When you turn ten in Tirna, the whole village acts like you've just joined some secret club.Neighbors ruffle your hair, the baker gives you a sweet bun "on the house," and Master Havel lets you skip your writing drills for a day. Everyone smiles, as if the number itself makes you taller.
It didn't make me feel taller. It made me aware.Ten years. Ten years in this borrowed life, and the memories of the other two had finally stopped feeling like dreams. I could separate them now: the dull ache of the man who died in the hospital, and the sharp, cold precision of the magus called Gray. Both ghosts watched from behind my eyes, quiet but present.
Mother's gift was a simple one—a new cloak dyed sea-gray, light enough for travel, though I rarely left the village."Every wanderer needs a good cloak," she said, fastening the clasp beneath my chin."I'm not a wanderer," I protested."Not yet," she replied, smiling. "But I think the wind likes you too much to let you stay still forever."
The way she said it made something twist inside me.
That evening, the villagers gathered in the square. Lanterns hung from every eave, their orange glow trembling against the darkening sky. Someone played a stringed instrument, off-key but enthusiastic. I sat with Mira, sharing a plate of roasted apples. She'd tied her hair with wildflowers, and the petals kept falling into the food.
"Make a wish," she said, nudging me. "It's your day."
"I already have everything I need," I lied.
"Then wish for something impossible," she insisted. "That's the fun part."
I looked up at the stars. They shimmered with the clarity only autumn skies could hold, and I thought of that sound I'd heard weeks ago—the song of rails through the clouds.
"I wish," I whispered, "to meet the ones who travel between the stars."
Mira laughed. "You'd get along with the mad astronomer who lives north of here. He talks to stars, too."
But I wasn't joking.
Later that night, when the lanterns burned low and laughter faded into tired goodbyes, I lingered in the square. The wind was cool, the kind that carried a hint of change. I closed my eyes and hummed the melody the pendant had taught me.
The world responded.
The air rippled, like the moment before thunder. The lantern nearest to me flickered—not from wind, but in rhythm with my song. Then, all at once, every flame in the square tilted toward me, bowing like grass before a breeze.
The pendant blazed.
My heart raced. I tried to stop, but the hum wouldn't end. The rhythm had caught me, flowing through my lungs, my veins, my voice. For a second, I felt the entire world breathe with me—the trees, the stones, the hidden things beneath the soil.
Then a voice, faint but urgent, whispered through the air:
"Enough, child. You are being heard."
The flames snapped back upright. The light dimmed. The world exhaled.
I fell to my knees, gasping.My cloak smelled faintly of ash.
The next morning, I woke to a knock at the door. Father opened it, and I peeked from behind him. Standing outside was a stranger in travel-stained robes, the color of deep wine. His eyes were covered by a thin veil of gold-threaded cloth, and a sigil of interlocked circles was stitched over his heart.
"Forgive the intrusion," he said politely. His voice was calm but carried weight, the kind that made even Father hesitate. "I am a Seeker from the northern archives. May I ask—does a child named Gray live here?"
My breath froze.
Father turned, confused. "Aye, that's my daughter. Is something wrong?"
The man smiled. "Quite the opposite. Something remarkable."
He knelt, removing the veil just enough that I could see his eyes—pale and faintly glowing, like moonlight through frost."You've touched the Song," he said quietly. "Few ever do."
My voice cracked. "You… heard it?"
He nodded. "The world stirred three nights past. A resonance that traveled through leystone and storm. The Breath awoke, and its echo bore your name."
Father blinked. "Is this some sort of priest business?"
"Not exactly," the man said, rising. "But the Elders have begun to whisper again. When that happens, we listen."
He turned to me. "Child, may I see your pendant?"
I hesitated, clutching it tight. The man's expression softened. "You fear it will be taken. It won't. But it's no ordinary trinket."
Reluctantly, I held it out. He extended a hand above it, not touching—just sensing. The air around us thickened, and faint lines of light shimmered between his fingers and the pendant.
He drew in a sharp breath. "Ah… so it's true. A living mark of Pegasus's Breath. You've been chosen as a listener."
My father frowned. "A what?"
"A listener," the man repeated. "One who can hear the voice beneath all things. It's said they appear at the turning of cycles."
He met my eyes again. "There hasn't been one in centuries."
My mouth went dry. "What does that mean?"
He smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "It means, child, that the world will not stay quiet much longer."
When he left, the air in the house felt heavier. Father said nothing for a long time.Finally, he sighed and patted my head. "Next time, Gray," he said gently, "maybe don't make wishes that strangers can hear."
But I could tell he was worried.
That night, I didn't sleep. I sat by the window, watching the fog roll down from the hills. The pendant pulsed faintly, matching the rhythm of my heart.
And from far above, faint but undeniable, I heard it again—the song of rails gliding through the stars.
The promise of something vast, drawing nearer with every beat.