The darkness wasn't so bad anymore. It came and went, like waves lapping at a shore, pulling me under and then letting me surface. Each time I woke, the world felt a little sharper, a little more real. My tiny body was still a prison, but I was starting to get the hang of it—wiggling a finger here, blinking my eyes there. Small victories, but they kept me sane. The hum in my chest was my constant, a steady pulse that felt more like a friend every day. I didn't know what it was yet, but it was mine, and it was growing stronger.
The air around me was always thick with cold and the scent of burning wood. My mother's voice was my anchor, soft and steady, weaving stories of giants and shadowcats as she rocked me. Sometimes, she'd hum a tune, and the hum in my chest would match it, like they were singing together. It was weirdly comforting, like I wasn't just a stranger in this world but part of it. My father's voice was still rare, always laced with urgency—talk of stone and timber, of walls that would stand forever. Brandon the Builder, already obsessed with his legacy. I couldn't blame him. This was the Age of Heroes, and he was writing history with every stone he laid.
But something was off. I'd catch snippets of hushed conversations—words like "fever" and "strange light" when they thought I couldn't hear. Once, a woman with a voice like gravel leaned close, her breath sour with herbs, and muttered about "marks" on my skin. Marks? What marks? I couldn't exactly check myself in a mirror, but the hum flared when she spoke, like it was annoyed she'd noticed. I started to wonder if that cosmic collision had left more than just a feeling behind. Was it changing me? Was it visible?
I kept testing the hum, poking at it in my mind like a kid prodding a sleeping animal. Come on, give me something. Sometimes, it'd answer with a flicker, a burst of warmth that spread through me like sunlight. Other times, I'd get flashes—images that didn't make sense. A silver egg, pulsing with light. A forest that shimmered like it was made of emeralds. A voice, not human, whispering words I couldn't catch. Arceus? Mew? Celebi? I didn't know, but those flashes felt like pieces of a puzzle, clues to the wishes I'd made.
One night, the hum did more than flicker. I was half-asleep, lulled by the crackle of the fire, when it surged so hard it jolted me awake. My chest burned, not painfully, but like I'd swallowed a spark. For a moment, I saw something—a vast, endless plain, shimmering with colors I couldn't name. Piles of gold, rivers of crystal, trees heavy with fruit that glowed like stars. My infinite resource dimension? It was there, real, waiting. The hum pulsed again, and the vision faded, but I wasn't alone. Something else was with me—not the hum, but a presence, small and curious, like a shadow just out of sight. My friend, I thought, the one I'd asked for. It didn't speak, but I felt it nudge me, like a puppy bumping your hand for attention.
Then, chaos. A scream cut through the air—my mother's. The hum roared, and my tiny body thrashed, instinctively reacting to her panic. Heavy boots stomped closer, and a man's voice—not my father's—snarled something about "raiders" and "the north." My mother clutched me tight, her heart pounding against my cheek. The hum was wild now, buzzing so fiercely I thought it'd burst out of me. I didn't know what was happening, but I knew one thing: danger was close, and I was helpless.
Or was I? The hum seemed to disagree. It surged again, and this time, I felt a tug, like it was pulling me toward something. I focused, desperate, picturing that shimmering plain I'd seen. If you're there, help me. A flash—green again, like that forest from before. A soft chirp, almost too faint to hear. Celebi? I didn't know, but the air around me shifted, growing warmer, heavier. My mother gasped, and the snarling man's voice cut off mid-sentence. Silence followed, broken only by the wind outside.
When I opened my eyes—actually opened them, for the first time I could remember—the room was still. My mother stared down at me, her face pale, her eyes wide with something like awe. "You," she whispered, "you're no ordinary child." The hum settled, content, like it had done its job. I didn't know what had happened, but I knew one thing: I wasn't just a baby anymore. Something in me was waking up, and this world was about to get a lot more interesting.