The morning sun pierced the stained-glass windows of Chen Manor with the delicate violence of a god splitting the sky. Leo watched dust motes dance in the sunbeams, each particle a tiny galaxy spinning in the cathedral of his family's breakfast nook. The room smelled of burnt toast, ozone, and something deeper—the scent of other worlds clinging to his family like cosmic perfume.
"Leo, your posture," his mother said without looking up from her tea. Li Hua sat as if her spine were a column holding up the heavens. Her fingers, elegant as calligraphy brushes, traced the rim of a porcelain cup that steamed with rainbows. "A straight back channels chi. A slouch invites misfortune."
"Misfortune's already here," Leo muttered, eyeing his father.
Bai Zheng stood at the marble counter, cracking eggs one-handed. Each shell shattered with the sound of miniature thunder. His muscles moved under his t-shirt like tectonic plates rearranging themselves. He was a mountain range masquerading as a man, all granite shoulders and seismic presence.
"Eggs need respect," Dad grunted, whisking with a fork that bent slightly in his grip. "Protein builds foundation. Foundation supports greatness."
Leo's sister, Maya, floated three inches above her chair, a thick grimoire levitating before her. Her eyes—violet today, shifting with arcane energies—scanned pages that whispered secrets in dead languages. She absently stirred her oatmeal with a finger, the oats arranging themselves into fractal patterns.
"The oatmeal is attempting communication," she announced. "It's describing its journey from oat to bowl in iambic pentameter. Quite eloquent for a grain."
"Eat it before it writes an epic," Leo said, reaching for the normal cereal. The box promised "toasted whole grains" and "no reality-bending side effects." It was his small rebellion.
Grandfather Wei Yuan entered last, a man who moved like a season changing. His silver hair caught the light and held it prisoner. He smiled—a gentle curve that somehow made the room feel both safer and more dangerous.
"Ah, the family gathers," he said, voice like stones smoothed by centuries of rivers. "The morning ritual. The breaking of fast and the forging of bonds."
He took his seat at the head of the table, and the house sighed in contentment. Chen Manor was more than a house—it was a living thing, a Victorian-Gothic hybrid that sprawled across five hundred acres of whispering woods and manicured madness. Its walls remembered things the family had forgotten, and its foundations went deeper than stone.
The first catastrophe occurred when Dad brought the eggs to the table. He moved with the subtle grace of a comet—fast, inevitable, destructive. His elbow brushed a vase that held flowers Mom had grown from seeds she claimed were "gifted by a lunar goddess."
The vase teetered.
Time slowed. Or maybe Dad accelerated. His hand blurred, caught the vase with two fingers, set it down with a tenderness that belied his mountain-crushing strength. Not a drop spilled.
"Reflexes," he said, as if explaining gravity. "Always sharp after meditation."
Mom's eyes narrowed. "Those are celestial lilies, Bai. Their pollen induces prophetic dreams. A waste if shattered."
"Nothing shattered," Dad said, cracking his neck. "Control. Precision. The hallmark of true mastery."
"The hallmark of true mastery," Maya said without looking up from her book, "would be not almost breaking things in the first place. Just a thought."
Dad's eyebrow twitched—a seismic event. "A warrior's instincts—"
"Are for battlefields," Mom cut in, sipping her rainbow tea. "This is a breakfast table. We have different rules here."
Grandfather watched them all, his smile deepening. "Conflict is natural. Like rivers cutting canyons. The question is not whether there will be friction, but what shape it carves."
Leo shoveled cereal into his mouth, hoping to disappear into the mundane act of chewing. This was his life: a daily negotiation between the cosmic and the cornflake. He loved them—he truly did—but sometimes he wished his family's idea of "normal" didn't involve debating chi flow over scrambled eggs.
The second catastrophe was more subtle.
Maya's oatmeal finished its epic poem and decided to evolve. The fractals in her bowl began spinning, rising in a miniature tornado of grain and honey. A tiny face formed in the swirl—a benevolent oat deity.
"Fascinating," Maya murmured. "Spontaneous culinary consciousness. I should document this."
"Or eat it," Leo said. "It's oatmeal."
"It's a being having an existential awakening!" Maya protested. "To consume it now would be deicide!"
"It's cinnamon and oats," Dad said. "Eat your god, Maya. Protein."
Mom sighed—a sound like wind through immortal bamboo forests. "Must we have theological debates with breakfast foods? It sets a poor tone for the day."
The oat deity, perhaps sensing its impending digestion, launched itself from the bowl. It flew—a sticky, honeyed projectile—straight toward Dad's face.
What happened next was a symphony of overreaction.
Dad's hand snapped up, catching the oatmeal-being between thumb and forefinger. The motion was so fast it created a small vacuum that sucked the tablecloth toward him.
Mom flicked her wrist. A gust of perfumed wind—smelling of jade and distant stars—intercepted the vacuum, neutralizing it before it could suck in the silverware.
Maya chanted two words in a language that made the lightbulbs flicker. The oatmeal-being froze in mid-air, suspended in a bubble of crystallized time.
Grandfather raised a finger. The bubble floated gently to his palm. He studied the frozen oat-face with academic curiosity. "Hmm. Primitive soul-structure. More emotion than intelligence. Like a golden retriever made of breakfast."
He blew on it gently. The oatmeal dissolved into golden dust that settled on his toast. "There. Crisis averted. And my toast is blessed."
The table fell silent. Four sets of extraordinary eyes turned to Leo, who had watched the whole event while methodically chewing his cereal.
"What?" he said through a mouthful of processed grains.
"You're taking this rather calmly," Mom observed.
Leo swallowed. "It's Tuesday. Last Monday, Dad accidentally punched a hole in reality while doing push-ups. Wednesday, Mom grew a tree that bore glass fruit containing memories of dead emperors. Thursday, Maya taught the furniture to rearrange itself based on our moods. This?" He pointed at the glittering toast. "This is a mild Tuesday."
Grandfather's eyes twinkled. "He has a point. We are... a lot."
"We're family," Dad said, as if that explained everything. And in a way, it did.
After breakfast, Leo escaped to the grounds. The Chen Estate spread before him—a kingdom of curated strangeness. To the north, the Whispering Woods where trees murmured secrets in languages only Grandfather understood. To the east, Mirror Lake that reflected not your face, but your potential. To the south, the Hedge Maze that changed its layout based on family arguments (it was currently particularly labyrinthine, suggesting unresolved tensions).
And to the west, the perimeter fence. It hummed at a frequency that vibrated Leo's teeth. The "security system," installed by the Dimensional Anomaly Containment Bureau after "the incident with the sky turning inside out." They claimed it was for everyone's protection. Leo suspected it was more like a zoo enclosure.
He walked toward the woods, needing the simplicity of trees that were just trees. Halfway there, he saw her.
A girl knelt in the botanical garden, tending to flowers that had no business existing. She was about his age, with black hair tied in a messy bun and dirt smudged on her cheek. She wore practical clothes—jeans, boots, a green vest—but moved with a dancer's grace as she pruned a bush whose blossoms changed color with each snip.
"They're mood flowers," she said without looking up. Her voice was clear, unpretentious. "Blue for melancholy, gold for joy, violet for curiosity. This one—" she pointed to a bloom shifting through seven colors rapidly "—is having an identity crisis."
"Aren't we all," Leo said before he could stop himself.
She looked up then. Her eyes were the color of forest shadows—deep, knowing, calm. "You're Leo. The normal one."
"That's the rumor."
"I'm Maya Lin. My dad manages the gardens." She wiped her hands on her pants. "Your family is... interesting."
That was one word for it. "They're something."
She studied him with the same clinical curiosity she'd shown the flowers. "You don't float. Or glow. Or bend space when you walk."
"Disappointing, I know."
"Refreshing," she corrected. She stood, brushing soil from her knees. "Most people around here are trying so hard to be extraordinary. You're just... present."
It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him in weeks. "Thanks. I think."
She nodded toward the manor. "Your grandfather hired us. Said the estate needed 'living things that remember how to simply grow.' I like him. He tips in ancient coins that shouldn't exist but spend just fine."
That sounded like Grandfather. "He's full of surprises."
Maya Lin smiled—a quick, genuine thing that made the weird morning worth it. "Aren't we all? See you around, Leo the Normal."
She went back to her flowers. Leo continued to the woods, feeling lighter than he had in days.
The third catastrophe struck at dinner.
They were eating Mom's "five-element soup"—a concoction that supposedly balanced cosmic energies and tasted like ginger and regret—when the walls began to bleed light.
Not blood. Light. Amber tendrils seeped from the wallpaper, coalescing into shimmering figures that resolved into three men in black suits. They wore sunglasses despite the indoor gloom.
"The Chen residence," said the lead man, his voice clipped, bureaucratic. "Dimensional Anomaly Containment Bureau. We're here for the quarterly inspection."
Dad stood so fast his chair disintegrated. "No one enters my home uninvited."
"Your home exists on a reality-fault line," the agent said, unruffled. "Our jurisdiction is mandated by the Copenhagen-Witten Act, subsection 34-B. You may review the paperwork."
He produced a tablet that glowed with lines of legalese that hurt to look at.
Mom rose with more grace, her silk dress whispering secrets as she moved. "You tracked mud on my floors."
The agent looked down. Indeed, his shoes left faint prints that smoked slightly. "Apologies. Dimensional residue. It'll evaporate."
"It's Persian," Mom said coldly. "Sixteenth century. Woven by blind artisans who understood the mathematics of beauty."
While Mom debated rug preservation with interdimensional bureaucrats, and Dad crackled with barely-contained violence, Maya did something subtle. Her fingers twitched under the table. The agents' tablets flickered, their screens showing cat videos instead of regulations.
Grandfather remained seated, sipping his soup. "Gentlemen. The last inspection was two weeks ago. Is there a problem?"
"Anomaly spike," the lead agent said, glaring at his malfunctioning tablet. "Reality distortion levels at 8.7 Cerberus. Threshold is 3.0. We're required to investigate."
"Reality distorts around passion," Grandfather said mildly. "We were having a lively debate about whether cilantro tastes like soap or enlightenment."
"Cilantro's taste is a genetic polymorphism," Maya supplied helpfully. "Not a philosophical quandary."
"Everything is a philosophical quandary if you look closely enough," Grandfather countered.
Leo watched the agents. Their professionalism was flawless, but their eyes kept darting to the family members, cataloging. Measuring. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the soup.
Something about them was... off. Not wrong, exactly. But like they were following a script written in a language no one spoke anymore.
The lead agent's gaze settled on Leo. "You. You're the only one without a signature."
"Signature?"
"Reality imprint. Everyone leaves a mark. You're... blank. Like you've been erased."
Before Leo could process that, Dad stepped between them. "My son is none of your concern."
The agents exchanged glances. Something unspoken passed between them. "Very well," the lead agent said. "Inspection complete. For now. But we'll be watching. Reality must be maintained."
They dissolved into amber light, leaving only the smell of ozone and bureaucracy.
Silence fell over the dining room.
"Well," Mom said, examining her rug. "The residue is fading. But the disrespect lingers."
"They were measuring us," Maya said, her eyes back to their normal brown, wide with realization. "Not inspecting. Measuring. Like specimens."
Grandfather set down his spoon. "They're doing their job. Maintaining equilibrium. It's nothing personal."
But Leo saw the worry in his grandfather's eyes. And he remembered the agent's words: You're blank. Like you've been erased.
After dinner, he went to the attic—the one place the family rarely visited. It was a museum of forgotten things: trunks of clothes from wrong eras, paintings of ancestors who looked suspiciously like them, a globe with continents that didn't exist.
In a dusty corner, he found a journal. The cover was leather, worn smooth. He opened it.
The first page showed a family tree. But instead of names, there were symbols. At the top: a mountain, a crown, a book, and... a question mark.
Next to the question mark, in Grandfather's handwriting: "Cycle 1. The variable. Will he change the equation?"
Leo flipped through. Page after page of observations, but the dates were wrong. 1923. 1850. 1347. Each entry described a "Chen family" with a mountain (Dad), a crown (Mom), a book (Maya), and a variable.
Always a variable.
The last entry was dated one week ago: "Cycle 887. The variable is awake. The equation trembles. The gardeners are watching more closely. We must grow carefully now."
Leo's hands shook. He looked out the attic window, down to the gardens below. Maya Lin was still there, watering flowers under the moonlight. As if sensing his gaze, she looked up. Their eyes met across the distance.
She smiled—that quick, genuine smile—and gave a small wave.
Leo waved back, the journal heavy in his hands. The variable. The question mark. The one who was "blank."
The house settled around him with a sigh that sounded like, "At last. You're beginning to see."
Outside, the perimeter fence hummed louder, a cage tuning itself to its occupant's awakening thoughts.