Chapter 4 – The Weight of a Small Hand
The days at St. Theresia followed a simple routine. For most of the children, life was about eating, playing, and sleeping. No responsibilities, no worries. Just being a child.
But for Thomas, things were different.
He might have looked like any other two-year-old, but inside, he carried the soul of a man who had lived a life filled with burdens, failures, and resolve. Watching Sister Mary tirelessly care for so many little ones stirred something in him. She didn't have to be so kind. But she was. To all of them—including him, a boy who'd been found half-dead on Halloween night with no name, no history, and no family.
So even if his small hands could barely grip a mop or lift a bucket, Thomas tried to help.
One morning, Sister Mary found him on the floor of the common hall, pushing a cloth along the wood with both hands, his expression dead serious.
"Thomas," she said, fighting back laughter, "what are you doing, sweetheart?"
"Helping," he said, not looking up, focused on a particularly stubborn spot.
She crouched beside him, ruffling his soft brown hair. "You are very sweet. But you're still just a baby."
Maybe. But he didn't feel like one.
And over time, even Sister Mary began to see the value of his tiny presence. It wasn't just the cleaning—or the overly serious way he tried to "organize" the toy bins. It was the way he watched over the other children, especially Daisy and Johnny, the two wildest sparks in the house. They were a handful. Always running, always shouting, always turning everything into a game or a competition.
Thomas didn't mind. In fact, he found them… delightful.
"Catch me if you can!" Daisy would scream, bolting down the hall with Johnny close behind.
Sometimes they crashed into furniture, knocked over decorations, or tried to climb where they shouldn't. But Thomas had a way of getting their attention, calming them down, and redirecting the chaos before Sister Mary had to step in. He didn't yell. He didn't scold. He just understood them.
That afternoon, the three of them were playing outside. Thomas sat on the grass pretending to sell "ice cream" made from rolled-up scraps of fabric, while Johnny and Daisy ran around taking "orders."
It was going well—until Johnny got too excited with the red rubber ball.
"Watch this!" he shouted, tossing it with all his might.
The ball soared, higher than expected, and lodged itself in the branches of the old oak tree at the edge of the yard.
"Oh no!" Daisy cried. "My turn was next!"
Johnny stared up at the ball with wide eyes. "Oops... It's really up there."
Thomas stood slowly, eyes following the arc of the ball now stuck above them. The tree was tall. The lowest branch was just high enough that a determined child might try to climb it.
"I'll get it!" Johnny said, already reaching for the trunk.
"No," Thomas said sharply, stepping forward. "It's too high. You'll fall."
Johnny pouted. "Then how do we get it back?"
Thomas didn't answer right away. He looked at the tree, then at Daisy and Johnny. If he didn't act fast, one of them might try climbing anyway—and Sister Mary would have a heart attack if she saw that.
"I'll go," he said at last.
Daisy blinked. "But you're the smallest!"
Thomas was already placing a foot against the bark. "I've climbed trees before."
They stared, confused—but didn't stop him. Thomas's movements weren't exactly graceful, but they were deliberate. He knew where to place his hands, how to shift his weight. Muscle memory from another life guided him, even if this body wasn't quite ready for it.
Branch by branch, he climbed higher.
He reached the ball. It was nestled in the fork of a thick limb. Carefully, he leaned forward and tugged it free.
"Got it," he muttered, holding it up.
Then the branch under his foot cracked.
Snap.
The world tipped.
He didn't even have time to scream.
Thomas fell.
But he never hit the ground.
One second he was falling—and the next, he was standing.
Just... standing. On the grass. Ball still in his hand. Not a scratch on him.
Daisy screamed.
"THOMAS FELL!"
Johnny's jaw dropped. "He disappeared!"
Within seconds, Sister Mary came rushing out the back door, her face pale, apron flapping.
"What happened?!"
She saw the broken branch hanging from the tree and froze.
"Thomas?!"
He turned around slowly.
"I'm okay," he said softly.
She ran to him and dropped to her knees, scanning his body with shaking hands. "Are you hurt? Did you hit your head? Are you—?"
He shook his head. "I was falling, and then… I was here."
Sister Mary stared at him, then at the tree, then back at him again.
She exhaled a long breath. "Oh, thank God. Sweetheart... please don't ever climb trees again, alright? You're far too young. You could've been seriously hurt."
Thomas looked down. "I just didn't want them to fall…"
"I know." Her voice was soft. "But that's not your job, Thomas. You're a child. Let the adults worry about the dangerous stuff."
He nodded.
She pulled him into a hug, holding him close for a long time.
That night, long after the others had gone to sleep, Thomas lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The ball was beside him on the pillow, a quiet reminder.
He went over the moment again and again in his head.
He'd fallen. He should have hit the ground.
But he didn't.
What had happened?
He remembered space magic. From his old world. There had been wizards—rare, elusive—who could manipulate space itself. They could open portals, shift between points, make things disappear and reappear.
Had he done that?
Was that even possible in this world?
He didn't know the rules of magic here. All he knew was that no normal child could fall from a tree and end up standing safely on the ground without so much as a bruise.
He turned onto his side, eyes still wide.
Could he be... a space magician?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine—not from fear, but from possibility.
He didn't sleep for a long time.
But when he finally did, his dreams were full of moving doors, twisting corridors, and invisible threads pulling him through space like it was made of silk.