"Mom?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, as I sat perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, watching Mom chop vegetables. The scent of herbs filled the air, a comforting counterpoint to the strange weight in my chest.
"Hmm?" She glanced up, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "What is it, sweetheart?"
"Do you… do you believe in magic?"
Her smile widened, a genuine laugh bubbling up. "Magic, Lynn? Now, honey, what's gotten into you?"
"Well," I started, fiddling with a loose thread on my apron, "I've been having these dreams. They're… different. Like, I can feel things, not just see them. It's… I don't know how to explain it, but it's like, I can feel other people's fears, almost."
Mrs. Harper chuckled, the sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "Fears? My dear, you're just imagining things. You're having active imaginations. Dreams are just… well, dreams. You're getting older, and sometimes these things happen."
I swallowed hard. The easy dismissal, the gentle wave of her hand, was almost comforting. But I couldn't shake the distinct impression that the dreams were more than just imaginative creations. "But… Mom, it's not just seeing, right?" I felt my eyes dart towards her, searching for confirmation, for acceptance.
"Of course not," she said, returning to her chopping. "Just… rest well, Lynn. Now, finish your breakfast."
I sat there for a moment, the warmth of her affirmation still lingering around me. But the persistent pull of the dreams, the lingering feeling of something more, persisted. I sighed. I tried to look at her from a different perspective. It wasn't possible. The idea of magic was ridiculous.
The next few days were a strange blank canvas. I woke up feeling… normal. The dreams had vanished, leaving behind only a quiet emptiness. No more whispers in the dark, no more terrifying shadows. A sense of relief washed over me, a quiet peace. I was just Lynn, again. Just a girl.
I wished it could stay this way. I wanted to be normal. I wanted the mundane routine of school, friends, and the familiar comfort of home. The thought of the dreams, of the sensations, of the inexplicable power, was unsettling, almost scary. I didn't want that power.
I stopped talking about magic. I stopped mentioning the dreams. I just tried to blend back in, to be the Lynn everyone knew, the girl who loved her books, her friends, and her family. I wanted to forget about the things that made me feel different. I wanted to disappear into the background. I wanted to be normal.
The quiet normalcy of my life, devoid of the unsettling dreams, felt almost… suffocating. The world felt muted, the colors a little less vibrant. The familiar hum of everyday existence was a welcome sound, but it also felt strangely empty. I missed the intense, if terrifying, connection I'd felt in those dreams, the strange pull of something unknown.
I found myself retreating further into the background. My usual animated chatter with friends had become subdued, replaced by a quiet, cautious observation. I avoided any hint of "weirdness," any mention of the unusual occurrences. I wanted to disappear, to become invisible, like a wisp of smoke in the wind.
School became a blur of classes and assignments. I excelled, not out of any great intellectual passion, but out of a desperate need to conform, to prove that I was just like everyone else. My laughter became less frequent, my enthusiasm dimmed. The world felt like a performance I was meticulously playing, a role I was determined to perfect.
The silence in my room was unnerving. The void left by the dreams was a hollow echo, a constant reminder of the part of myself I'd buried. The nights were remarkably peaceful, but that peace felt hollow. The dreams hadn't just vanished; they'd been extinguished, snuffed out, and the embers of what they'd represented remained smoldering within me.
One day, during a particularly mundane history lesson, I was staring blankly out the window, lost in a sea of thoughts, when a single word caught my ear. A classmate, whispering to a friend, uttered the word "obsidian."
My breath hitched. The word, the material, the image...it was from the dreams, one of the fragmented pieces of the puzzle. A shiver of unease ran down my spine. A flicker of the old connection, faint but undeniable, ignited within me. Could that be? Was it still there?
The obsidian building...the fragmented visions...the inexplicable sensations. Had I really just forgotten?
A strange compulsion welled up inside me. A desire to understand, to explore the hidden corridors of my own mind, to rediscover what I'd so desperately tried to erase. It was a dangerous path. But the allure of the unknown, the whisper of the forgotten, was too strong to ignore.
I opened my textbook, forced myself to concentrate, but my mind drifted. What if it wasn't gone? What if the dreams were not just a phase? What if, instead of being the silent observer, I could become an active participant? The obsidian building beckoned, a silent promise in the shadows of my mind. The world still felt dull, but within that dullness, a spark ignited. A spark that told me my journey had just begun. My normal life held a secret, waiting to be discovered. The quiet, ordinary life I'd desperately sought felt increasingly… ordinary.