I didn't follow him immediately after he walked away.
For a few seconds, I stayed where I was, staring at the faint markings on the ground. They didn't look important—just shallow lines carved into stone—but the way he avoided explaining them made it clear they weren't something I could ignore.
The shadows weren't the real problem.
That much I understood.
What I didn't understand was why he kept deciding what I was allowed to know.
I exhaled slowly and stepped forward. "Wait."
He stopped, but didn't turn.
"How am I supposed to deal with any of this if you don't tell me anything?" I asked.
"You deal with what reaches you," he said. "Not what you don't understand yet."
"That's not helpful."
"It's enough."
I stared at him for a second. "Do you only know three sentences?"
He didn't respond.
Which somehow felt like an answer.
I took another step forward. "Then at least answer one thing. Why me?"
This time, he turned slightly.
"If you had a choice," he said, "would you rather know the answer now… or survive long enough to understand it?"
"That doesn't even sound like a real choice."
"It isn't."
Before I could argue—
the space around me shifted.
There was no transition.
The ground beneath my feet gave for a split second, like it wasn't fully there. The air tightened sharply, pressure building just enough to throw off my balance.
Everything felt pulled—too fast, too sudden.
And then—
it stopped.
I stumbled forward and caught myself against the wall beside me.
The pressure vanished.
The air settled.
I looked up.
I was standing outside my house.
For a moment, I didn't move.
Then I turned.
He was there.
Unchanged.
"That didn't feel the same," I said.
"It wasn't."
"That wasn't normal."
"It worked."
"That's not the point."
"It is."
I exhaled quietly. "One day, you're going to explain something properly."
"Not today."
"That's what you said yesterday."
"And it was correct."
I looked at him for a second. "You're actually impossible."
"Yet you're still here."
"Go inside," he said.
I did.
Inside, everything felt exactly the same.
The same quiet. The same stillness. Nothing out of place.
It didn't match what I had just experienced.
My sisters were in the living room.
"You're back," one of them said, glancing up.
"Yeah."
"Where did you go?"
"Out."
She narrowed her eyes slightly. "You've been saying that a lot."
"And you've been asking that a lot."
A brief pause followed.
Then the other one spoke. "You look exhausted."
"I didn't sleep properly."
"That's obvious."
I walked past them toward the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water.
"Eat something," one of them called.
"I'm not hungry."
"You said that yesterday too."
I didn't respond.
Because I didn't have anything normal to say.
"Nothing happened?" she asked again, quieter this time.
I paused.
Then—"No."
The word came easily.
Too easily.
I left before the silence stretched further.
That night, I didn't lie down immediately.
I sat on the edge of my bed, my hands resting loosely in front of me. The room was quiet, the kind that made every thought louder.
My attention drifted back to my hands.
Yesterday, there had been something.
Now—
nothing responded.
I moved my fingers slowly, watching for any sign of it.
Nothing answered.
Not even a flicker.
For a moment, that should have felt like relief.
It didn't.
A knock on the door broke the stillness.
"Yeah?"
The door opened slightly, and one of my sisters stepped in.
"You're still awake?" she asked.
"Yeah."
She leaned against the doorframe, studying me.
"You've been off since yesterday."
"I'm fine."
"That's not what it looks like."
I didn't respond.
She stepped in slightly. "Did something actually happen?"
For a second, I almost said yes.
But instead—
"No."
She didn't look convinced.
But she didn't push.
"Try to sleep," she said. "You're overthinking."
"Probably."
She nodded and left.
The room fell silent again.
I looked back at my hands.
Still nothing.
But now, the absence felt… wrong.
The next morning, I stepped outside early.
The street was quiet.
For a moment, I thought he wasn't there.
"Looking for me?"
I turned.
He was standing further down the road, near the end of the lane.
"How long have you been there?" I asked, walking toward him.
"Long enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's enough."
I exhaled. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Answering without answering."
A pause.
"That's enough."
I shook my head slightly. "I'm going to start ignoring you."
"You won't."
I stopped a few steps away. "You said they'd come back."
"They will."
"Then I'm not waiting for that again."
A brief pause.
"Good."
Before I could say anything else—
the space shifted again.
This time, it was faster.
Cleaner.
When I looked up—
we weren't there anymore.
The open training ground stretched around us.
I exhaled quietly. "You could've just said we were coming here."
"You still came."
"That's not the point."
"It is."
I crossed my arms. "So what now?"
"Control."
"I tried that."
"You forced it."
"I need an actual explanation."
"That is an explanation."
"That's not an explanation."
"It's enough."
I stared at him. "One day, I'm going to get a real answer out of you."
"Not today."
I let out a breath. "Fine. Then show me."
"Stand still."
I did.
"Close your eyes."
I hesitated briefly, then followed.
"Don't search for it," he said.
"That's exactly what I've been doing."
"That's why it doesn't stay."
I went quiet.
Then—
something shifted.
A faint presence.
It didn't push forward.
Didn't resist.
It stayed.
My fingers moved slightly.
"Don't hold it."
"I'm not—"
"You are."
I stopped.
The feeling steadied again.
"Let it stay," he said.
I did.
Time passed.
It stayed longer this time.
Until—
it slipped.
Gone.
"I lost it."
"You let it go."
"That's the same thing."
"No."
I exhaled slowly, tension rising again.
"What happens if I lose control again?" I asked.
"You already saw that."
"And next time?"
"You won't get help."
That wasn't a warning.
That was a rule.
I looked down at my hands.
Nothing visible.
But I could feel it.
Faint.
Quiet.
There.
I adjusted my fingers slightly—
not forcing—
just reacting—
And suddenly—
it moved.
A sharp flicker of light broke through—
stronger than before—
unstable.
I pulled back immediately.
"What was that?" I said.
Silence.
I looked up at him.
His gaze had changed.
Focused.
Sharper.
"That shouldn't happen," he said.
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"That wasn't controlled."
"I didn't try to do that."
"I know."
Silence settled again.
That made it worse.
I looked back at my hand.
Still.
Normal.
But something about it—
wasn't.
And for the first time—
he wasn't just watching me.
He was watching it.