Mica was the kind of child who slipped through the world unnoticed.
Not because he wasn't bright, or kind, or worth noticing. But because the world rarely paused long enough to look at someone like him. He was quiet which was not by choice, but by necessity. Life had taught him early that noise drew attention, and attention came with questions he didn't have the strength to answer.
The house he grew up in wasn't small, but neither was it warm. His parents were more like distant colleagues. Cordial, efficient, and always busy. Their lives were dictated by spreadsheets, shifts, and deadlines. There were no bedtime stories. No shared dinners. Just the occasional knock on his door to remind him about his chores or appointments. He didn't think they were bad people. Just tired. Just distracted.
And he wasn't resented, exactly. But he was definitely inconvenient. Something that demanded time they never had.
So, Mica disappeared into his own world. Quietly. Piece by piece.
He turned inward, folding his thoughts into paper, into ink. Books became his sanctuary, his teachers, his friends. He read until his vision blurred, until the words melted together into dreams. He sketched strange creatures in the corners of his notebooks—dragons with sorrowful eyes, warriors carved from shadow, cities built on clouds. Entire worlds bloomed beneath the tip of his pencil. He escaped into those pages, and for a while, he could pretend he belonged somewhere.
At school, he didn't speak unless spoken to. He wasn't bullied, but he wasn't included either. People forgot he was there until roll call. His presence was like background static—there, but ignorable.
When he was sixteen, he found Stranger Than Fiction.
It was a narrow, timeworn bookstore nestled between a coffee shop and a laundromat that always smelled like burnt detergent. The sign outside was faded, the bell above the door crooked. But inside, it felt like stepping into the past. Dusty hardwood floors. Shelves groaning with forgotten epics. Warm lamplight pooling over corners stacked with poetry.
The store owner was a soft-spoken widow named Mrs. Adler. She hired Mica without much fuss. No long interview, just a simple, "Can you alphabetize?" followed by, "Good. You start Monday."
Of course he loved it there.
He dusted the shelves. Recommended titles to quiet readers. Read during the long hours when no one came. Sometimes he'd talk to Mrs. Adler about old myths, about stories that outlived the people who wrote them. She'd smile gently and say, "Books remember us, even when no one else does."
Mica lived simply. He saved his money. Drank too much coffee. Ate too many frozen dinners. But he never complained. In his quiet little world, there was order. Routine. Peace.
And maybe.. Just maybe he thought he'd find more someday. A friend. A partner. A story of his own to live.
But that night never came.
It was raining the night Mica died.
He had just locked up the shop. The key was still cold in his hand, his umbrella forgotten behind the register. The streetlights flickered above him, casting his long shadow down the empty sidewalk. He pulled his jacket tighter, the cold rain soaking through the fabric in seconds.
He didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.
A man stepped out from the alleyway, tall, masked, and shaking. A knife glinted beneath the streetlamp, sharp and angry.
"Give me your wallet!" the man demanded.
Mica's hands moved automatically in response. No defiance. No hesitation. He pulled it from his coat pocket and held it out towards him.
"There's not much in it," he said softly.
The man took it.
Then stabbed him anyway.
Once. A sharp bloom of pain in his side.
Twice. Air fleeing his lungs.
A third time, deeper. Final.
Mica fell backward, his legs folding beneath him. He hit the pavement hard, the cold air biting through his spine. Rain poured from the sky, mixing with the blood that spread beneath him. His fingers curled uselessly. His chest heaved once, then again, a shallow, rattling gasp.
No one was there.
The street was empty. He was going to die alone.
He wanted to scream. To ask why. To call out to someone—anyone.
But all that left his lips was a broken breath.
In those last flickering moments, Mica didn't think about vengeance.
He thought about the novels he had never finished. The love he never confessed. The trips he never took. He thought about sitting in the bookstore window with a cup of tea and a friend beside him. He thought about children, laughter, quiet evenings filled with light.
"I wanted more…" he whispered.
But there was no one to hear him.
And with that, Mica died alone.
His final breath unraveled like a thread pulled from the edge of a worn sweater.
It floated, unseen, past the veil between worlds.
And somewhere far from rain and fear and alleys, that thread found soil.
And took root beneath the World Tree.
His final breath unraveled like a thread pulled from the edge of a worn sweater.
It floated, unseen, past the veil between worlds.
And somewhere far from rain and fear and alleys, that thread found soil.
And took root beneath the World Tree.
In the heart of Elaranwyn, where the forest breathes with the rhythm of ancient lullabies and time moves like drifting mist, a boy with silver hair sat cross-legged on a bed of moss. The stone beneath him, veined with faint luminescence, pulsed in quiet harmony with the World Tree's roots that loomed above him.
He was young. No more than ten winters by elven reckoning, but his eyes said differently. They bore the stillness of someone who had known silence far too long, and the weight of a life lived once before.
In his hands, a book older than nations. Bound in black leather, its corners reinforced with silver vine work, its pages glowing with delicate blue runes. They danced as he read them, reshaping with every turn, whispering meanings only the children of the ancient forest could understand. The language of the elves, alive and patient. It hummed to him like a lullaby, and he answered with a soft murmur of syllables once foreign and now familiar.
His name in this life was Tear.
But once, he had been called Mica. Someone who made little impact in his life, a soul of gentle habits. He had lived among metal towers and flickering screens, sold stories to strangers from behind a bookstore counter. He had dreamed quietly, loved distantly, and died alone on a rainy street.
The moment his soul slipped free of its human vessel, it was caught by something primeval. Ancient beyond language. Yggdrasil. The World Tree. Keeper of memory. Keeper of lost souls.
His was given a new form. New blood. New life.
Born beneath the twilight canopy of Elaranwyn, cradled in the roots of the divine tree, Tear was a gift the village had not expected. A blessing whispered into the wind. His new parents, kind and radiant, took him in with reverence. His mother, all gentleness and song. His father, stern and steady like the oaks he carved.
They called him precious. They called him miracle. A far-cry from his previous life as Mica.
Tear still remembered.
Not names, not faces, but ache. Longing. That suffocating weight of what-ifs. His death had been quiet, and his life before it quieter still. He had not shouted at the world. He had not chased greatness. He had only survived in silence. That was his only regret.
And regret, even in a new body, still lingered like blade in bone.
Now, beneath the boughs of the World Tree, he read and read. Studied and meditated. Not because he was told to, but because something in him refused to settle for any less.
'Old habits die hard,' he thought. The forest was paradise. The village was peace. But peace without purpose had never satisfied him for very long.
He looked out over the treetops, where golden light streamed between canopies like strands of heaven's hair. Birds with crystal plumage sang songs the wind carried into the clouds. Below, the roots of the World Tree pulsed with stored memories; souls of past elves returning to be remembered.
And still, his chest ached. He dreamed of the outside world. He dreamed of making his exploring, of making a name for himself.
That night, after supper beneath the stars, he told his parents his demands.
"I want to leave." he said. His voice did not waver.
His mother's spoon stopped halfway to her lips. His father's eyes darkened with worry. For a long moment, only the crickets dared speak.
"You are young," his mother finally said, softly. "Just eleven winters old.. The world beyond the forest is cruel and strange. Full of savages and demons. You are safe here, Tear. You are home."
He nodded. "I know. But something inside me won't let me stay. There's more out there. Something I need to see. Or find."
"Even if it kills you?" his father asked.
He hesitated. Then nodded again. "Even then."
The fire crackled between them. His father rose, stepped around the flames, and placed a strong hand on his shoulder.
"Then you must earn the right, as all those before you once did. You will face the Trial of Legel. Alone. If you pass, the elders of Elaranwyn will recognize your path."
Tear bowed his head. "I accept."
They didn't know he had already begun.
He had spent hours in secret at the Library of Udun, hidden beneath the roots of the ancient hills, where the keepers never questioned a boy who came to study. The runes had sung to him the way stories once had in his previous. He had traced glyphs in the air, practiced silent chants until his voice rang with resonance. Magic called to him like an old friend. It wasn't just instinct but memory, reborn through the blood of his elven ancestry.
Soon, he would face his trial. The forest would test him. The spirits would watch.
And if he passed, he would walk the path beyond the trees.
Because this time, Tear would not be forgotten. This time, he would not fade into obscurity and silence.
This time… he would live his life on his own terms.