A newborn layer of the world—its air sharp and clean, carrying the scent of damp soil. The ground stretched wide and bare, yet not empty. Here and there, young shoots pushed through the earth, patches of soft moss clung to stones, and thin grass swayed like timid whispers against the wind.
At the heart of it all stood a fragile sprout. The moment water touched its roots, it stirred, stretching upward as though reaching for the pale sky. In an instant, its leaves deepened in color, its stem thickened, its life burning brighter.
Joseph sat beside it, his hand raised slightly. Threads of water spiraled from his palm. His presence seemed to call forth hidden seeds, and around him, more signs of life began to stir—tiny flowers trembling awake, a scatter of vines crawling across stone.
his eyes tracing the horizon as the first light of dawn broke free. The rising sun spilled across his skin, painting him in a soft orange glow.
For the first time, the world was calm—untouched by struggle, unscarred by war.
but yet. His expression was distant, hollow, as though the peace around him was only a cruel reminder of what had been lost.
The breeze moved gently. Waves whispered in steady rhythm, and the young grass bowed and swayed. but to him it felt muted, like echoes from another life. For a fleeting heartbeat, his vision blurred—and then a voice broke through the silence.
"Joseph… thank you… for everything."
A soft and weary voice, lingered in his mind. A memory? A farewell? He couldn't tell. The words cut through him like the sharpest blade.
His hand tightened against the soil, grounding himself, then.
Together with a sigh, Joseph let himself fall back onto the grass beside the plant. He stared up at the endless sky, lips curving faintly as he muttered, almost to himself,
"Maybe I was just hungry."
A barren silence broke into a fragile chorus of green. But not for long... It came.
A voice? At first, only a faint whisper, drifting like a breeze he almost mistook for the ocean. But it grew sharper, nearer, pulling at the edges of his mind. His brow furrowed, confusion settling in.
"...Hello? Who's there?" Joseph asked, his voice low, wary.
The whisper didn't stop. It pushed closer and closer, louder, drilling into his ears until his chest tightened with unease.
Zeke… Wake up.
Joseph froze. "...Zeke?" His voice cracked as the name echoed across the fields, the sound repeating, overlapping, until it was all he could hear.
Zeke. Zeke. WAKE UP.
His eyes widened, brow colliding. "what the heck is happening?!"
And then, a Suddenly, a deafening CHICKEN ALARM screeched across the sky, shattering the world like glass.
Joseph jerked—no, a young boy jerked—awake, tumbling out of his bed and hitting the wooden floor with a thud. Outside, the rooster's call boomed obnoxiously, echoing through the quiet morning.
"KU-KOOO-KOOO-KOOOO!"
The boy groaned, dragging himself up on his elbows. "For f***'s sake—shut up, you demon bird!"
Another yelled. Then He hurled a pillow at the window. And added furiously "I swear, one day I'm making chicken soup out of you!"
The rooster, undaunted, crowed even louder.
Then The boy collapsed back onto the floor, hair messy, eyes half-dead. "...Why's it always gotta be chickens?"
The rooster's ku-kooo, ku-kooo! still rang in his ears when a woman's voice drifted through the wooden door.
"Zeke? Are you awake already, sweety? Breakfast is ready."
His Face still half-buried in the pillow he'd just thrown, Zeke groaned, "Okay, Mom… I'll be there in thirty minutes."
A pause. Then her voice, sharper: "Thirty minutes? You'll be late for school!"
Zeke blinked, lifting his messy head off the floor. "…What? But it's Sunday."
"Sunday?" His mother's voice carried that tone only mothers had. "It's Monday, sweety."
Zeke's eyes shot wide open. He looked at the calendar at the wall saying today was Monday
A rush of cold panic jolted him upright. His heart hammered like he'd just seen a god again.
Zeke shot up like lightning, nearly ripping his blanket in half. He tore open his cabinet, yanked out his uniform, and somehow managed to put his shirt on backward.
Still panicking, he ran straight to the washroom. One hand brushing his teeth furiously, the other dragging a comb through his bird's-nest hair, he tried to stand on one foot while hopping into his pants.
From the kitchen, his mother's calm voice floated in "Don't forget to eat your breakfast, sweety!"
I'M TRYING!" Zeke shouted back, mouth still full of foam.
He stormed into the dining room,
By the corner stood his mother, black hair neatly tied back into a bun, her purple eyes glowing softly in the morning light. She wore an apron over her clothes, cleaning yet still graceful as ever.
At the table, a little girl sat with her feet dangling, too short to reach the floor. She had short red hair, and bright pink eyes sparkled like gems. A wide, innocent smile bloomed across her face as she waved eagerly.
"Brother!" she chirped, voice sweet as morning bells.
Zeke's smile at the middle of trouble, then added . "ohh? Good morning, Emelia."
Then he grabbed a piece of bread in one hand, and gulped down a glass of milk with the other. He looked like a desperate survivor stockpiling supplies before the apocalypse.
At the table, Emelia burst into giggles, almost spilling her juice. "mom... brother, look like a squirrel hiding food in its cheeks!"
Zeke, mouth still stuffed, pointed the bread at her like a weapon. "Dun— mff— fum— moff me! (Don't make fun of me)"
Emelia laugh harder, her pink eyes shining like she'd just discovered the funniest thing in the World.
***
Moments later, Zeke rushed out the door, still adjusting his half-tucked shirt. Beside him, Emelia trotted happily, her little hand clutching his. She wore a neat, finely pressed dress, ribbons tied in her red hair, looking every bit like the bright little sister ready to take on the day.
Zeke, by contrast, looked… "good enough."
From the doorway, their mother stood watching, black hair swaying in the breeze as she waved them off. Her purple eyes softened, the morning sun catching them like amethyst.
"Take care, you two!"
"Bye, Mom!" Emelia called back, swinging Zeke's arm as they walked.
Zeke gave a half-wave, left hand inside his pocket then a half-yawn.
Not far ahead, their small village comes into view—wooden houses, chimneys smoking, merchants setting up stalls, children and more students laughing in the streets, playing with their elemental powers. A simple, lively place, filled with warmth. But no ordinary people.