By the third day after you almost die, the world stops treating you like glass.
That's how I know things are truly back to normal.
My mother no longer watches every breath I take like it might be my last. My father stops hovering near the door when I stand up. Even Selene loses interest in checking whether I'm still solid and returns to using me as furniture whenever it suits her.
'Congratulations,' I think. 'You've been downgraded from emergency to responsibility.'
Honestly, it's a relief.
My body still aches, but the pain has changed shape. It's no longer the deep, all-consuming soreness of survival. It's smaller now. Localized. Muscles complaining about being used properly for the first time instead of abused or ignored.
I stretch slowly, feeling tendons pull and relax in sequence.
Nothing snaps.
Good start.
Morning chores resume with quiet insistence.
I carry water from the well, the bucket heavier than it looks and lighter than it used to feel. My grip is steadier now, fingers adjusting instinctively to sloshing weight. I don't rush. Rushing wastes energy and spills water, and both are unacceptable luxuries.
At the well, the usual cluster of kids is already there.
They're louder than necessary, shoving and laughing and asserting their existence like it might fade if they don't. One of them glances at me, then looks away.
No comment.
No shove.
'Interesting,' I think. 'Either I'm invisible, or I've become boring.'
Both outcomes are excellent.
On the way back, I take the longer route.
Not to avoid anyone. Just to walk.
The city teaches through repetition. Uneven stones remind you where to step. Narrow alleys teach awareness. Crowds teach timing. Matra doesn't forgive mistakes quickly, but it's very consistent about consequences.
I feel the world around me more clearly now—not mana, not power, just space. Distances make sense. My body knows where it is without needing constant supervision.
'This is new,' I think. 'I used to live entirely from the neck up.'
That life didn't end well.
Back home, my father is repairing a broken stool.
He doesn't ask for help. He never does. I sit nearby anyway, holding a board steady when he needs it, handing him tools without being asked. The rhythm settles between us easily.
"You're not shaking," he says suddenly.
I blink. "Should I be?"
"No," he replies. "Just… noticing."
I nod.
'Me too,' I think.
By midday, the heat presses down hard enough to make everyone irritable.
I retreat to the shade near the old wall again—the one that feels heavier somehow, like it remembers better days. I sit, back against stone, and let my breathing slow.
I don't close my eyes.
I don't reach.
I just… exist.
The pressure in the air is there, constant and patient. Mana brushes my awareness like a tide that never quite reaches shore.
I acknowledge it without engaging.
A faint tension forms behind my eyes.
I ease back immediately.
'Boundary respected,' I think. 'We're getting good at this.'
The tension fades.
The system remains silent.
Not inactive. Just… observing.
I can feel it the way you feel someone taking notes in the back of a room. It doesn't approve. It doesn't disapprove. It just records.
Which somehow feels worse than judgment.
'Relax,' I think. 'If you wanted me dead, you had your chance.'
No response.
Professional as always.
That afternoon, I help my mother with small tasks—sorting dried grains, cleaning what little can be cleaned. She hums softly while she works, a tune without words, something she's probably carried since childhood.
"You're moving better," she says casually.
I glance up. "Everyone keeps saying that."
She smiles. "Because it's true."
'Not better,' I think. 'Just… less broken.'
I don't say it out loud.
The alley kids test me once.
Just once.
One of the older boys steps into my path, more out of habit than malice. He expects me to slow, to angle away, to make space for him like I always used to.
I didn't
I stoped and looked at him.
Not challenging. Not submissive.
Present.
There's a brief, awkward pause where neither of us knows what the script says.
He scoffs and steps aside.
'Huh,' I think. 'Turns out confidence doesn't always need backup.'
That's… useful information.
As evening settles, Lio corners me again.
He has a habit of doing that when he's thinking too much.
"You're different when you walk," he says.
I sigh. "You're going to have to be more specific."
"You don't fight the ground," he says, frowning. "You let it hold you."
I stare at him.
'That's… disturbingly perceptive.'
"I used to trip a lot," I say carefully. "I got tired of it."
He nods slowly, absorbing that.
'I hope you remember this,' I think. 'And also forget it when you need to.'
Dinner is quiet but warm.
Not better food. Not more of it.
Just warmth.
My father eats without wincing. My mother doesn't apologize for the meal. Selene laughs at something only she understands. The room feels… balanced.
I don't know how long it lasts.
I don't need to.
That night, I lie awake longer than usual.
Not anxious.
Just thoughtful.
I replay the last few days in my mind—not the fever, not the fear, but the after. The way my body learned to cooperate instead of argue. The way restraint keeps me safer than force ever did.
'So that's the lesson,' I think. 'You don't rush stability.'
The system stirs faintly, just enough to remind me it's there.
[Observation Logged]
[Behavioral Consistency: Improving]
I smirk into the darkness.
"Glad you're enjoying the show."
[No Response]
Before sleep finally takes me, I make another small adjustment to my internal rules.
'I don't chase strength,' I think.
'I build habits.'
Because habits survive panic.
Habits survive hunger.
Habits survive places like Matra.
And if this world really does run on rules—
Then habits are how you rewrite yourself without breaking anything important.
Author's Note:
Day three lesson:
You don't become strong by pushing harder.
You become strong by falling less often.