Han-woo stirred again, tiny fists twitching, eyelids half-lifted. The world had weight tonight, heavier than usual, yet somehow different. The currents brushing against him were no longer just pressure, no longer just air bending strangely—they throbbed.
A flicker ran through his limbs, faint and foreign, like a pulse in the floorboards themselves. His chest rose sharply, then fell, tiny breaths catching in surprise. He could feel it as a rhythm, a vibration under his skin that had a pattern, almost a voice.
The colors of his dream—the spirals and threads of light—shifted suddenly, bending closer to him. They shimmered with a faint warmth he recognized in the marrow of his bones, though he could not name it.
Something deeper stirred in him, a sensation both terrifying and mesmerizing. It pressed against his tiny muscles, his fragile chest, his helpless limbs. He could not move toward it, could not shape it, could not call it by name—but he knew, in a way only instinct could know, that this was alive.
His mother's soft hum reverberated through the room, folding the currents of air around him once more. The shimmer seemed to pulse in time with her breath, bending toward him as if drawn by her care.
Tiny hands twitched, reaching into the gray. His mind could not understand what he sought, could not name the invisible force brushing his body. Yet, in the faintest way, he felt connection—a fragile tether between the color-thread currents, the rhythm in his body, and the warmth pressing from outside.
And in that fleeting, overwhelming moment, something deep inside whispered:
This… is Qi.
Not a word he could speak. Not a force he could control. Only a spark of awareness, flaring inside a body too small to act, too tiny to comprehend. But it was there, undeniable, pressing into him, waiting, patient.
Han-woo's eyelids drooped again, half-closing over the shimmer. His fists relaxed, though the rhythm of Qi lingered, brushing the edges of his awareness. The gray of the world pressed close, but now it carried something new—a pulse, a whisper, a thread of life that would shape him.
And though he was small, helpless, and incapable of understanding, a seed had been planted.
The shimmer pulsed again, faint, teasing, circling the edges of his tiny body. It pressed lightly against his chest, brushed the tips of his fingers, traced across the fragile skin of his cheeks. Han-woo could not move toward it with purpose, could not grasp or name it—but he felt its rhythm, a vibration that seemed alive, as though it existed for him alone.
A low hum accompanied it, soft and resonant. Not sound exactly, not yet, but a sensation that ran through the air and the floorboards, curling into his tiny limbs. Each twitch of his hands, each small kick of his legs, made the pulse bend and fold in response, like threads of light twisting to follow a child who did not understand.
His mother shifted beside him, gentle and deliberate. Even in his half-dreaming state, he felt the warmth of her care pressing through the currents. The shimmer bent toward her touch, then toward him again, as if guided, protected. A faint tether seemed to form: the threads of Qi brushing him, softened, folded by the invisible hands of guardians he could not yet see or comprehend.
His father's shadow loomed briefly at the doorway, and Han-woo sensed the subtle change in the rhythm. The pulse tightened, as though wary, and then relaxed again. The infant's mind could not reason, could not form words, but the presence of the two adults shaped the currents around him, folding the energy gently over his helpless body.
Colors flashed in fragments: pale blues, golds, faint greens that bent and swirled without pattern. They were frightening and beautiful all at once, leaving tiny shivers along his spine. The shimmer pressed closer, brushing along his chest, around his wrists, teasing the tips of his toes. Every pulse made his heart stutter in surprise, his tiny mouth parting in a soundless gasp.
He could not move toward it, could not hold it, could not even call it his own. Yet the sensation left an imprint in the hollows of his mind, something deep and unnameable: the first awareness that he was alive in a world that responded to him.
His mother hummed again, soft and low. The currents twisted, dancing in tandem with her voice. Han-woo felt a pull, a warmth threading from her to him through the shimmer, a quiet tether that made the overwhelming pulses bearable, even gentle. Without understanding, he clung to it in instinctual trust, tiny hands twitching as if reaching for safety itself.
The dream-threads of color shimmered, pulsed, faded, then returned. The outside rhythms—the scrape of sandals, the faint clash of wood, distant commands—interacted with the currents around him, bending the invisible Qi to a fragile, delicate harmony. Even in helplessness, even in fear, Han-woo felt the world shaping him softly, insistently, though he could not yet comprehend the truth of it.
And as the infant drifted between sleep and half-awareness, a quiet seed formed: the knowledge that this force, this shimmer, this pulse… was real. And that though he could not act, he was already tied to it, even now, even in helpless infancy.
The currents brushed again, teasing along his chest, fingers, and toes. This time, Han-woo's tiny hands twitched differently—less random, less reflexive. When the shimmer bent closer, following the rhythm of his mother's hum, his fists flexed and opened in subtle imitation, as if the threads themselves had whispered a silent instruction.
His legs kicked softly, almost in rhythm with the pulse of the currents. Not purposeful—he could not control it—but a faint recognition stirred. A tiny, instinctive echo in his muscles and nerves responded to the presence, bending toward it without thought.
Colors swirled faster now, faintly reacting to the shifts in his twitching hands. Spirals of pale light wrapped around his small body, brushing along the arms and legs. Each flicker made him startle, his lips parting, eyes half-opening, yet when he moved, the shimmer seemed to follow and mirror him.
The mother hummed again, gently adjusting his position. Even this small, unconscious motion caused the currents to bend toward him, as if acknowledging the tiniest spark of instinctive response. He felt the connection, but it was not understanding—more like a whisper along the edges of sensation: move, react, follow the rhythm, it is there.
His tiny chest rose faster. Each breath aligned subtly with the pulse of the unseen energy. The faintest flicker of awareness pressed against him, like a shadow at the edge of thought. He could not name it. He could not control it. Yet some part of him—the seed of the old gray self mingled with this new infant body—felt that the currents listened to him, even if he did not listen to them.
And so, in his helplessness, a first connection formed. Not conscious, not deliberate, but alive. The pulse of Qi brushed him. He flexed, twitched, responded. The threads swirled closer, bending toward the faint sparks of instinct that had begun to stir.
For the first time, Han-woo was not only touched by the currents—he had begun, in the smallest, most primitive way, to touch back.