A Flicker of Control

I’ve been eight for a few months now.

There’s no real difference, not one I can see in the mirror. But I feel different.

More aware. Like the space around me isn’t just… empty anymore.

It hums.

Like the wind is carrying something just beyond hearing. Like the earth remembers something underfoot. Like the light—especially the light—wants to be known.

That’s why I’m out here again, sitting cross-legged under the tree, a smooth stone on one side and a glassy puddle of sunlight at my feet.

I stretch out my hand.

I don’t try to force anything. Just let it flow.

I imagine it like breath. Like warmth from a campfire. Like the way my mother’s voice wraps around a song when she thinks no one’s listening.

And for a second, it answers.

A glow.

Not a flash. Not a flicker.

A steady orb of golden light, floating just above my palm. Small. Soft. Like a firefly that’s forgotten how to leave.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Just hold it there, stunned.

“Better.”

The voice comes from behind me.

I nearly drop the orb.

My father steps forward, arms crossed, gaze calm.

He doesn’t comment on the fact that I’m using magic. He just stands there, watching it float.

“That the first time it held steady?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

He kneels beside me—not close, but enough that I can see the edge of his shadow across the light.

“I don’t get magic,” he says. “But I can tell when something’s earned.”

We sit in silence for a while. The orb pulses faintly. Like it’s listening too.

“Were you ever scared?” I ask, not looking at him.

My father doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard it.

“Only when I stopped being scared,” he says. “That’s when I made mistakes.”

I look at him.

“Fear means you still care about what’s at stake. Don’t lose that.”

I nod.

He rises to his feet and starts walking away.

“Hold it for a minute longer next time,” he says, glancing back once.

I watch the light float in my hand. It wavers once. But I focus—not on fear, not on control, but on presence.

It steadies again.

That night, I don’t dream.

But I don’t need to.

For the first time, I’m not chasing sparks anymore.

I’m holding one.