I'm Leo Asher, and I'm normal.
If you asked me to describe myself, I'd probably shrug, maybe give you a small smile, and say, "I'm just a kid, you know?" That's really all there is to it. I'm sixteen. I live in a quiet town where the biggest drama is when the bakery runs out of croissants. My days are predictable, my routines are simple, and my life is…ordinary.
And honestly? I like it that way.
My mornings start the same every day. I wake up to the sound of my alarm—a faint, buzzing hum that's annoying enough to drag me out of my dreams but not loud enough to make me want to throw it out the window. My room is always messy in an organized kind of way. Books stacked in uneven piles, loose sheets of music scattered on my desk, and flower arrangements sitting in mismatched vases because, well, flowers make everything better.
Downstairs, the smell of coffee greets me before I even hit the last step. Mom's usually at the counter, flipping through a magazine or scrolling on her tablet. Dad's at the table, pen in hand, working on his daily crossword puzzle. He likes to hum while he does it—little snippets of old songs that he can never remember the words to. It's our version of peace.
Breakfast is never fancy. Toast, scrambled eggs, maybe some jam. I like the routine of it, the steadiness. I know exactly how the day will go: school, then home, then a few hours with my guitar or my books or my flowers. It's simple, it's boring, and it's mine.
School is…fine. I'm not the class clown or the star athlete. I'm not the kid everyone looks up to, but I'm not invisible either. I've got my group—Tommy, Ava, and Rachel. We're the kind of friends who don't need to talk every second but just kind of get each other.
Tommy's always cracking jokes, the kind that make you groan but laugh anyway. Ava's the bookworm, her nose buried in a novel even during lunch. Rachel's the athlete, constantly dragging us into impromptu soccer games that she always wins. Together, we're a little mismatched but comfortable, like an old pair of sneakers you never want to throw away.
After school, I head to Blossom & Tune. It's this tiny shop downtown that somehow manages to sell flowers and musical instruments in the same space. Mrs. Calloway, the owner, says it's because music and flowers are both forms of art. I'm not sure I entirely get it, but I love the place anyway.
The shop smells like roses and varnish, a mix that shouldn't work but does. The walls are lined with guitars, violins, and shelves full of bouquets. There's something calming about arranging flowers or tuning an old guitar until it sounds just right. It's like putting pieces of the world back together, one petal or one string at a time.
Mrs. Calloway's always telling me stories—wild ones about her "glory days" that feel too big for someone who spends her afternoons knitting behind the counter. I don't know how much of it is true, but it's nice to listen.
The best part of my day, though, is when I'm alone in my room. That's where the magic happens—not literal magic, of course, just the kind that feels like it.
I've got this old guitar I saved up for years to buy. It's nothing fancy, but it's mine. I'll sit on my bed and strum chords for hours, losing myself in the music. Sometimes I'll hum a tune, other times I'll make up lyrics. It's not about being good; it's about feeling alive.
Then there are the flowers. I don't remember when I started loving them, but they've always been there—vibrant, fragile, and perfect. I like arranging them, pairing colors and shapes until they look just right. It's a kind of quiet art, one that doesn't need an audience.
And books—don't get me started on books. I read everything: poetry, fantasy, biographies. They're my escape, my way of stepping into someone else's world when mine feels too small.
I guess what I'm saying is, my life is a patchwork of little joys. Nothing big or extraordinary, just the kind of things that make you feel warm inside.But lately, there's been…something.
It's hard to explain. Little moments that feel off, like the world hiccupping in the middle of its song. Like last week, when I was walking home from school, and this gust of wind came out of nowhere. It swirled around me, picking up petals from the trees, and for a second, they formed a perfect circle before falling.
Or the time I was playing my guitar, and it sounded like someone else was playing along with me. There was this echo, this harmony, like the music was alive. I told myself it was just in my head, but it felt real.
I don't know what to make of it, so I've been ignoring it. Normal is safe. Normal is good.
But then, everything changed.
It was a Tuesday, just another regular day. I was in my room, sketching a new flower arrangement. The afternoon light was soft, spilling through the window in golden streaks. I was humming a tune under my breath, my pencil scratching against the paper.
And then it happened.
The light shifted. At first, I thought it was a cloud passing over the sun, but it wasn't that. The golden glow deepened, turning into this rich, molten amber. The air felt heavier, charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm.
Then came the sound—whispers, faint and distant, like a breeze moving through a forest. They grew louder, more insistent, until it felt like they were all around me.I froze. My pencil dropped to the floor.
And then, with a flash so bright it made my eyes water, everything went still.
When I looked up, there was a symbol glowing on my wall: a coiled snake wrapped around a crescent moon. It pulsed softly, like it was alive.
And then, I heard it. A voice, deep and resonant, echoing in my head and in the room all at once.
"Leo Asher, you have been chosen."
And just like that, my normal life unraveled.