This is a memory—a memory of days long past.

I know this because she’s sitting there, smiling as radiantly as ever. As she should. As she would, if the world had been a kinder place.

And I’m beside her, speaking excitedly with her.

“And—and what about creating a giant arrow, made of lightning—and fire! Can magic do that?”

She looks down at me, a sparkle in her eye and a grin on her face. The setting sun sets her bright red hair ablaze.

“Of course!” She says with a laugh, “Listen up, Cadmus. Magic is miracle given form. Anything you can imagine is possible to achieve with magic!”

I shut my eyes tight and squeal, my limbs flailing around as the image of me using all kinds of awesome magic dances around in my head. Then, I turn to my sister again, even more excited than before,

“Can you show me again? The magic with the birds!”

My sister sighs, “Didn’t I show it to you just last week?”

I give her a look, “Yeah, but I want to see it again now!”

My sister looks reluctant, but she crumbles to my pleading gaze, “Oh fine, here you go.”

She raises two fingers, and suddenly, those two fingertips glow with a small white light. She moves her hand skillfuly, leaving behind a dully gleaming trail of the same colour. It is as though she is drawing on a chalkboard with chalk. Only, in this case, her fingers are the chalk and the air itself is the chalkboard.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

She draws with practiced ease, and soon, there is a circle filled with complicated symbols hanging in the air in front of her. The glow on her fingertips dies down, and when she moves her hand this time, the drawing follows after, like she’s dragging paper across a smooth surface. She aims it at a nearby bird, and the entire drawing glows brighter.

The bird stiffens for a second, and then, with a few flaps of its wings, it lands on my head. It proceeds to nuzzle into my hair, causing me to giggle at the peculiar feeling.

I hold up my arm, and the bird smoothly flits to it.

“Ah… so cool!” I exclaim as I pet the bird.

“So, happy now?” my sister asks fondly.

I shoot her a grateful grin and continue playing with the bird. However, then a question jumps to my mind, and I turn back to her to ask,

“Hey, sis, you said ‘magic is miracle given form,’ right?”

She nods, “Yeah. Why, you want something?”

“Not really. I mean, I still can’t wait to see if I can use magic too, but that’s not why I asked,” I say, “If magic is so awesome, why do you not like to use it so much?”

It was a fair question I had back then. I was eleven-years-old at the time, and you can only discover if you can use magic once you’re twelve. So back then I thought, if I had the ability to use magic, then I would be using it 24/7, unlike my sister who only used it maybe once a week.

The sparkle in my sister’s eye disappears, and she looks far sadder than I have ever seen her. She fixes her gaze on the bird, her shoulders hunching as though she is carrying an incredibly heavy burden.

“Magic is miracle given form,” she says slowly, “and miracles are always good. However, what is good for some people is not always good for others. The nature of a miracle depends on the person wielding it.”

With those words, she releases her control over the bird, and gives me a warm pat on my head. I look back at her with a curious look on my face, wondering what could have caused such a drastic shift in her mood.

However, I never found out why she looked so sad back then. Because the next day, I found her dead in her bed, as though she had disappeared into a blissful sleep and decided to never come back again.