Morning came softly to the orphanage.
Light spilled in through narrow windows, pale and golden, stretching long fingers across the stone floors. The air was cool but gentle, holding the hush of a place not yet fully awake. Somewhere beyond the courtyard walls, birds called faintly not singing, just existing, as if the world itself were still deciding whether to rise.
The halls, usually echoing with footsteps and chatter by midmorning, remained still. Peaceful.
From the lower levels came the slow rhythm of the staff beginning their rounds. Cabinets creaked open. Pails clinked. A broom swept across a corridor once, then again. No orders were barked. No doors slammed. It was a kindness reserved for early hours the kind of quiet that made the entire orphanage feel like a breath held gently in the dark.
And within that breath, she moved.
The girl.
Already awake.
Her limbs ached. Her arms felt like soaked cloth heavy and slow. She hadn't slept long. Her dreams had been shallow things: floating pebbles, blinking runes, a chalk line she could never quite reach.
But it was enough.
No rest for the wicked, she joked to herself not because she believed it, but because it made the weight feel a little lighter.
She moved without complaint.
She had risen at five. Helping quietly where she could folding linens, setting out cups, hauling water with the steadiness of routine. Her muscles burned from the night before, but her steps never faltered.
At seven, she joined the others for morning lessons. General studies came first reading, numbers, writing drills on slateboards passed down too many times. Then came an hour of basic magical instruction: container conditioning, focus training, and supervised lift attempts.
She followed every step. Quiet. Precise. Always trying.
By eleven, the chalk squeaked to a stop on the board, and the lesson ended. It always did.
The orphanage didn't have the funds for a full day's schooling. Not enough teacher. Not enough materials. Just enough to cover the basics.
So the rest of the day belonged to the children to games in the yard, naps in the shade, or wandering halls until supper.
She didn't join them.
Instead, she made her way to her usual spot beneath the old wooden awning near the back fence. She sat cross-legged. Opened her book.
It was an introductory reader: Basic Lift and Mana Flow, first-year material. Every child her age had studied it.
Most had already moved on.
She hadn't.
This was her third time reading it. Not because she didn't understand she did now but because she kept wondering if she'd missed something. Some hidden step. Some overlooked truth. Some invisible key that explained why her magic still lagged behind.
The diagrams were familiar. She could draw them in her sleep. The pathways for upward flow. The spell-form for weightless lift. The four mistakes beginners always made.
She knew them all.
And still, she couldn't lift ten kyns.
So she turned the page again. The paper was soft and worn at the corners. She knew what came next the standard levitation circle, annotated with faded margin notes. She had read it. But she did again anyway. Because part of her still hoped there was something tucked between the lines something her tired eyes had missed.
Then, without lifting her head, her gaze drifted past the edge of the page.
The yard in front of her was alive with movement. Children ran between patches of sun and shadow, laughter flickering on the wind. One girl skipped in circles, trailing a ribbon like a comet's tail. A boy clumsily conjured sparks between his fingers, grinning when they popped. Others rolled pebbles down a tilted board, cheering their favorites like racers.
She watched them quietly.
Not with envy.
Not exactly.
It was like watching something through glass warm and close, but never quite touching her.
Her eyes returned to the book. They lingered on the page a moment. Then shut. Then opened again. Then turned.
Her arms still hurt.
She turned the page anyway.
She traced the stabilization glyph for the fifth time this week. It wasn't hard. But she didn't skip it.
Then she closed the book briefly and let it rest in her lap.
She didn't look tired.
But she was.
She didn't look like she was in pain.
But she was.
Still, she sat where she always did. Back straight. Eyes steady.
Watching.
The courtyard buzzed with midday light. Dust danced in the air. Children shouted over rules. One threw the stone too hard; another caught it wrong. The game was familiar mana-levitation tag, nothing too formal. Just enough magic to feel like fun, not work.
She kept the book open in her lap, pretending to read.
It was the same page she'd been on for ten minutes.
Among the group, she noticed Rulin.
He wasn't loud all the time, but when he wanted to be heard, he made sure of it. She remembered him from the bread line. The boy who gave her a larger piece and didn't expect anything back.
Now, as the game spun, he caught the floating stone, turned, and called out clearly:
"Hey—do you want to play?"
The laughter faded just for a moment.
Some kids looked at her. Some looked at him. There was no cheering. No encouragement. But no one stopped her.
The noise stilled for a moment.
Some kids looked at her. Some at him. No cheers. No discouragement. Just a pause.
She blinked once. Then stood.
"Alright," she said, offering a faint smile one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Prepare to be beaten."
A few kids laughed, uncertain but not unkind. Rulin grinned.
She stepped into the circle.
It started okay.
They passed the glowing stone using small pulses of mana—lifting it through the air with practiced ease.
When it came to her, she tried.
Her mana responded—but weakly.
The stone wobbled. She caught it, barely. When she tried to redirect it, the flow collapsed. The stone dropped.
Someone reset it.
No one said anything.
Rulin passed to her again. This time slower, lighter.
She focused hard—forced it upward. But her mana was uneven. The stone twitched, lost control, and spun into the ground.
Laughter continued—but not about her.
Just… around her.
The game went on.
By the third round, they had stopped passing to her. Not deliberately. Just... gradually.
The stone flowed past her to others. She raised her hand a few more times. Then stopped.
She stayed in the circle. Still. Quiet.
Not invisible. Just unused.
Like a part of the game that had been left behind.
Even Rulin didn't pass again after a while.
She didn't blame him.
The game lasted twenty more minutes before it finally broke apart. One kid got bored. Another was called inside. The stone was dropped and not picked back up.
And still, she stood there.
The last few players drifted away.
Only Rulin stayed.
He approached her with one hand rubbing the back of his neck.
"…You almost had it, you know," he said. "That one pass? It was close."
She looked up at him.
His voice wasn't teasing. It wasn't fake. He meant it.
Something twisted behind her ribs tight and quiet.
So she smiled. Not a real one. But soft enough to make sure he didn't feel bad.
"…I wasn't even being serious," she said with a shrug, voice light. "If I was, you'd all be toast."
Rulin huffed a little laugh short, amused.
"Sure," he said, playing along.
They both knew it wasn't true.
But the smile stayed a moment longer.
"Next time," she added, gently.
Rulin nodded. "Yeah. Next time."
He hesitated like he wanted to say more.
Then just gave a half wave and walked off.
She stood alone a few moments longer.
Then, without a sound, she turned toward the corridor. Not rushing. Just moving.
The midday sun had shifted. Its light stretched thinner now, filtered through high windows in long, pale streaks that made the dust in the air shimmer like ash. The laughter from the courtyard grew distant behind her still audible, still alive but fading with every step.
Each footfall was soft against the stone. Familiar. Echoless.
She passed quiet halls and closed doors, their wooden frames worn smooth from years of little hands. The air here was cooler. Still. As if this part of the orphanage no longer expected company.
But she always came.
And as she walked, a part of her braced.
Not for pain. Not for disappointment.
But for the weight that waited the same weight she chose to carry, day after day.
It was her rhythm. Her pattern.
Her place.
Even if it never answered her back.