I shook my head, trying to dispel my worries about Zenhaff, and headed for my room. I considered telling mr. Toshihiro what had happened, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Nebenbei was quieter than usual.

  Even the air seemed to be holding its breath. The echo of my footsteps tapped across the wooden floor with a rhythm that felt like more than sound—like presence. The entire place carried that elusive, dreamlike quality where everything appeared exactly where it should be… and yet somehow nowhere at all.

  Eventually, I reached my room.

  I was exhausted.

  But I had a clear goal.

  “Tonight, I become a master of meditation,” I declared out loud, as if simply saying it might make it true.

  I grabbed my pillow and dropped it onto the floor to sit on.

  Eyes closed.

  Deep inhale.

  Slow exhale.

  Ten seconds later, my nose itched.

  I scratched it.

  Tried again.

  Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale…

  My stomach growled like a dragon on a hunger strike. I cracked one eye open. The room remained just as dark and silent.

  “Focus, Maki,” I whispered to myself. “Empty your mind. Be like water.”

  I repeated mr. Toshihiro’s words like mantras.

  But the waters of my mind were crowded with chatterbox fish arguing among themselves.

  What if I never manage to use magic?

  What if mr. Toshihiro regrets taking me in?

  What if Akuma shows up tomorrow and turns me to ash?

  I shook my head irritably.

  “Alright, you stupid fish. Quiet.”

  I breathed again. This time, I imagined the air entering as light—filling my lungs, sweeping away the noise.

  For a few moments…

  It worked.

  Warmth bloomed in my palms. A faint tingling brushed my forehead, like an internal breeze. The world seemed to thicken, and the silence grew around me like a cocoon.

  Then—

  A sudden snap.

  My eyes flew open.

  “Did I do it?” I murmured, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Nothing.

  Just the room.

  The unmoving air.

  The distant sound of the lake.

  Still, I refused to give up. I shifted positions—cross-legged, kneeling, lying flat on my back. With each attempt, the floor felt harder, my thoughts louder.

  Time stretched.

  Minutes or centuries—I couldn’t tell.

  Far from calming me, the silence made me painfully aware of every heartbeat, every breath. Sometimes stillness is just as deafening as a storm.

  “The problem is… I think too much,” I muttered, rolling onto my side.

  I stared at the wooden floor.

  Its grain seemed to twist into symbols I hadn’t noticed before. Some lines curved into spirals, others linked like constellations etched into the wood.

  Near midnight, nearly defeated by exhaustion, I finally stopped struggling.

  I let my breathing return to its natural rhythm and simply listened.

  The faint creak of wood.

  The distant murmur of the lake beyond Nebenbei.

  My own heart, slow and weary.

  For a fleeting instant, the noise inside me receded.

  I felt light.

  As if I were floating like a leaf carried by the wind.

  There was no hunger.

  No fear.

  No impatience.

  Only silence.

  A silence so deep it seemed to possess texture, shape, weight—as though I could feel it with my entire body at once.

  Carefully, I opened my eyes.

  The air shimmered.

  Tiny filaments of iridescent light flickered in and out with my breath.

  The moment shattered when I promptly fell asleep sitting upright, mouth open, a thin line of drool descending majestically onto the cushion.

  Dawn arrived without asking permission.

  Zenhaff found me sprawled across the floor, pillow crooked beneath my head.

  Her laughter rang through Nebenbei like a bell struck at full force. She laughed until tears streamed down her whiskers.

  “Oh, little one,” she purred between chuckles, struggling to breathe, “if that’s your meditative state, you may indeed be ready for magic…”

  She grinned.

  “…the magic of sleep.”

  I groaned, rubbing my eyes.

  “Very funny. I was… practicing physical detachment,” I replied, attempting dignity.

  “Mhm. Detaching yourself from the floor, you mean.”

  She let out one last snicker and stretched along the doorframe.

  “So? How did it go?” the cat asked, licking her paw with feigned indifference.

  “I think… something happened. I don’t know if it was real. I felt energy—warmth in my hands. And… I don’t know. Maybe I actually made progress. A millimeter, perhaps, but progress nonetheless.”

  Zenhaff tilted her head.

  “That’s nothing to scoff at, human. If you learn to master meditation, you’ll master Ki.”

  “Ki?”

  “The vital current. The pulse that sustains all living things. Some search for it for years and never find it.”

  She eyed me with familiar irony, though something different glimmered in her gaze.

  “And you? How long will it take you?”

  Her words lingered with me long after she left.

  I sat again on the cushion, staring at the empty space where the colored lights had danced hours before. Nothing remained visible.

  Yet inside me, an echo persisted.

  “How do I know if what happened was real and not just… a pleasant dream?” I asked.

  Zenhaff’s tail lifted.

  “If it was real, you’ll know soon enough. Reality always leaves a mark—even when you can’t see it.”

  I watched her glide from the room with that feline elegance that felt like a spell in itself.

  The day had barely begun in Nebenbei. I wandered through the common areas, but mr. Toshihiro was still nowhere to be found, and the bazaar seemed half-asleep.

  I tried to distract myself—organizing my thoughts, reviewing what little I had learned—but every time I closed my eyes, the sensation returned.

  That faint vibration in my chest.

  The memory of a nameless melody.

  I attempted to calm myself, failed miserably, and returned to basics.

  Back to my room.

  Back to the cushion.

  Legs crossed.

  Eyes closed.

  This time, I forced nothing.

  I didn’t chase silence or stillness.

  I simply remained.

  At first, my mind resisted.

  Then—

  Something yielded.

  And I felt it.

  I became acutely aware of the air entering my lungs—its weight, its temperature, its intention. Each breath seemed to serve a greater purpose within me. It was no longer mere respiration, no simple exchange of gases.

  The air was connecting points that had once been separate.

  Was this… a timid trace of the Ki Zenhaff mentioned?

  For one suspended instant, there was no boundary between my body and the world around me.

  Perhaps meditation was not about silencing the mind…

  …but listening to it without fear.

  Magic did not begin with control.

  It began with surrender.

  I opened my eyes and smiled.

  I hadn’t conjured fire.

  I hadn’t floated.

  But something inside me had shifted.

  For the first time, I no longer felt like I was searching for magic.

  It felt as though magic

  was searching for me.