Luck sat in his room, staring at the ceiling. The day had left him shaken, his thoughts swirling like a storm. Magic. It felt surreal, so far removed from anything he had ever known. And yet, it was real. He had seen it with his own eyes—the flames in his "father's" hand that effortlessly split a tree in two.
"What the hell is going on?" he muttered softly to himself, running a hand through his hair.
His father's words echoed in his mind: "We thought you needed more time to remember."
What was he supposed to remember? What was it that everyone seemed to know except for him?
His gaze wandered to the window, where the full moon hung over the village. It was quiet outside, the only sound the distant chirping of crickets. But inside him, there was a raging storm.
"Magic…" he whispered again, letting the word roll on his tongue. It felt foreign and yet familiar, as if it belonged to something he had long forgotten.
He couldn't bear to sit still. His head felt as though it might explode. So, he stood, pulled on his boots, and quietly slipped out of the house.
Outside, the air was cool and clear. Luck took a deep breath, feeling his thoughts begin to calm. The path behind the house led back to the small grove where they had chopped wood that morning.
He followed the trail, his footsteps crunching softly on the gravel. The full moon cast enough light to illuminate the way, and the trees, bathed in its silver glow, looked like sentinels of an ancient, forgotten world.
When he reached the spot where his father had summoned fire, he stopped. The remains of the split tree were still there, the edges blackened and smooth like glass. Luck knelt down and touched the wood with his fingertips. It felt warm, as if the fire's heat still lingered.
"How did you do that?" he murmured, as if asking the empty forest.
He clenched his hand into a fist. Part of him wanted to try it himself, to see if he had the same ability. But another part—the part that still refused to accept all of this—held him back.
"It's impossible," he said quietly to himself. "This kind of thing doesn't exist. It can't exist."
And yet, he had seen it. He had felt it.
The next morning, Luck was unusually quiet. He had barely slept, and the few hours he had rested were plagued by disjointed dreams—flames curling around him, voices calling his name, an endless abyss opening beneath him.
"Is everything all right, Luck?" his mother asked at breakfast, her forehead creased with worry.
"Yeah," he answered quickly, avoiding her gaze. "I'm just a little tired."
His father, seated at the other end of the table, gave him a look that seemed to know more than it let on. "Maybe you should get some fresh air today," he suggested. "It does wonders."
Luck only nodded, his head feeling too heavy for anything else.
After breakfast, he pulled on his jacket and stepped outside. The sun warmed his face, but it couldn't chase away the cold that had settled in his chest.
He wandered aimlessly through the village, his thoughts still consumed by what he had seen. The other villagers greeted him warmly, some even waving, but everything felt… off.
He stopped in the marketplace, watching a merchant unload vegetables from a cart. The movement seemed normal, mundane. But then he saw it: the man lifted a crate far too heavy for someone his size. It was as if an invisible force helped him.
Luck shook his head and turned away. Everywhere he looked, the world seemed full of small impossibilities he had never noticed before.
"I'm going crazy," he muttered to himself, burying his face in his hands.
Later that evening, he sat at the table with his family. Dinner was quiet, and Luck felt like a stranger among familiar faces.
Finally, he cleared his throat. "Dad?" he began, the words feeling heavy.
His father looked up from his plate. "Yes, Luck?"
He hesitated before continuing. "The fire… How did you do that? Can… everyone do it?"
His father set his utensils down and leaned back in his chair. His expression was serious, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I told you, almost everyone in this village can use magic. It's nothing special."
"But how… How does it work?" Luck felt his hands clenching into fists under the table. "Why can't I do it?"
His father chuckled softly, but it was a kind laugh, not mocking. "You're overthinking it, son. Magic is something that comes from within, from deep inside you. It's like a muscle you have to train. But if you force it too much, it won't work."
"Can I learn it?" Luck asked, his voice firmer, more determined.
His father smiled. "Of course you can. But everything in its own time. First, you need to understand what magic really is."
Luck nodded slowly. He still had many questions, but for now, he left it at that. Yet deep inside, something burned—a spark waiting to be ignited.