"Some lights do not shine to be seen. They glow because the world needs quiet warmth."
The early morning sun slid through sheer curtains, painting the walls of Ameira's bedroom with golden silence. Her small desk was already cluttered with sketchbooks, pencils dulled from use, and carefully folded origami birds.
She sat on the floor, hair tied loose, sipping warm tea while her mother packed her lunch in the kitchen.
No shouting. No rushing. No tension.
Only the soft hum of a kettle and the rustle of paper bags.
Ameira's life wasn't extraordinary.
But it was gentle.
And in that gentleness, a rare strength had quietly grown.
Her father worked at a mid-sized auto showroom. Her mother taught part-time music classes in the community center. Together, they had built a world where Ameira could draw without fear of judgment, speak only when she wanted, and still be understood.
They weren't wealthy. But they saved enough.
They weren't strict. But they guided.
They didn't spoil. But they gave.
She was an only child.
So everything they gave—love, attention, space—came to her fully.
Yet she never demanded more than what was needed.
That was Ameira.
Not silent from sadness.
Just content with stillness.
At school, she was admired but never followed.
Respected but not approached too closely.
She had friends, yes. But even they said,
"You're... peaceful, Ameira. Like you're from somewhere else."
She'd laugh lightly and change the subject.
People didn't know that she noticed everything.
• The anxious tapping of Vikran's finger when he solved hard problems.
• The way Rudren tilted his head before he spoke, as if testing the world's patience.
• The sadness in her art teacher's smile when the class turned away too quickly.
Ameira felt people. Like wind feels shape.
That afternoon, she stayed late to clean paintbrushes from the mural project. Vikran had already left. Rudren had mumbled an excuse and vanished. She didn't mind.
As she washed the final brush, a soft gust of air moved through the empty classroom—despite the windows being shut.
She froze.
Her heart beat once, then paused.
It wasn't fear.
It was... recognition.
She turned to look. Nothing.
But she felt it—like the wind had a will.
Something was watching.
That night, she stood on her balcony and gazed at the sky.
A cloudless night. Stars sharp and clear.
She thought of the strange air.
The way her skin had tingled.
The moment where everything had gone still, as if waiting.
Her hand slowly reached up—toward the stars.
She didn't expect a voice.
And none came.
But something in the sky… listened.
Elsewhere, beyond the clouds, far from human knowledge…
A great white shape, formed of mist and memory, drifted through the silence above Earth.
The White Dragon soul, ancient and invisible, hovered just beyond the veil of perception.
It had passed over thousands of souls.
Hundreds of cities.
Countless minds.
And yet—here, in this quiet girl—it paused.
She asked for nothing.
She demanded no power.
She simply existed in stillness.
And in that stillness, the dragon saw something rare:
Harmony.
"She is not waiting to be chosen," the dragon whispered through the air,
"She is living as though she already understands why."
It did not descend.
It did not speak.
Not yet.
But it circled once more, its trail invisible.
And the breeze brushed Ameira's cheek like a memory not yet made.
She smiled.
To be continued