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The orb lasts twelve seconds today.

That’s three seconds longer than yesterday. Four longer than the day before that.

I’m not counting because someone told me to. I’m counting because I want to see if I’m really growing.

Turns out, I am.

Not in big leaps. Not in wild explosions or divine moments.

Just thread by thread.

Each day, the light responds a little faster. It holds a little longer. It flickers less.

I’ve stopped trying to push it. Magic doesn’t like being shouted at. It listens better when I speak softly.

And now… I think I’m starting to hear something back.

This morning, I felt something strange.

A warmth—not from the orb, but from the air itself. Like it was pressing gently against me, curious.

I reached for it without thinking. Not with my hand. With something deeper. Like instinct. Like intention.

And when I did, the orb didn’t just float—it spun.

Just once. A slow turn, as if to say, I’m here.

I didn’t tell my mother. Not yet. I think she already knows.

She’s been watching me closer lately. Still from a distance, but I catch her smile more often. Not proud. Not amused.

Just… full.

In the evening, I go back to the same spot. The same patch of grass. The same old tree.

I hold the white stone in one hand, palm open in the other.

I breathe.

No incantations. No gestures.

Just the memory of every moment that’s led to this.

The lullabies.

The soft rebukes when I pushed too far.

The warmth of light on my face when I first cast without fear.

A flicker.

Then a pulse.

Then a glow.

The orb rises again—gentler this time. Smoother. More real.

I smile.

Because now I’m not just making light.

I’m understanding it.