(AN: First I want to say thank you to those who have taken the time to read my story.
I will be releasing 10 chapters today and then 10 again next week to make up for the week of Christmas and New Years I will be preoccupied.
Ok thanks again more at the end but for now lets get to it. Third of 10)
Age 13
The morning I left Medford didn't feel like a beginning.
It felt like a pause—the moment between heartbeats when the world holds its breath.
Mom was in the kitchen triple-checking the list she'd already memorized.
Two suitcases by the door, one backpack for books, one duffel for "just in case."
Dad was outside loading the truck, whistling low under his breath—the tune he used when he didn't trust his voice.
Sheldon stood beside the doorway with a clipboard.
"Checklist item one," he began. "Notebook, pencils, textbooks, differential-equation reference guides—"
"Shelly," Dad said, "he's goin' to college, not orbit."
Sheldon frowned. "Orbit would require significantly more mass."
Missy yawned from the couch. "So, if Stephen's gone, that means Sheldon moves into Georgie's room, right? Then I finally get my own?"
Dad sighed. "We'll talk about it."
"Translation: never," she muttered, grabbing her cereal.
I sat quietly at the table, watching the light crawl across the floorboards, trying to memorize the sound of home—the hum of the fridge, the slow creak of the ceiling fan, Mom's voice half-singing, half-sighing through the morning noise.
Then Meemaw arrived—perfume, cigarette, and confidence in equal measure.
She walked in like she owned the place, holding something wrapped in an old bandana.
"Morning, sugar," she said, setting it on the table. "Figured you might need a piece of home that doesn't talk back."
I unfolded the cloth. Inside was a worn silver lighter, edges dulled by time.
On one side, faintly engraved:
Don't overthink the spark.
I looked up. "Yours?"
"Since nineteen-sixty-something," she said. "Figured it oughta go to the kid who keeps tryin' to measure lightning."
Mom gave her a look. "You gave him a lighter?"
"It's symbolic," Meemaw said innocently. "Besides, he's the only one in this family smart enough not to burn the house down."
Dad chuckled. "Hard to argue with that."
I turned the lighter over in my hand, feeling the weight—small but certain.
"Thanks, Meemaw."
She winked. "Just remember: sometimes the best ideas start with a flick, not a formula."
Outside, the sky was soft gold—the kind of morning that looked almost kind.
We packed the last bag, took one last picture—Mom blinking back tears, Sheldon already composing a speech about academic legacy, Missy campaigning for room reassignment in the background, Georgie half-hugging me with barbecue-stained hands.
Dad started the truck. "You ready, son?"
I nodded. "Yeah. I'm ready, Dad."
As we pulled away, I looked back at the house shrinking in the rearview mirror—sunlight catching the windows just right, like sparks in motion.
For the first time, it didn't look smaller.
It just looked complete.
By the time we reached Austin, the sun hung low over the skyline, bleeding orange across the highway.
The campus rose out of the heat like something imagined—towers of brick and glass, students spilling across sidewalks, the air humming with the sound of possibility.
Dad pulled the truck up to the curb outside the Honors Youth Residence, a small dorm wing reserved for early-college admits.
"Well," he said, killing the engine, "looks like the big leagues."
Mom reached for my hand. "Remember to eat. Call every Sunday. And please, for the love of all that's holy, don't try to fix the dorm wiring."
"I'll try to resist," I said.
Sheldon leaned forward from the back seat, adjusting his glasses.
"Statistically, first-year college students who live on campus experience a thirty-seven percent drop in sleep efficiency. I recommend establishing a consistent study schedule."
"Translation," Georgie muttered, "don't pull all-nighters."
Mom turned and glared. "Georgie."
He shrugged. "What? I'm encouragin' responsibility!"
Meemaw leaned on the open window, cigarette dangling between two fingers.
"Give 'em hell, kid. And remember—if you ever feel lost, flip that lighter. Sparks always find their way."
I smiled. "Thanks, Meemaw."
Mom walked with me to the dorm, reminding me to focus on my studies and not let the older kids talk me into anything.
I sighed, half-listening, half-smiling.
Inside, the dorm smelled faintly of carpet cleaner and nerves.
Boxes lined the hallway, and someone down the corridor was already tuning a guitar.
A grad student with a UT lanyard approached, clipboard in hand.
"Stephen Cooper? Welcome to the Honors Youth Residence. You're one of our early admits, right?"
I nodded.
He handed me a key and a packet of rules. "Room 214, boys' wing down this hall. We've got a few other minors in the program—same supervision setup, study hours, curfew at nine. If you need anything, I'm Ben, your RA."
"Thanks," I said.
As I started down the hall, another family passed by—parents juggling boxes, a girl trailing behind them with a stack of textbooks balanced in her arms.
Paige.
She spotted me the same moment I recognized her, and the exhaustion of the move cracked into a smile.
"You weren't kidding," she said. "We really did it."
"Applied Mathematics, just like the plan," I said.
She laughed softly. "It feels strange actually standing in it, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," I said. "Strange—but right."
Ben looked between us, catching the familiarity. "You two know each other?"
"We had the same mentor back at East Texas Tech," I explained.
"Ah—Dr. Sturgis's kids. Got it," he said with a grin. "Well, that explains the early admission. Welcome aboard. Just remember—boys' wing, girls' wing, across the courtyard. You can wave at each other from the study lounge, but no crossing floors after curfew."
Paige rolled her eyes. "Understood."
When Ben moved on, we lingered by the stairwell, listening to the muffled noise of other students unpacking.
"They put me in 3-A," she said. "Across the courtyard. Mom already made them promise there's supervision."
"Sounds familiar," I said.
Outside, the campus bell chimed six times, echoing through the courtyard.
Paige looked out the window, sunlight catching her hair. "You think we're ready for this?"
"Probably not," I said. "But we'll get there."
She smiled—the spark back at last. "Yeah. We will."
When she headed upstairs, Mom and I went to my room. She helped me unpack, folding my clothes with the same care she always had, even though I'd never fold them that way again.
After a little while, it was time for her to go.
She smiled, though her eyes glistened. "Love you, Stephen."
"Love you too, Mom."
After she left, I set my notebook on the desk.
From my pocket, I pulled Meemaw's lighter and turned it over in my hand.
Don't overthink the spark.
The flame flickered once, small and sure.
Outside, the sun sank low over Austin—and for the first time, I felt ready to chase the light instead of studying it.
Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.
I have two other stories I am currently working on and I want to assure that it will not effect this story I have every thing planed out story wise.
The first story is called Naruto: Crimson Reaper
The story of a soul reincarnated into the naruto universe half Uzamaki half Chinoike
The second story has a work in progress name but it is a story a sould reincarnated as Cain (Bible) in the world of TVD/Originals.