the world around him, feeling a sense of harmony with nature that he couldn't quite explain. The wind, the trees, the earth—everything seemed more alive, more vibrant in his mind. It was a sensation that grew stronger with each passing day, as if the world itself was whispering secrets to him, waiting for him to understand.
One hot afternoon, he and his mother were sitting outside, sheltering in the shade of a large oak tree. The summer sun was relentless, and the stillness of the air made the heat almost unbearable. His mother was humming softly beside him, wiping the sweat from her brow, and Hayyan could feel the oppressive warmth pressing down on them.
"Is it always this hot?" Hayyan asked, fanning himself with his small hand.
His mother chuckled, her eyes warm as she looked at him. "In the summer, yes. But it makes us appreciate the cool breeze when it finally comes, doesn't it?"
Hayyan nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. If only there were some wind, he thought, staring up at the sky. The leaves were still, not a breeze in sight. His mind wandered as he wished for the air to move, to stir and cool them. If I had the power to summon the wind, I would make it blow right now.
And then, as if in response to his thoughts, the wind stirred. It wasn't immediate, and it wasn't strong, but Hayyan felt a soft breeze brush against his skin. The leaves above rustled gently, and his mother sighed with relief, closing her eyes as the wind cooled her face.
"Ah, there's the breeze we were waiting for," she said, smiling as she ran her fingers through Hayyan's hair. "The wind always knows when we need it."
Hayyan froze, his heart thudding in his chest. Did I just…? He blinked, his mind racing. The wind had come, almost as though he had called it. But that couldn't be possible, could it?
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Over the next few days, Hayyan couldn't stop thinking about the breeze. Was it a coincidence, or had he somehow willed the wind to blow? He needed to know for sure. So, whenever he had a moment alone, he would sit quietly, focusing his mind, trying to replicate what had happened that day.
"Hay, you've been awfully quiet lately," his mother said one evening as she tucked him into bed. "Is something bothering you?"
Hayyan hesitated, the urge to tell her gnawing at him. But he quickly shook his head. "No, Mama. I'm just… thinking about things."
She smiled softly, brushing the hair from his forehead. "You're growing up so fast. Soon, you'll be as tall as your father, and I won't be able to hold you like this anymore."
Hayyan smiled back, but inside, his mind was spinning with thoughts of the wind. "Mama, do you think… people can do things that others can't? Like… special things?"
His mother tilted her head, curiosity lighting her eyes. "Special things? What do you mean, love?"
"Like… making things happen just by thinking about them," Hayyan said, his voice barely above a whisper.
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Oh, Hay. Only in stories. People don't have that kind of power. But sometimes, if we believe strongly enough, it can feel like we've made something happen."
Hayyan bit his lip, her words making him feel both relieved and confused. He couldn't tell her—not yet. Not until he was sure.
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It took several attempts—many, many failures—but eventually, something clicked. One evening, as the sun began to set and the air grew still again, Hayyan sat alone in the garden behind their house. He closed his eyes, concentrating hard. He pictured the wind in his mind, visualized it swirling around him, imagined the leaves rustling and the cool air touching his skin.
At first, nothing happened. But just as he began to feel frustrated, there it was—a faint gust of wind, barely enough to stir the grass. His eyes shot open, and the breeze died just as quickly as it had come. He sat there, heart pounding in his chest. I can control the wind.
A mix of awe and terror gripped him. This was no ordinary coincidence—he had done it. He had made the wind blow with nothing more than his will and concentration. A power he had never imagined was now at his fingertips.
That night, as his mother kissed him goodnight, she noticed the tension in his face. "Hay, is something wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine, Mama," he said quickly, forcing a smile. "Just… tired."
She studied him for a moment, her eyes softening with concern. "You can tell me anything, you know. No matter what."
Hayyan swallowed hard, the weight of his secret pressing on him. "I know, Mama. I promise, if there's anything… I'll tell you."
She kissed his forehead, her warmth and love making him feel guilty for hiding the truth. But he couldn't tell her—not about this. Not yet.
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From that day on, Hayyan became more careful. He practiced his newfound ability in secret, only when he was certain no one could see him. He quickly learned that it wasn't easy—his control was still shaky, and the wind only came when he focused with every ounce of his concentration. But with each small success, his confidence grew.
One afternoon, as he sat in the shade, his mother noticed the look of deep concentration on his face. "Hay, what are you thinking about?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.
"Nothing," he said quickly, though his heart raced. "Just… wondering if the wind will blow again."
His mother smiled, unaware of the true meaning behind his words. "The wind comes and goes as it pleases. It's a mystery, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Hayyan replied, looking up at the sky. But maybe it's not such a mystery after all.
He discovered that the key lay not just in concentration, but in desire. If he truly wanted the wind to blow, if he could feel it in his heart, the breeze would come. But he had to be careful not to push too hard, or the wind would become erratic, wild, and harder to control. It was like learning to walk all over again—every step filled with uncertainty.
Still, the fear never left him. Every time he summoned the wind, a voice in the back of his mind reminded him of the danger. One mistake, and it's all over. He couldn't afford to be reckless. He couldn't let anyone even suspect what he was capable of.
For now, he was just a boy—a boy with a secret that could change everything. The wind was his to command, but at what cost?