The dust in Kansas didn't taste like the dust in New York. In the city, the air had a grit to it—exhaust, recycled subway air, and the smell of eight million people all trying to get somewhere at once. Out here in Smallville, the air tasted like nothing. Just wide, open nothing, stretching out until the blue of the sky touched the gold of the fields.
My name is Sage Hall, and right now, I'm sitting on the bumper of our wood-paneled station wagon, watching my life change one cardboard box at a time.
"Sage, honey, don't just sit there catching flies with your mouth open," my mother, Rashandra, called out. She was leaning against the porch railing of our new house—a Victorian-style building with white paint that was peeling like a sunburn. "Help your Aunt Region with those heavier crates."
I hopped off the bumper, my sneakers hitting the gravel with a crunch that felt too loud in the quiet of this neighborhood. We'd been here for maybe twenty minutes, and I already felt like a sore thumb. See, we're a Black family moving into a town where, so far, the only other person I've seen is a mailman who looked like he'd seen a ghost when we pulled into the driveway.
"I don't know why we had to come to the middle of a cornfield," Aunt Rose grumbled, stepping out of the house. She was wearing oversized sunglasses and carrying a single lamp like it was a heavy burden. "There's more cows here than people. It's unnatural. My skin is going to dry out just looking at all this dirt."
"It's quiet, Rose," my Grandmother Pandora said, stepping out behind her. She looked tiny compared to the massive front door, but she walked with a grace that made her seem seven feet tall. "Quiet is what we need. New York was getting crowded. Too many eyes. Too many sensors."
"It's full of white people, Mama! That's what it's full of!" Rose snapped back. "We're gonna stick out like a neon sign in a library."
Smack.
Grandmother Pandora didn't even look like she moved, but her hand connected with the back of Rose's head with a crisp pop.
"Watch that mouth," Pandora said calmly. "We are here for a fresh start. Not to audition for a comedy special. Now, get that lamp inside before I decide to turn it into a hat for you."
Rose pouted, rubbing her head and muttering under her breath, but she scurried inside. I watched her go, then turned my attention back to Aunt Region.
Aunt Region didn't do manual labor in the traditional sense. She was standing by the open trunk of the car, her fingers twitching in a rhythmic, melodic pattern.
"Sage, watch the corner of this one," Region whispered.
I watched as a heavy wooden crate—the one filled with Grandma's special books—slowly rose into the air. It didn't have wings, and there were no wires. It just hovered, surrounded by a soft, shimmering emerald green light. The air around the box rippled like heat rising off a highway.
Yes, you read that right. Levitation. To most kids, this would be the part where they scream or call the news. To me? It was just Tuesday.
My family is unique. And I don't mean we have a secret recipe for ribs unique. I mean we aren't entirely from this neighborhood of the universe unique.
According to Grandmother Pandora, she isn't from Earth at all. She told me when I was five years old, tucked under a quilt that smelled like lavender and ozone, that she came from a planet called Anodyne. She said her race is called the Anodites.
"We are not flesh and bone in the way humans are, Sage," she had told me, her eyes glowing with a faint, inner light. "Anodites are beings of pure Mana—the life energy of the universe itself. We wrap ourselves in these skins to walk among others, but inside, we are stars."
It sounds like something you'd read about in the Daily Planet or hear whispers about in Metropolis, but this was our family. Grandmother says that while some people in this world get their powers from yellow suns or fancy gadgets, we are simply part of the universe's natural rhythm.
The coolest part? The colors.
Grandmother says every Anodite has a specialized Mana Color that reflects their soul. Grandmother Pandora is a vibrant, shimmering pink. My Mother, Rashandra, wields a deep, fiery red. Aunt Region flows with a bright green. Aunt Rose, when she's not complaining, manifests a sharp, electric yellow.
And then there's me.
I'm eight years old, so I'm still what Grandma calls a spark. I can't fly or shield a skyscraper yet. But since I turned six, Grandma has been teaching me the basics. Sometimes, when I concentrate really hard—so hard my ears pop—I can make my hands glow a soft, electric blue.
"Blue is the color of the sky before a storm," Grandma told me once. "It is a color of potential."
"Sage! Earth to Sage!"
I blinked, snapping out of my thoughts. Aunt Region was gesturing toward the house. The green-rimmed crate was floating about three feet off the ground, waiting for me to guide it.
"I'm coming, Mama!" I shouted back to my mom, who was already disappearing inside with a stack of pillows.
I walked over to the floating box. I reached out, not touching the wood, but feeling the warmth of the green energy radiating from it. It felt like standing near a toaster.
"Keep your focus, Little Spark," Region said, her eyes glowing faintly green behind her sunglasses. "If I drop this, your Grandma's crystal ball collection becomes a puzzle we can't put back together."
"I got it, I got it," I said, puffing out my chest.
I concentrated. I felt that familiar itch in the center of my palms. I imagined the blue light, the color of a summer lake, swirling under my skin. Slowly, a faint blue mist began to curl around my fingers. I grabbed the air beneath the box, adding my little bit of blue Mana to Region's green.
Together, we walked toward our new home. The neighbors across the street—a middle-aged couple holding a pitcher of lemonade—froze on their porch. Their eyes went wide as they watched a heavy wooden crate drift through the air, escorted by a woman in a sun hat and a small boy whose hands were literally glowing.
Aunt Region didn't even look at them. She just waved a hand, and the front door swung open on its own.
"Welcome to Smallville," she smirked.
I followed her inside, the blue light in my hands flickering as I adjusted to the shadows of the hallway. The house was big—bigger than anything we could have had in New York. The floors creaked, and the air was still, but it felt alive in a way the city never did.
"Sage! Stop playing with the air and get these kitchen boxes open!" my mom yelled from the hallway.
"Okay, okay!" I laughed, letting the blue light fade as the box settled onto the dusty hardwood floor.
I stood there for a second, looking at my hands. They were still tingling. This was Smallville. It was quiet, it was flat, and it was far away from everything I knew. But as I watched my mother and aunts moving around, their different colors of light illuminating the dark corners of the old house, I knew one thing for sure.
We weren't going to be just another family in a small town.
I pushed through the swinging wooden door that led into the kitchen. It was a massive, airy room with a black-and-white checkered floor that looked like a giant chessboard and a heavy cast-iron stove that looked older than the town itself. My mother, Rashandra, was already busy. She wasn't just unpacking; she was orchestrating.
A shimmering deep red light clung to her fingers like liquid fire as she gestured toward a stack of dinner plates. They flew from the cardboard box, one by one, slotting themselves neatly into the overhead cabinets with rhythmic clicks.
"You're late, Sage," she said, her voice echoing off the high ceiling. She didn't turn around, but I knew she could feel me there. Anodites don't just see with their eyes; they feel the hum of the Mana in the room. "The glasses aren't going to walk themselves to the cupboard."
"I was helping Aunt Region with the heavy stuff," I said, walking over to a box labeled KITCHEN - FRAGILE. I focused, trying to mimic the way she moved. I took a deep breath, felt the warmth in my chest, and pushed it down into my arms. My hands flickered with that electric blue glow, and I managed to lift a stack of four juice glasses. They wobbled in the air, surrounded by my blue mist.
"Steady, baby," Mama whispered, her red light glowing a bit brighter. "Don't just use your hands. Use your breath. The Mana is part of the air, too."
I guided the glasses to the shelf. It was hard work—it felt like trying to hold a dozen balloons underwater. Just as the last glass touched the wood, the door swung open and Grandmother Pandora walked in, followed by Aunt Rose and Aunt Region.
"He's getting stronger," Grandmother Pandora observed. She walked over to the center of the kitchen, her presence filling the room. Even though she looked like a grandmother in a floral dress, I could see the pink shimmer beneath her skin—the raw power of an Anodite.
"He's clumsy," Rose muttered, tossing her yellow-tinted sunglasses onto the counter. "He almost took out my ankles with that crate outside."
"He's eight, Rose. You didn't even stop glowing until you were ten," Region reminded her, leaning against the doorframe. Her emerald green energy was still swirling lazily around her wrists.
Grandmother Pandora held up a hand, and the room went silent. She looked at me, her eyes burning with an intense, ancient light.
"The transition to this world, to this Smallville, is more than just a change of scenery," Pandora said. Her voice dropped an octave, carrying a massive, booming authority that seemed to vibrate the very floorboards. It was loud, heavy, and left no room for question. "The energy of this place is different from the city. It is raw. It is untethered. Sage, you have shown the discipline of a spark, but the time has come for you to become the flame."
Mama stopped the plates mid-air, looking startled by the sheer volume of Grandma's command. "Mama, he's just a kid. We just got here."
"He is a Hall," Pandora countered, her voice filling every corner of the kitchen like a physical weight. "And in this place, under this sun, his potential will grow faster than you realize. He is ready for more rigorous training. He must learn to weave the Mana, not just lift with it."
Mama sighed, the red light around her fingers softening. She knew better than to argue when Grandmother spoke with that kind of absolute power. "Fine. But we do it safely. No flying until he can at least shield himself."
"I want to learn the blue fire!" I said, my eyes wide. "The kind that moves like lightning!"
"Patience, Sage," Region laughed, reaching out to ruffle my hair.
Suddenly, Grandmother Pandora's head snapped toward the front of the house. The pink glow vanished instantly, replaced by the mask of a perfectly normal woman.
"Company," she whispered. "And they're at the porch."
The transformation was instant. Mama's red light winked out, and the plates dropped onto the shelves with a clatter. Aunt Region hid her hands in her pockets, and Rose smoothed her hair, losing the yellow sparks in her curls.
"Act normal," Mama hissed. "Sage, keep your hands in your pockets."
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Mama opened the door, and the bright Kansas sunlight poured in. Standing on the porch were Jonathan and Martha Kent. Jonathan was a sturdy man with a warm smile, and Martha held a circular dish wrapped in a checkered cloth.
"Morning! I'm Jonathan Kent, and this here is my wife, Martha," the man said, tipping his cap. "We run the farm just down the road. We saw the truck and wanted to welcome you to Smallville."
"Thank you," my mother said, smiling. "I'm Rashandra. This is my mother, Pandora, and my sisters, Region and Rose. And this is Sage."
I waved from behind Mama, my hands shoved deep in my pockets to hide the blue tingling.
"I brought over an apple pie," Martha said, handing the warm dish to Aunt Region. "It's my recipe from the Fall Festival last year. Thought you might need a real meal after all that moving."
"That is so kind of you," Grandmother Pandora said, her voice now sweet and grandmotherly, the booming authority from the kitchen completely hidden.
"You don't have any little ones of your own?" Rose asked, looking at the couple.
Martha's smile stayed kind, though a tiny bit of sadness touched her eyes. "No, it's just the two of us out on the farm. But that just means we have plenty of time to look after our neighbors."
Jonathan looked down at me and winked. "So, Sage, you think you're gonna like it here? It's a far cry from New York."
"It's okay," I said, trying to sound like a regular kid. "It's real big."
Jonathan laughed. "That it is, son. Well, we'll let you get back to it. But the Kent Farm is always open if you need anything."
As they walked back to their truck, the Hall family stood in the doorway. The moment the truck pulled away, the normal act ended. Rose let out a breath of yellow sparks.
"They seem nice," Rose said. "A little too quiet, but nice."
"They are good neighbors, Rose," Grandmother Pandora said, her voice regaining its firm, commanding edge. She looked at me. "But remember—tomorrow, we begin. Your training will be like nothing you've felt before."
I looked at my hands, feeling the blue light buzzing under my skin. I was ready.