The barn loomed large against the fading sunlight, its collapsed roof a testament to the storm that had swept through the village the previous week. Darian stood with Thad, Mira, and a handful of other villagers, preparing to lift the heavy beams that had caved in.
"Think you can handle it?" Thad teased, handing Darian a pair of gloves.
"Not without you showing off first," Darian replied, earning a laugh from the group.
As they worked, sweat dripping down their faces, one of the beams shifted precariously. Darian reached out instinctively to steady it, but the weight was too much. He felt the strain in his muscles, the ache in his bones—until, suddenly, the beam lifted as if it weighed nothing at all.
Gasps echoed around him.
"Did you see that?" Mira whispered, her eyes wide. Darian, usually more comfortable tinkering with his inventions than lifting heavy timber, felt a strange lightness in his chest, a feeling that was far removed from the usual ache of exertion.
"It's just adrenaline," Thad said quickly, though his expression was anything but convinced.
Darian stepped back, his heart pounding. He stared at his hands, flexing his fingers as if they belonged to someone else.
That night, alone in his workshop, Darian tried to replicate the moment. He prayed silently for a bit of luck, knowing deep down it was impossible. He wasn't strong. Lifting that beam... it had defied logic. But hope, a stubborn weed, wouldn't let him give up. He braced himself, muscles trembling, and tried to lift the heavy anvil. It wouldn't budge. Disappointment washed over him, heavy and cold. Had it been a trick of the light, a fleeting burst of strength born from fear? He looked at his hands, more used to delicate tools than heavy lifting. The mystery lingered, a seed of doubt planted deep within him.