Every story begins with a moment you didn't notice. A shift too small to have a sound.. but loud enough to change the direction of your entire life.
On a pale Thursday morning, the sun hung low over Agnos Secondary, as if it, too, was tired of pretending everything made sense. Tavì, fourteen, slight, observant, and quieter than most boys his age, walked through the school gates with his hands buried in his pockets. He wasn't avoiding the cold — he was avoiding the world.
People often mistook silence for shyness.
But Tavì wasn't shy.
He was thinking.
He always was.
He walked past the courtyard where a cluster of boys shouted over a football, the echo of their laughter bouncing against the walls. Tavì watched but didn't join. He analyzed them the way people analyze clouds — noticing shapes but never staying long enough to say what they reminded him of.
"Morning, Tavì!"
Nikos — tall, restless, a boy whose smile seemed permanently half-finished — jogged up beside him.
Tavì nodded. "You're early today."
"My uncle dropped me," Nikos replied, shrugging. "He was rushing to work so I got thrown out here like cargo."
Tavì's lips twitched. "At least you arrived alive."
"Barely," Nikos said dramatically, then lowered his voice. "Did you finish the history homework?"
"Yes."
"Let me copy after assembly."
"You always say that."
"And you always allow it," Nikos grinned.
They walked together, the kind of friendship that didn't need grand explanations — just a comfortable silence blending between steps.
Inside the hallway, lockers slammed open and shut, girls' voices stretched into thin laughter, and the smell of cheap perfume mixed with chalk dust. Tavì noticed everything — not because he was nosy, but because noticing things made him feel safe. The world made more sense when it came in small pieces.
Then he saw her.
Standing near the window, adjusting the strap of her bag, dark curls falling gracefully over her shoulder. Selah. The girl he had never spoken to, and yet somehow knew more deeply than some he'd known for years. She was in his math class, always sitting two rows ahead, always reading something during break times — poetry, mostly. He'd once caught a glance of her notebook and saw small lines of handwriting like delicate threads.
Nikos nudged Tavì's side.
"Still not talking to her?"
"There's nothing to talk about," Tavì said a bit too quickly.
Nikos snorted. "You look at her like you're trying to read her soul."
"I don't."
"You do."
Tavì turned toward his locker, pretending to search for something that wasn't there.
Selah was the kind of person you admired quietly — from a distance — because going too close felt like stepping into a dream you weren't prepared to wake from.
During assembly, Tavì's mind drifted past the principal's voice. His thoughts wandered to last week — when his mother asked if everything was okay because "you seem distant lately." He didn't know how to explain that nothing was wrong, but somehow nothing was right either. It was a strange in-between feeling, like standing in a room where the lights dim without warning.
At break time, Tavì and Nikos sat under the jacaranda tree. Purple petals lay scattered like forgotten confetti.
Stavros approached — broad-shouldered, calm, intentional in every step he took. "You two seen the new kid?" he asked.
"No," Nikos said, biting his sandwich. "Is he weird?"
"Probably," Stavros shrugged. "He asked me where he can find the library. Who asks that on the first day?"
Tavì chuckled softly. He would have asked the same.
They joked, talked about teachers, pretended to care about football scores — normal boy stuff. But deep inside, something kept tugging at Tavì, like a string tied to his ribs.
Life felt… scripted.
Classes continued - math, literature, science - a blur of voices and chalk lines. Tavì drifted between them all like he was walking inside a life that wasn't fully his. He tried to push the feeling away, but it lingered like a whisper behind him.
After school, he walked home alone, headphones in, music low enough that he could still hear cars passing. His house wasn't far - a quiet place with a cracked fence and a small garden his mother tried to keep alive despite never having time.
When he arrived, she was in the kitchen, apron on, hair tied up, humming an old hymn.
"How was school?" she asked without turning.
"Fine."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always the same."
She paused, looked at him more closely. "You're thinking again."
Tavì shrugged. "I always am."
She kissed the top of his head gently. "Just don't think yourself into sadness, my boy."
He nodded, though he wasn't sure if that's what it was. Was it sadness? Or was it something else - something like… curiosity mixed with emptiness?
Later, he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling fan. The house was quiet except for distant footsteps and murmured conversations. He pulled out his journal, the one he kept hidden behind his bookshelf.
Entry 47:
I feel like there's something wrong with the world. Not big things… small things. People talk but say nothing. Smile but feel nothing. Walk but go nowhere. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the one out of place.
He closed it quickly, as if the words were too loud.
That night, he dreamt of a mirror - fogged, cracked, and incomplete. He stood in front of it, trying to wipe it clean, but every time he touched the glass, someone else's hand appeared on the other side.
He woke up sweating.
---
The next morning, Tavì walked to school with heavier steps. The dream lingered like smoke. Halfway down the road, he pulled his jacket tighter, feeling something shift inside him - a quiet ache, a silent question, something he couldn't name yet.
He didn't know it, but life was already changing.
Not loudly.
Not suddenly.
But quietly - the way earthquakes begin deep beneath the soil.
And somewhere, far from where Tavì walked, something watched him back.
Something patient.
Something ancient.
Something that knew him long before he knew himself.
Some people grow up waiting for miracles. Tavì didn't know his miracle was waiting for him.
Watching.
Studying.
Preparing the truth he wasn't ready for.
And this was only the beginning.