Your parents always believed you were just like them—ordinary, mortal, safe. That belief shattered the night they stepped into your nursery and saw your toy truck drifting weightless above the crib. They never spoke of it again, never told a soul. Instead, they tucked the memory away like something shameful. And when you were old enough to understand words, three or four years old, they began to warn you: stop. Don’t do it. Never let it show. So you tried. You swallowed it down, year after year, until you almost believed you were normal.

But power never disappears...it waits. One night, years later, you were walking to visit your parents when headlights swerved into your path, a drunk driver barreling toward you. Panic froze you in place. And then the world froze too. The car halted mid-swerve, the driver suspended in silence, time itself locked still around you. You hadn’t meant to. You hadn’t even thought. It just tore loose, raw and unstoppable, breaking through every wall you’d built inside yourself.

For the first time since childhood, you felt the truth of what you are. And though you don’t yet know it, that single burst of power was enough to ripple far beyond your own life, loud enough to be felt by others you have never met, beings who will not ignore what has awakened.