The alarm clock's soft chime was a gentle sound, but for Lenard, today felt different. It was no longer a signal to begin another routine day, but maybe something meaningful. He woke up with a sense of purpose that felt both foreign and exhilarating. He rose in the silence of the morning a stark contrast to the quiet storm brewing within him.
He went to his computer, a sleek, personal console that a lesser engineer would consider a marvel. He didn't fire up his work schematics or his diagnostic tools. Instead, his fingers, typed in a series of simple questions: "what to know about raising a child," "single parent resources," "how to be a good father." The results poured onto the screen, a flood of articles and forums from a world he had never engaged with.
As he read, a faded memory, like a worn photograph, came to the forefront of his mind.
He was five years old, standing in a kindergarten classroom filled with other children excitedly creating simple light-infused shapes with their fledgling mana. Lenard, with his low magical affinity, could only manage a faint, wavering glow. His parents, not magical themselves his father a diligent banker, his mother a meticulous homemaker had watched from the doorway, a look of quiet disappointment on their faces. Later, at home, they had sat him down, not to scold, but to explain. "You have to be strong, Lenard," his father had said, his voice laced with the worry of a man who had to work twice as hard to keep up. "Magic won't be easy for you. So you must be the best at everything else." His mother had nodded, her eyes full of a raw, fierce love that he had only now, as an adult, come to understand.
Their strictness, their constant pushing for better skills and more knowledge, wasn't a rejection of him. It was their desperate attempt to make sure he wouldn't suffer from the same quiet shame they had.
Lenard blinked, pulling himself from the memory. The screen still glowed, the articles a reminder of the path he had chosen. He shook his head, the bitterness of the past dissolving into a quiet acceptance. He wasn't going to be the father his parents were; he would use his own unique skills and love to create a different path.
He refined his search, looking for "child adoption centers." A few stood out, but one in particular, "Hope Springs Home" appealed to him. Its website didn't have any flashy mana-infused designs or technical jargon. It just had pictures of smiling children and warm, welcoming text. A physical address was prominently displayed.
The screen of his console turned off, its gentle hum ceasing. He looked at his reflection in the dark glass—a man who was tired, but not defeated. He had a plan. He had a mission. And for the first time, it wasn't about a machine. It was about a life. He stood up, walked to his closet, and began to get ready. He was going to pay them a visit.