Pulse of the Heart

I turned eight last month.

There wasn’t a party or anything—just stew, quiet smiles, and an extra-long hug from my mother. But something about it stuck with me. Like the world had shifted, just slightly.

Magic is listening. I just need to know how to speak back.

That thought hadn’t left me since the spark. Since the warmth in my chest lit something brighter than all my practice combined.

It wasn’t a spell. It wasn’t a formula.

It was me.

And yet… when I try again now, it doesn’t come.

No glow.

No warmth.

Just the hush of morning and the stillness of dew-covered grass beneath my feet.

I stretch out my hand again anyway. Palm open. Heart steady.

Nothing.

But that’s okay.

I sit cross-legged under the same old tree—its bark now familiar to my back, its leaves whispering like they always do. The wind doesn’t laugh or mock. It waits.

My mother watches again from the steps. Far enough to give me space, close enough to intervene if something goes wrong.

She used to guide my hands. Whisper old words I didn’t understand. Now, she just watches.

I think… she’s proud of me.

Even when I fail.

She walks over after a while and places something in the grass near me.

A stone.

White. Smooth. Polished like it was handled often.

“It’s from my childhood,” she says softly, then turns and walks back to the house.

That’s all.

I pick it up. It’s cool against my fingers.

There’s nothing glowing about it, nothing magical. But I hold it like it means something.

Because it does.

Because she gave it to me.

Later that day, I sit with the stone again. In silence.

I don’t focus this time. I don’t try to cast.

I just… feel.

The memory of her voice when I was scared.

The warmth of her hands when I couldn’t sleep.

The lullabies that made me cry without knowing why.

The way she smiled when the spark first happened.

I hold the stone against my chest, close my eyes—and let all of it pour through me.

That’s when it happens.

A faint glow. Soft gold, spreading from my hand into the stone.

It pulses.

Once. Twice.

Then fades.

I blink.

My mother is standing in the doorway again. Her expression hasn’t changed.

But this time, I swear I see something new in her eyes.

Pride, yes.

But also… surprise.

She knew.

The stone was enchanted. It reacted to my magic—not through force, but through feeling.

She was testing me.

And I passed.

That night, I dream again.

This time it’s clearer.

A girl with sharp ears and one eye closed stands on a tree branch, arms crossed, a playful smile on her face.

She doesn’t speak.

But she sees me.

And in that moment, I think… maybe she always has.

I wake to the moonlight spilling across my floor.

The stone still glows faintly beside me.

I whisper to the silence,

“Magic is listening. I just need to know how to speak back.”