Waiting is a skill.
I didn't know that in my previous life. Back then, waiting meant delays, approvals, someone else's schedule clogging your own. Here, waiting is survival. It's knowing when not to move, when not to speak, when to let the world pass over you like a dull blade instead of a sharp one.
I learn that lesson properly the day my father doesn't come home on time.
The sun dips low, painting Matra in tired shades of orange and rust. Vendors pack up. Footsteps thin. My mother stirs the pot for the third time even though there's nothing left to cook.
"He'll be late," she says, not looking at anyone in particular.
'That's what people say when they're afraid,' I think.
Selene asks when Father is coming back. Lio doesn't ask anything. He sits by the door, eyes fixed on the street, jaw tight.
I sit too.
Waiting.
When Darius finally appears, the relief in the room is so sharp it almost hurts.
He's limping worse than usual, clothes torn, dust ground into his skin like it doesn't want to leave. There's blood on his sleeve—not much, but enough.
"What happened?" my mother asks, already moving.
"Scaffolding," he says shortly. "Gave way."
He says it like it's nothing. Like gravity just woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
I help him sit. My hands shake a little, but I keep them steady.
'This,' I think, 'is why I hate waiting.'
The injury isn't bad enough to kill him.
That's the good news.
The bad news is that it's bad enough to stop him from working for a few days. Maybe more.
My mother knows it the moment she sees the swelling.
"We'll manage," she says softly, voice tight.
'I've heard that lie before,' I think. 'It never comes alone.'
The next few days stretch thin.
Food becomes smaller. Water gets measured. My father tries to stand on the second day and nearly falls. Lio catches him with reflexes too sharp for his age.
"Sit," Lio says. Not angry. Just firm.
Darius obeys.
'That's… new,' I think.
Something in our family is shifting. Not breaking. Rebalancing.
I start taking longer routes through Matra.
Not to avoid bullies—they're still there—but to understand the city better. Which alleys flood when it rains. Which walls hold heat at night. Which streets feel heavier, like something bad happened there and never fully left.
'Cities have memory,' I think. 'Just like people.'
Mana feels thicker in some places, thinner in others. It pools around old stone and drains near cracked foundations.
I don't touch it.
I just notice.
One evening, I sit on the roof.
It's not really a roof—just a flat stretch of patched stone where no one bothers you if you're quiet. The city spreads out below me, dim lights flickering like stubborn stars that refuse to go out.
I look up.
The real stars are brighter here. Sharper. Less drowned by ambition.
'Different sky,' I think. 'Same habit.'
I used to stare at the ceiling on Earth too. Back then, it was fluorescent panels and deadlines. Now it's constellations I don't know the names of.
I don't feel sad about it.
That surprises me.
Behind me, footsteps scrape lightly.
Lio joins me, sitting with the casual confidence of someone who belongs anywhere he chooses to be.
"You always come here," he says.
"It's quiet," I reply.
"Nothing's quiet," he says. "It just pretends."
I glance at him. 'That's… disturbingly accurate.'
"You think a lot," he continues.
"I've had practice."
He nods, accepting that like it explains everything. "When I think too much, things get loud."
"Same," I say. "I just don't let them win."
He smiles faintly. "Good."
That night, my father sleeps deeply for the first time since the accident.
My mother sits beside him long after everyone else has settled, fingers tracing patterns on the blanket like she's reminding herself he's real.
I lie awake, listening to their breathing.
'No magic,' I think again. 'No system. No miracle.'
Just time.
Just waiting.
The pressure in the air lingers.
Closer than before.
Not impatient.
Not kind.
Just… present.
I don't acknowledge it.
Some things aren't ready to be named.
Before sleep takes me, a final thought drifts through my mind.
'If this world wants me to wait,' I think, 'then I'll wait better than anyone.'
Because waiting, I've learned, has a shape.
And someday—
I'll fill it.