The world was a swirl of glowing light—a truth invisible to everyone but Arlen. To him, magic wasn’t some grand mystery bestowed by divine will; it was as simple and inevitable as sunlight hitting the earth. His eyes, sharper than anyone could fathom, saw the truth. Every living thing around him pulsed with a faint glow, a steady rhythm of life intertwined with something more—something everyone called "magic."

This force wasn’t magic, not truly. It wasn’t born from blessings or ancient rituals, as the stories claimed. It was the essence of the planet itself—a silent gift from its minerals and atmosphere, absorbed by the bodies of those who had lived here for generations. Over time, their bodies adapted, evolving in ways their ancestors could never have imagined. They harnessed this force, shaped it, and called it magic. But Arlen saw through the myth.

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

He saw the glow in his family—his mother, his sister, his brother—even the tiniest bird in the trees. Yet when he turned his gaze inward, there was only emptiness. No light, no connection—just a quiet void that whispered he didn’t belong.

That hollow space inside him was both a curse and a gift. He could see the truth, but he could never be part of it.

As the world around him reveled in their magic, Arlen carried the quiet burden of knowing it wasn’t as special as they believed. What they cherished as extraordinary was simply nature’s design—beautiful, yet indifferent to him.