Kaley was not a normal toddler.
She knew this. Her mother knew this. The house cat definitely knew this.
At two years old, Kaley was already banned from three rooms in the house: the basement (too many wires), the guest room (still scorched), and the laundry area (incident involving a brief stint of astral projection into the spin cycle). The fourth near-ban had been the fridge after she telekinetically froze an entire block of cheese in time.
Which, to be fair, had been impressive.
Her mother called it a developmental anomaly. Kaley called it Tuesday.
This morning had started like most: a faint glyph glowing across the bedroom wall (no one touched it, but the cat hissed), Kaley floating an inch off her bed until gravity remembered how to work, and her mom sighing into her fourth cup of coffee before 8 a.m.
"No glowing until after breakfast," her mother said without looking.
Kaley blinked slowly, mid-hover, and gently lowered herself to the floor. Her response was mostly silence, but the glyph behind her shifted. A single symbol: Compromise.
Toast was served. Kaley tried not to set it on fire. A win.
"We need to talk about what happened yesterday," her mother said gently, setting down her mug.
Kaley glanced up, crumbs on her cheek, eyes too sharp for a child.
"You phased through the pantry door," her mom continued. "And left a glyph in the butter."
Kaley blinked. Then slowly lifted her hand and drew a small circle in the air. Three symbols floated up: Sorry. Confused. Hungry.
Her mom pressed her fingers to her temples. "Kaley, sweetie. You're not in trouble. But you need to stop syncing to the kitchen supplies."
Kaley nodded solemnly. Then the toaster lit up with a faint hum and another glyph—Acknowledged.
Her mom groaned. "Not the toaster again. That thing still won't stop whispering back quotes from the user manual."
Kaley tilted her head, nonplussed. "It's learning."
"That's the problem."
She rubbed her temples again and muttered something about needing stronger wards around the blender.
Later that afternoon, Kaley sat in her room cross-legged, sketchbook open in front of her. Her crayons were scattered. Her thoughts were not.
Today the glyphs came easier. Not like before. They weren't just symbols anymore. They were instructions. Codes layered in meaning—half instinct, half memory. She wasn't sure where the memory came from.
Form. Thread. Bind.
Her hand moved faster than she meant. She drew, not to create, but to remember.
In the back of her mind, something stirred.
Not a voice. Not a presence.
A mirror.
Like another self, distorted by distance and silence.
She paused. Tilted her head. The air around her shifted.
One glyph glowed brighter than the rest.
Bond.
It pulsed when she touched it. Not like energy, but like something alive.
Another glyph blinked faintly in the air beside it. One she hadn't drawn. One that didn't respond to her touch.
Kaley stared at it.
Echo.
It felt... familiar. Like someone else's breath caught in her lungs. Her chest tightened—not in fear, but recognition.
She reached for it slowly—just her fingertip grazing the edge—and the world rippled.
Her room flickered. The color of the air changed. The shadows shifted backward.
And just for a moment, she wasn't alone.
She didn't see a face.
But she felt eyes. Watching. Not hostile. Just... interested. Intimate.
She gasped, yanked her hand back, and the glyph vanished like a breath lost in wind.
Downstairs, her mother was on the phone.
"No, it's not a Quirk-based projection. It's something else. She's drawing things that respond to her state of mind."
A pause.
"Yes. I know what that sounds like."
Her fingers drummed against the table.
"She's too young for this level of attunement. I thought we had more time."
Another pause.
"I'll keep it contained. But if the resonance spreads—"
A faint ripple passed through the floorboards.
She stopped speaking.
From above, a light hum vibrated the walls.
A glyph. Etched not into paper, but air.
She stood.
"Call you back," she said flatly, and moved.
When she reached Kaley's room, the door was already open.
Kaley sat in the center of a softly spinning ring of light, her hair lifted by unseen wind. Crayon in one hand, sketchbook glowing.
She was calm. Serene. Focused.
Her mother hesitated in the doorway.
"Kaley," she said softly. "What are you drawing?"
Kaley didn't look up. But she spoke clearly, like she'd practiced the words in a place without air.
"Someone's calling me."
The glyph at her fingertips shimmered.
A name. A feeling.
Not hers.
But close.
Her mother stepped closer.
"Calling from where?"
Kaley's eyes opened.
They glowed.
"From the dream."
Then, after a beat:
"She's lonely."
A breeze moved through the room—no source, no wind. Just presence.
And somewhere far away, a pair of golden eyes blinked in the dark.
And smiled.