It was a gray morning.
The kind of gray that seeps into your skin. The kind that doesn't rain, but doesn't leave, either. Nurael was quiet — quieter than usual. No vendors shouted. No prayers echoed off the shrine steps. Only the wind moved, brushing against the cracked walls of Biji's empty house.
She stood by the window.
It wasn't much of a house. One chair. One floor mat. A pot she never filled all the way. But it didn't collapse. That was enough.
She hadn't eaten since yesterday. Or was it the day before? Her belly didn't complain much anymore. It had learned. Like her.
And then…
It happened.
No fanfare. No great sound. Just—light.
A small beam broke through the clouds and pierced the window. It struck her hand like it had been waiting for years to find her.
And in that moment, something changed.
It wasn't pain.
It wasn't even warmth.
It was pressure.
Soft, quiet pressure — like someone was holding her hand from the inside.
She looked down.
There was nothing there.
No mark. No symbol.
No crystal. No gleam.
Just her hand.
She blinked once. Twice.
The room felt heavier. The world did, too.
As if it had just taken one long breath… and hadn't exhaled yet.
Biji stood still.
And then, without knowing why, she whispered:
> "What… was that?"
The wind answered. Not with words. Just a pull, subtle and strange — like it wanted her to move. To go somewhere. To become something.
But she didn't.
She stayed still.
Because something deep inside her — older than fear, older than thought — didn't trust this feeling. Didn't trust that this wasn't some dream. Or some curse.
Whatever this was…
It had no name.("????????")
She had no idea what her ability was.
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