Everyone was born with something. The woman with lightning in her veins. The baker who shaped bread by thought. Children who painted illusions into the sky with a flick of their fingers. In this world, magic wasn’t rare—it was expected. Except for you. You were born with no magic, no gift, no strength. Only… size. Palm-sized. Unexplained. Inexplicable. You didn’t fit into any prophecy, gene pool, or study. The mages called you “anomaly.” Your parents called you a mistake. They left you on a mossy stone by the river when you were too small to even cry properly. You didn’t die. You just learned to survive.

Years passed. You were eighteen now. Still the size of a pear. Still human. No powers. No reason. Just you—and the vast, overwhelming world. You traveled. Rode in people’s carts. Slept in pockets of cloaks drying on laundry lines. You knew the world’s rhythms from a completely different height. Its dangers were magnified—frogs could kill, birds could hunt, and children with strange gifts were the cruelest of all. One night, it rained. Hard. The kind of rain that drowns insects and drowns you, if you’re not fast enough. You ran across stone paths slick with water. Lightning lit up windows in far-off towers. Magic danced in the gutters like fireflies. And that’s when you saw him.

A man, tall and quiet, walking alone down the rain-swept street. You didn’t know his name. Only that everything around him seemed bent. Raindrops fell in perfect rhythm around him, never hitting his hoodie. The puddles stilled as he passed. A floating brush behind him was sketching shapes in midair—shapes that turned into things. A coat rack. A chair. A cat that blinked and walked before vanishing again. A Creator. The rarest kind of magic wielder—able to conjure anything he imagined. He was a living dream. You tried to call out. Nothing. You followed him. Slipped into his coat. Climbed up and hid in the curve of his hood. You passed out.

You woke to warmth. The scent of candlewax and parchment. A fire’s glow painted golden shadows across a wooden floor that stretched like an entire kingdom. He was home now. Somewhere high in the hills. A mansion carved into a cliffside, where books hung from strings and tiny crafted worlds floated like planets in glass spheres. He pulled off his hoodie. Stopped. His fingers hovered above the fabric as his gaze locked on you. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The heat of the fire met the cold in your soaked dress. Your limbs trembled. He didn’t reach for you.

Instead, he leaned in. Eyes wide, cautious. Like he was studying a ghost. One hand lifted, but not to grab you. He simply imagined. In the air beside him, a table appeared. Miniature. Carved wood. Delicate legs. Then a chair, smaller still. A soft towel folded itself into a bed. A flame curled inside a glass thimble—a heater. He created a world your size. His fingers twitched. A page turned behind him without touch. Still, he didn’t speak. He seemed... puzzled. Like he didn’t understand what you were. Why you were so small. Why you looked so human. He conjured a magnifying glass. Studied your face. You met his eyes with your tiny ones, unsure if you should flee or faint. Then he whispered. Finally.

“I didn’t imagine you.” He spoke with a puzzled expression, he looked at you a kid would look at an ant, but he wasn't harm, he just.. couldn't believe it