Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.
Albert Camus:
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How long the siege lasted, nobody could say. Minutes? Hours? Time itself seemed to lose meaning amidst the chaos.
But the barrier remained unshaken.
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As the boy woke up from his slumber, the room seemed to ignite with light, chasing away the shadows. He yawned, stretching lazily.
How long did he sleep…? Fuck do I know.
He was still sprawled on the bed, clearly in no mood to get up. But alas—no rest for the wicked.
With a groan of reluctance, he finally sat up.
Truly, this bed's fault, he mused. It's this bed's damn fault I slept so well.
Yep, classic blame-shifting. Like a true kindred spirit—no matter how long you sleep, you refuse to blame yourself.
The bed?
Clearly the real villain here. Shameful.
Rolling on the bed, he still didn't got up.
Oh, and clothes? No, he didn't take any off before sleeping. Like he needed to.
But after sometime, he got off the bed, and he stretched.
"Aaaahaaaa," he sighed, releasing the tension coiled deep within his muscles, the sound escaping him in one long, unhurried breath.
In the center of the room, the boy stood—still clad in the same clothes as before. A nightgown? Hardly. As if they'd fit him anyway.
His body unwound slowly, each motion deliberate, carrying the weight of hours spent in deep, undisturbed slumber. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, grounding himself as though roots were digging into the unseen earth beneath the cathedral floor.
Raising his arms skyward, his fingertips brushed lazily toward the ceiling, as if trying to capture something just out of reach. His back arched, and he drew in a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs and reinvigorating him from within. Every fiber of his body seemed to loosen—unraveling like tightly wound string given sudden release.
His chin tilted upward, his neck rolling back in a slow, fluid motion, while his eyes slipped shut. Light pooled softly across his face, illuminating the faint traces of fatigue etched into his features. Then, with a heavy exhale, his arms fell slowly to his sides—controlled, deliberate, like leaves floating gently to the ground.
With seamless ease, he folded forward, his spine curving like the graceful arc of an ancient bow. His hands dangled loosely toward the floor, fingertips grazing the surface—or just shy of it—while his shoulders sagged under the weight of burdens unseen. He swayed gently, the motion hypnotic, as though responding to some primal, meditative rhythm only he could hear.
The room held its breath. It was still, serene. Only the sound of his steady breathing cut through the silence, accompanied by the faint creak of wooden boards beneath his shifting weight.
For a moment, the world itself seemed to pause.
Here, in this quiet ritual of awakening, his dormant body came alive. Limber, refreshed, and ready, he hummed with subtle energy. Whatever the day had in store for him, it no longer mattered.
He was alive again.
He was ready to start his day when his gaze landed on the kitchen.
Wait—there's a kitchen? He hadn't even noticed it last night.
As he approached, the space seemed to hum with its own quiet life, a warmth radiating from the massive stone hearth that anchored the room. Inside, flames crackled softly, their golden light dancing across an intricately carved mantle adorned with ancient runes. The symbols pulsed faintly, responding as though cooking itself were a kind of magic.
The walls were a patchwork of weathered stone and aged timber beams, their surfaces heavy with the whispers of long-forgotten histories. Softly glowing moss clung to the cracks and crevices, its pale green luminescence driving away the shadows that lingered in the corners.
From the ceiling, cast-iron pans and polished copper pots hung in orderly rows like silent sentinels of the room. A few swayed gently, though there was no wind—unless one counted the mischievous spirits that might inhabit a place like this. Nearby, a floating ladle dipped itself lazily into a cauldron simmering on the stove, giving the contents an idle stir before floating back into position.
At the center of the room stood a long wooden table—rugged and uneven, as though hand-carved by a master who valued function over beauty. Its surface was strewn with produce that defied logic: enormous berries that gleamed like gemstones, root vegetables that thrummed faintly when touched, and steaming loaves of bread that smelled as though they'd just emerged from an ancient oven.
The shelves lining the walls were packed with glass jars, each holding something stranger than the last. Powders that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Crimson leaves that twitched now and again, as if protesting their captivity. Bottles of blue liquid bubbled softly under their corked lids, while some jars housed tiny, glowing creatures flitting about like fireflies—casting ripples of pale light onto the shelves and floor.
The stove, a relic of another age, dominated one wall. Forged from blackened iron and perched on clawed feet, it looked like a sleeping beast. The fire within snapped playfully, spitting out the occasional spark that twisted momentarily into the shape of a bird, a lizard, or some unnameable creature before vanishing. Above it, a spiraled chimney pipe twisted upward like the tail of a dragon, faint streams of smoke curling into delicate, fluttering shapes as they rose.
On the nearby counter, an old brass teapot gave a soft, melodic whistle. But instead of steam, intricate shapes—birds, butterflies, even delicate flowers—drifted lazily into the air before dissolving like morning mist. Beside the teapot, a battered recipe book sat open. Its pages turned on their own, rustling softly as glowing script appeared and vanished across its surface. The words felt alive, whispering secrets meant only for those who cared to listen.
In the far corner, an enchanted broom swept idly across the wooden floor, its bristles tapping in slow rhythm, as though deep in thought or quiet conversation with the ground beneath it.
At the back of the room, a circular stained-glass window dominated the wall. Sunlight poured through it in fractured beams, scattering kaleidoscopic patterns across the floor. The shapes shifted subtly, forming runes and symbols that flickered and faded as though alive. If one stared long enough, shadows of twisting tendrils darted past the glass—suggesting that this window might not just be a window at all. A portal, perhaps. Or something far stranger.
"Beautiful," the boy whispered, the word slipping from his lips before he realized he'd spoken.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, soaking it all in. This kitchen—this place—was more than what it seemed. It wasn't just a room; it was a living world unto itself, brimming with untapped magic, waiting to be explored.
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In the enchanted kitchen, a young boy stands alone at the weathered wooden counter, sleeves rolled high as though bracing for battle. He's no older than Fourteen, with unruly brown hair that curls just above his ears and a dusting of flour across his nose. His eyes—bright and determined—betray the quiet focus of someone far older, a prodigy in the art of cooking… though not without mishaps.
The room, usually patient and watchful, seems a little restless without the steady hand of an elder. The enchanted ladle hovers just out of reach, twitching nervously as if unsure whether to help or scold. The hearth fire flickers unevenly, snapping in protest when he tosses a handful of salt too close, causing a small puff of sparks to explode like a sneeze.
On the countertop before him sits a basket of strange blue eggs, their sapphire shells shimmering faintly under the soft glow of the kitchen's runes. The boy picks one up, frowning in concentration as though the egg might slip away at any moment. "Alright," he mutters to himself, his voice confident but low, as though afraid to disturb the room. "You're just an egg. I've done this a hundred times."
He taps it on the edge of a cast-iron skillet—a little too hard. Crack! The yolk and whites splatter wildly, half landing in the pan, the other half dribbling down the counter in shimmering streaks. "Ugh! No, no, no!" He groans, grabbing a rag to mop up the mess. As he cleans, the empty eggshell lets out a soft whistle, almost as if mocking him, before it disintegrates into fine blue dust that floats away.
The boy glares at it. "Yeah, well, you're weird anyway."
He tries again, cracking another blue egg with exaggerated care. This time, it lands perfectly in the skillet, the yolk gleaming golden like captured sunlight. Satisfied, he grins—just a little too smug—before realizing he forgot to oil the pan. The egg begins to stick, hissing angrily as smoke curls upward.
"Great," he mutters, grabbing a wooden spatula and scraping frantically. Bits of egg tear apart, leaving a mangled mess that looks far from perfect. Frustrated, he plops the result onto a rough ceramic plate and stares at it. "It's fine. It's edible. That's what matters."
The kitchen doesn't seem to agree. The enchanted ladle taps against the edge of a pot, like a teacher rapping its ruler against a desk. The fire in the hearth flares for a moment, almost snorting in disapproval, while the mossy glow along the stone walls dims slightly, as if sharing in the disappointment.
The boy throws up his hands. "Oh, come on! It tastes like a normal egg!" he shouts to the room, as if daring the kitchen to argue. He grabs a fork, digs in, and chews defiantly. "See? Totally normal."
The kitchen settles, as though humoring him. The stained-glass window spills quiet streams of colored light across the boy's face, making his expression soften. Despite the mess and mistakes, there's still a kind of magic in the air—the soft hum of the kitchen alive around him, observing but not unkind. He exhales, a little sheepish now.
"Alright. Someday, I'll get it perfect." He says this to no one, but the floating ladle pauses midair as if nodding. A corner of his mouth quirked into a sly grin, but instead of cleaning the kitchen, he bolted for the door.
No point sticking around—he had a journey waiting.
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