Albert paused mid-sentence, fingers hovering above the keyboard. The document blinked at him - Chapter 9, nearly finished. Outside, the rain drummed gently against the windowpane, steady and patient, like it had all the time in the world.
His coffee was cold again.
He sighed, then chuckled at himself. A small flick of the wrist, an awkward whisper, "calor minor" and the mug steamed faintly, the scent of overbrewed beans curling into the air.
It was the only spell he'd ever truly mastered.
Ten years since magic arrived, and still he fumbled with mind-patterns like a child trying to play piano with mittens. He'd tried, of course. Took a course. Read the books. Even bought one of those overpriced wands that promised "channel clarity." But magic remained, for him, just out of reach - like trying to remember a dream from years ago. The harder he thought about it, the more it slipped away.
And maybe that was the point.
Everyone he'd interviewed, every caster he'd studied, even the so-called experts - they all described it differently. To some, it felt like breathing. To others, solving a puzzle blindfolded. For a few, it came in dreams, in whispers, in pain. No one understood magic. Not really.
And yet, it was here. In schools, in cities, in tragedy and triumph. It was a fact now. Like weather. Or gravity. Or love.
Albert sipped his coffee and frowned. Too hot.
He leaned back, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the blinking cursor again.
Maybe we weren't meant to understand it, he typed slowly. Maybe magic isn't a question to be answered, but a mirror. One that shows us not what we want to see - but who we are when the rules change.
He saved the file.
Then made a mental note to stop letting his coffee go cold.