For most of my life, I held tightly to the belief that magic, werewolves, witches, and fairies were nothing more than stories—tales told to children to lull them to sleep or spark their imaginations. Just myths. Just fantasy.
Certainly not real. There was no such thing as magic—at least, that's what I used to believe. That was before I experienced something I could never explain away.
My name is Kiva. I was born into a prestigious family—wealthy, well-known, always in the spotlight. But despite the riches, I was painfully alone.
I was an only child, raised not by my parents, but by a rotating cast of nannies and servants. My parents were always "too busy"—a phrase that became a bitter echo in my life. Too busy for dinner. Too busy for birthdays. Too busy to care.
The emptiness grew over the years, gnawing at me. I had everything that money could buy, but it was hollow—like trying to fill a bottomless pit with gold. There were days when I felt invisible, like a shadow passing through a world that never quite noticed me.
I had a strange birthmark, like a swirling design that began at my shoulders and extended down to my lower back. It pulsed with heat and pain whenever I got too emotional—when I was too happy, too sad, too angry.
The doctors said it was nothing. But deep down, I always knew it meant something more. We moved. A lot. Whenever I had one of my strange "episodes"—when I saw something no one else could see, or when the pain in my back became too much—they'd pack us up and we'd be gone within days.
New city, new school, new identity. My parents always blamed it on "business," but even as a child, I could tell they were hiding something. Running from something—or maybe someone. The morning we moved again, I woke up to find our house in chaos.
Boxes stacked by the doors. Movers scurrying around like ants. I cornered my mother and demanded to know why.
"You know it's because of your father's business, honey," she said without even looking at me.
That word again—business.
I clenched my fists and muttered to myself, "It's always about business."
This new place, though, was different. A massive mansion surrounded by thick woods, far from any town or city.
It looked like something out of a fairy tale novel. Grand, bright, although eerily silent. As we pulled into the driveway, I glanced at my only companion—my pet falcon, Lala—perched silently in her travel cage.
She tilted her head at me, as if sensing something strange.
That evening, after dinner, I retreated to my room. Lala chirped softly and flew to her perch, waiting patiently for her meal.
As I fed her, I sighed and said, "I wish I could make some real friends this time, Lala."
I gently stroked her feathers, trying to shake the heavy loneliness in my chest. Then, I heard a voice.
"I think you'll make a good friend." I froze. My eyes shot to Lala.
"Did you… say something?" But she was still happily pecking at her seeds.
The voice came again—light, teasing, and very much not my falcon. "Of course birds don't talk, silly. And by the way, I'm not a bird."
I screamed. Or tried to. My breath caught in my throat, and my knees gave way. Darkness swallowed me.
When I woke up, the room was still. Lala stared at me, eyes wide and curious. Had I imagined it? Was I going crazy—like the other kids always said? I sat up slowly, rubbing my aching head, and began frantically searching the room.
Nothing. Just shadows and silence. The soft rustling of Lala's feathers was the only sound.
I sank onto my bed, whispering to myself, "I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy." Lala fluttered to my shoulder, her feathers brushing my cheek like a hug.
"Right, Lala? I'm not crazy…"
That's when the voice came again. "I'm still here, you know."
This time I didn't faint. I leapt to my feet and grabbed my tennis bat, the one I kept by my bed for safety—just in case. "Show yourself!" I shouted. "I must be losing it…"
From the corner of the room, something shimmered—like a burst of sunlight or a ripple of water. Then it stepped into view.
It was small. Tiny, really. No larger than my hand.
I squinted, bending down for a better look—and gasped. A real fairy. Not glittery or cartoon-like. She looked almost human, but with a sharpness to her—pointed ears, delicate wings that sparkled like starlight, eyes that glowed with secrets.
And beside her stood something even stranger: a dwarf. Grumpy and wrinkled, with a sour expression and a tiny axe slung over his back.
I blinked in disbelief. "So… I'm not weird?" I whispered.
"I'm not imagining this?" The fairy gave me a warm smile. "No, Kiva. You're not weird. You're just… special."
I was shaking, half with fear, half with wonder. "Why me? Why now?" The dwarf scoffed.
"We thought you were the one, but—" Before he could finish, the fairy clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Don't mind him. He's always grumpy." I giggled nervously, my hand reaching out on instinct, and I touched the dwarf's tiny hat. I flipped it off his head.
He sputtered indignantly, and I burst out laughing for real. It was the first time I'd truly laughed in months. The sound was foreign to me, almost a relief, and for the first time, the heaviness in my chest seemed to lighten.
The fairy grinned at me, a glimmer of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Now that's more like it! We didn't think you'd believe us. We almost turned back, to be honest."
Panic flared in my chest. "Wait!" I cried. "I do believe! I believe in you! In magic! In all of it!" They paused.
"My only friend is a bird," I added softly, my voice faltering. "Please… don't leave me too."
The fairy softened, her wings fluttering. "Alright, alright. We won't leave you. But you must understand, Kiva. This is bigger than just you and me. You have a role to play. A destiny."
I blinked, trying to process what she was saying. Destiny? Me? A normal, lonely girl with a strange birthmark and no real friends? How could I possibly have a destiny?
But before I could voice any more questions, the fairy laughed softly and twirled in the air. "I'll name you Echo," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She turned to the dwarf, who was still grumbling but trying to suppress a grin.
"And you," I said, pointing at the dwarf, "I'll call you Grumpy."
He grunted. "Figures."
And just like that, everything changed. My world—once cold and ordinary—had cracked open to reveal a truth more magical than I ever imagined. Maybe I wasn't cursed. Maybe I wasn't broken. Maybe I was just beginning.
Kiva's first day at her new school was a mixture of quiet dread and cautious hope. The school was large, but nothing compared to the grandeur of the mansion her family had moved into. The hallways buzzed with the sounds of teenagers laughing, chatting, and making plans for the weekend. It felt like another world—a world Kiva had never truly belonged to.
Her parents' absence had already set the tone. They were always too busy, always too distracted by their work and their elusive "business." It was something Kiva had long since learned to live with, even if it left her lonely and adrift. But this time, her loneliness was sharper, more acute, because this was her first real attempt at fitting in. She wasn't sure if she was ready to face the world outside her sanctuary.
As she walked into the classroom, she felt the familiar pang of isolation. She took a seat in the back, hoping to go unnoticed, just another faceless student among many. But it didn't take long for someone to approach her.
Sean, a lanky boy with glasses perched on the edge of his nose, sat down next to her. He was new, too, though he seemed much more at ease than she felt.
"Hey," he said, offering a friendly grin. "You're new, right? I haven't seen you around before."
Kiva hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "Yeah, I just moved here."
"Cool," Sean replied. "I moved here a few months ago, so I know how weird it is at first. You get used to it, though."
There was something about his casual, open demeanor that put Kiva at ease. Maybe it was because he didn't expect anything from her, unlike the many other students who seemed to already have their groups and cliques. Sean didn't seem to care about her family background or her status. He was just… there.
"Do you like the school so far?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.
Kiva shrugged. "It's alright. I don't know anyone, though."
"I know how that feels," Sean said, pulling out a notebook. "It's always hard at first. But hey, I'm Sean," he added, extending a hand. "If you ever need someone to talk to or if you want to hang out at lunch, I'm usually around."
Kiva stared at his hand for a moment before shaking it. "I'm Kiva."
"Nice to meet you, Kiva."
It was the beginning of an unexpected friendship. Sean didn't ask questions about Kiva's odd behavior, the strange things that happened around her, or the fact that she had a falcon as a pet. He simply accepted her for who she was. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Kiva felt like she wasn't invisible.
As the days passed, Sean and Kiva spent more time together. They studied in the library, ate lunch together, and even took walks after school. Kiva found herself laughing more than she ever had before, even forgetting, for a moment, the strange and unsettling occurrences that still lingered at the edges of her life.
But things weren't perfect. Kiva still carried the weight of her strange powers, the constant hum of magic deep within her, and the haunting memories of her past. Sometimes, she felt a pull—an undeniable connection to something larger, something she didn't fully understand. But when she was with Sean, she felt like she could almost forget. He had a way of grounding her, of making her feel like maybe, just maybe, she could belong here.
One afternoon, after a particularly long and grueling math class, Kiva found herself walking alone in the hallway, her mind lost in thought. She was so caught up in her swirling thoughts that she didn't notice when a group of students gathered in front of her, blocking her path.
They were laughing, joking, but their eyes lingered on her a little too long. One of them, a girl with long, dark hair and a sharp gaze, stepped forward.
"Well, well," she said, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. "Looks like we've got a new kid here."
Kiva's stomach twisted, her heart rate picking up. She had seen this kind of behavior before—the quiet cruelty of high school politics. She braced herself for what was to come.
But before the girl could say anything else, Sean appeared, his lanky figure stepping between Kiva and the group.
"Is there a problem?" he asked, his voice calm but firm.
The girl narrowed her eyes. "No problem. Just wondering why someone like her is even here. She's a bit... strange, don't you think?"
Kiva felt her face flush, the sting of their words sinking deep into her chest. But before she could respond, Sean spoke again.
"She's my friend," he said, his words carrying more weight than they seemed to. "And you can't talk to her like that."
There was an awkward silence, the group of students exchanging glances. Finally, the girl scoffed, rolling her eyes.
"Whatever," she muttered, stepping aside. "Just don't expect us to babysit her."
Sean turned to Kiva, offering a small, reassuring smile. "You good?"
Kiva nodded, though the weight of the encounter hung heavily on her. "Yeah. Thanks."
Sean gave her a thumbs-up. "Don't let them get to you. People like that always have to tear others down to make themselves feel better."
As they walked away, Kiva couldn't help but feel a strange sense of gratitude. Sean had stood up for her without hesitation, without fear of being ostracized himself. It was a rare thing to find, especially in a world where everyone seemed to have their own agendas.
The more time Kiva spent with Sean, the more she began to feel like she was learning what it truly meant to have a friend. It wasn't about appearances or status. It wasn't about fitting in. It was about trust, acceptance, and being there for each other. And for the first time in a long while, Kiva felt like she had something real.
The weeks passed in a blur of normality. School was a mix of mundane classes, casual hangouts with Sean, and the occasional flare-up of strange magic that Kiva couldn't quite control. There were moments—quiet, fleeting moments—when Kiva could almost forget the magic inside her.
One afternoon, as Kiva and Sean sat beneath a large oak tree on the school grounds, talking about everything and nothing, Kiva felt a tug in her chest. She looked up, sensing something in the air, something she couldn't explain.
"Sean," she began, her voice tentative. "Have you ever felt like… like you're meant for something bigger than this?"
Sean raised an eyebrow, his glasses reflecting the late afternoon sun. "You mean like destined for greatness? Or just tired of school?"