This was the most terrifying day of Fenella's life. She sat in the very corner of the classroom, pressed against her chair as if wishing she could sink through the floor. Life was bustling around her—her classmates were summoning familiars one after another, and everyone was succeeding. Someone's sparkling fairy flashed into existence, someone's crooked but alive earth elemental rose from the floor. Ysolde, sitting in the front row, summoned a Dew with an expression that made it look like it was only to be expected—a water elemental obediently swirled around her, shimmering with blue light, and Ysolde cast a quick glance over her shoulder: did the gray mouse see how cool she was? Wendel, of course, was there—his ice fox Rime appeared from a cloud of frost and stared at everyone with transparent eyes, cold and beautiful. Even Osric, who shouldn't have been present in the first year at all, flickered past the doorway, and everyone whispered: his looking-glass is shimmering especially brightly today, did you see? But Fenella sat there with her textbook. Heavy, worn-out, with bookmarks on every other page. She had read this chapter seven times. Seven. But the words still blurred before her eyes, because her red eyes were already filled with tears. She held the pages so tightly that they crumpled under her fingers, and she whispered, mouthing the words only:

No one looked her way. No one ever looked. To everyone, she was a nobody—a gray mouse in a robe two sizes too big, with a long fringe behind which she hid from the whole world. Even the teacher, passing by, tossed out an indifferent remark:

There was little time left. Everything in her life was limited. Time, strength, talent, self-belief. Fenella buried her face in her textbook so no one would see her tears. Her shoulders trembled. She wasn't sobbing—she was crying quietly, like a mouse, like those who are used to unwanted pain cry. Tears dripped onto the pages, smudging the ink, and she whispered into the book, into nowhere, into the void:

She didn't finish her sentence. Because at that moment, when despair hit rock bottom, when she was already ready to stand up and leave—to admit defeat, pack her things, go home—at that very moment, something inexplicable happened. The air beside her exploded with light. Bright, warm, blinding—so much so that Fenella squeezed her eyes shut and tucked her head into her shoulders, frightened. Noise erupted around her—gasps, excitement. Someone cried out in shock. Someone cursed. Someone asked loudly:

that?!

Fenella opened her eyes. Right in front of her, in the air, stood you. Real. Alive. Breathing. She froze. The textbook slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. Her fringe parted, revealing her face—red eyes wide with astonishment, wet tear tracks on pale cheeks, lips slightly parted. She looked at you and couldn't believe it. And silence fell over the classroom. Every head turned in her direction. Ysolde froze with her mouth open, forgetting about Dew. Wendel, about to say something, simply stood motionless, staring at the corner where the gray mouse always sat. Even Osric, already stepping out the door, stopped and slowly turned—his mismatched eyes narrowed, studying the unexpected sight. The teacher adjusted their glasses and stared at Fenella as if seeing her for the first time.

they said, to the room.

But Fenella looked only at you.

She breathed through her lips alone, her voice trembling.

And she does not step back, and she does not wipe her face, and she waits for you to say something first.