Despite the strange occurrences whispered across the world — the flickering skies, the voices in the static — nothing ever happened near the boy.
Not a flicker in the lights. Not a gust of wind out of place. Not even a strange dream.
It was as if something surrounded him — something quiet, invisible — keeping the strange world at bay.
By the time Angelo turned twelve, life in the Walker household was almost too normal.
His older brother, Alex, now seventeen, was in his final year of high school — smart, responsible, and the kind of guy who always woke up before his alarm. He was popular but never bragged, protective but never overbearing. If Angelo got into trouble, Alex was the first to show up — usually with a lecture and a snack in hand.
Their little sister, Emma, was just a toddler — bright-eyed and full of questions, always tugging at Angelo's shirt or crawling into his lap during TV time. She liked coloring books and stuffed animals, and for reasons no one understood, she thought Angelo could fix anything.
Their father, James, worked as a civil engineer, often leaving early and coming home late, his shirt wrinkled and his smile tired. But he always made time to check in — even if it was just a quiet knock on the bedroom door and a "How was your day, champ?"
Olivia, their mother, managed the home and ran a small bakery out of their kitchen. She filled the house with the smell of warm bread and cinnamon, humming old songs as she kneaded dough and packed orders. She had the rare gift of making even silence feel safe.
They lived in a calm part of town — no towering buildings, no blaring horns. Just clean streets, low fences, and neighbors who still waved at each other.
Angelo was in seventh grade. His grades were fine, his teachers liked him, and he had a small group of friends who mostly bonded over games and snacks. His days followed a routine: wake up, go to school, come home, help with chores, do homework, play, sleep. Rinse and repeat.
But lately… he felt it.
The sameness. The quiet.
It wasn't bad. But it wasn't enough.
He'd lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling while Emma snored faintly in the next room, and whisper into the dark:
"I wish something exciting would happen."
Sometimes he'd say more:
"I wish I had powers. Something cool. Something real."
He never meant anything harmful by it. It was just a dream — like wishing to be a superhero or to have secret wings.
But the more he dreamed it, the more it grew. It took root in his heart, and slowly, without realizing it, he began to believe it.
He'd doodle strange symbols in the margins of his notebooks without knowing why.
He'd find himself lost in thought during class, imagining stopping time or bending reality.
He even tried focusing really hard, hoping he could lift a pencil with his mind.
Nothing ever happened.