Midday sun turned the village square into a swirl of heat and dust. I toddled after my sister—still clutching the straw hat I'd "rescued" yesterday—barefoot and chasing chickens as usual. The rain had finally stopped, leaving everything damp and smelling of wet earth. A few villagers sat in the shade of a low pavilion, mending nets or gossiping in soft voices. The only sounds were the creak of wooden beams overhead and the occasional cluck or baa from a passing goat.
My mother's voice called from under the shade of a palm tree. "Aiman, fetch me a coconut from the stall outside the temple." She held out a copper bowl, its rim dotted with condensation. I tightened my grip on the hat, tucked the bowl under one arm, and ran toward the makeshift market stall at the edge of the square.
As I rounded the corner, I saw two men lifting a fresh stack of firewood onto the roof of the pavilion. They exchanged laughs about who owed whom a favor after the next harvest festival. But I noticed something odd: the roof planks, woven of palm thatch and bound with rope, sagged at the center. Rainwater from earlier monsoon storms had pooled in that spot, weighing it down.
I wasn't meant to worry about grown‐up matters—two‐year‐olds shouldn't spot structural faults and understand them. But instinct, or maybe something inside me, gave a little shiver of alarm.
Before I could say anything, there was a loud crack. One of the men jolted upright, eyes wide as the center of the roof ripped free. A heavy beam snapped, and a cascade of thatch and wood splinters came hurtling toward the ground—right where a small boy had been playing just moments before.
I didn't think. I just reached out my small arms, closed my eyes, and let the wind take over. A swell of air formed around me—almost like a tiny, invisible shield—and it stole through the falling beam's path, making it descend as if caught in slow motion. I felt the wind's pulse against my palms, guiding each splinter away from the square's center.
The boy, wide‐eyed and frozen, didn't even know what happened. A few thatch pieces trickled to the ground as gently as leaves in autumn. When everything stopped, the only evidence of disaster was a single broken plank an arm's length from where the boy had stood moments ago.
Slowly, I opened my eyes. The villagers stood slack‐jawed around me—some staring at the bent beam, others staring at me. The men who'd been loading the wood dropped to their knees and stared upward, shaking their heads in disbelief.
"By the spirits…" whispered one, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.
My mother rushed forward, overturning her bowl of coconuts as she ran. She set the bowl aside and dropped to her knees at my side. "Aiman? Sweetheart…are you all right?" Her voice trembled. I nodded, brushing mud from my knees.
I pointed at the broken plank. "Saved."
She glanced at the debris, then back at me, swallowing hard. "Saved… everyone."
The parents of the little boy—his mother clutching a doll, tears in her eyes—hustled over, gathered the child to her chest, and rushed him away. A hush fell over the square. Only the half‐collapsed pavilion and the drips of water from its eaves broke the silence.
My father arrived next, having dropped whatever bucket he'd been carrying. He knelt to cradle my shoulders, examining me for scratches or bruises. Finding none, he looked at me—pride and fear warring in his gaze. "Aiman…" His voice was gentle but laced with tension. "Don't scare us like that."
I tried to give him my usual grin, but my heart was pounding so loudly I thought he might hear it. I felt… strange, a little hollow—like I had reached too far and something inside me had ached. But also proud, because I knew I'd done something important.
Then, from the other side of the pavilion, a figure emerged: the Gale Sage. He'd arrived abruptly after our morning lesson—always turning up when I least expected him. His deep brown robes, streaked with faded wind‐glyphs, were still damp from the last monsoon, and his braided staff clicked against the stone slab as he approached.
He knelt, placing a callused hand on the broken plank. "The weight of thatch and water would have crushed an ox," he murmured. "But you gave it pause. The winds themselves heeded your wish." He glanced at me, steely eyes softening for a moment. "Power without purpose… That was a purposeful act."
My father rose to his full height—short, weathered, but still sturdy as the coconut trees. "Is he in danger? Will the wind turn on him?"
The Sage regarded him, expression unreadable. "A gale can comfort or consume. Aiman has glimpsed how both are possible." He turned back to me and lowered his voice. "Never forget—control comes before action."
I frowned, trying to grasp the full meaning. If you didn't control the wind, it could hurt people? The thought made my stomach thrum.
Mother came to stand beside me. "Your father and I—" She paused, eyes flickering to the splintered timbers. "We worry that the wind inside you… might one day be too strong." She knelt and kissed my forehead. "But we also know you have a gift. We'll help you learn to use it kindly. For now, just… be careful."
The Gale Sage nodded, as though confirming unspoken doubts. He tucked a strand of graying hair behind his ear. "We'll continue lessons, Aiman. The wind's path is never straight. One must learn to step aside when necessary—or else be shattered." He rose, nodding to my parents as if to say he took me under his watchful eye.
I wanted to ask him what "stepping aside" meant, but the gravity in his voice made my tongue too heavy to form the question. So I simply nodded.
The villagers lingered at a distance, whispering about what they'd seen. Some shook their heads, muttering that wind magic was dangerous. Others stared at me with awe—asking quiet, wondering questions like "Can he really bend the wind just by wishing?"
My sister, ever competitive, folded her arms and gave me a wry smile. "Guess I'll have to stay out of your way, huh, Stormborn?"
I managed a grin. "I'll protect you instead."
She rolled her eyes—just the way siblings do—but then smirked. "Fine, but mind the chickens."
With one last look at the broken beam, I turned toward home, shoulders tense but resolved. The wind hadn't ripped the roof off—because I stopped it. That idea both thrilled and scared me.
Inside the hut, Mother poured water from a fresh coconut into bowls for my parents. Father closed the door, peered back at me, and sighed. "It's a beautiful day, Aiman—why did you invite storms?"
I shrugged, gazing out the small window at the brightening day. "I didn't mean to. I just… felt them."
Mother knelt to adjust my sandals. "Feeling is the first step. Now we learn, together."
Outside, the breeze drifted through the open doorway, carrying the distant calls of birds. In that moment, I felt both more alone and more at home than ever before. I loved the wind, but the wind had made its presence known in a way that couldn't be ignored.
As I settled onto a woven mat, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to find the calm center where Buyaan had taught me to listen. The world around me seemed to fade—just the hum of my own heartbeat and the faint whisper of breeze swirling across the hut floor.
A day like any other had become a turning point: a reminder that if I wanted to live alongside the wind, I had to learn not only how to call it but also how to guide it.
Tomorrow, I told myself as I drifted to sleep, I would practice gentle breezes. I would find that calm spot in my chest—a place where the wind could settle and I could decide whether to let it roam free or keep it close.
Because if the wind ever wavered, I knew it would not hesitate to carry me far from the ground. And right now, I was only two years old, still tied to my mother's side, with my heart full of questions.
Questions I was determined to answer, one soft breath at a time.