Growing up, I always sensed that I was different from the other kids in my neighborhood. While their eyes sparkled in shades of deep brown or bright blue, mine shone with a rare silver tint that seemed to reflect the light in a magical way, almost as if they belonged to another world.
At first, my parents worried that I might have a problem with my eyesight, but it was my wings that truly made me stand out. They glimmered like polished silver under the morning sun, and my ears, which were cleverly tucked beneath my soft hair, added to my extraordinary look. I often noticed the curious stares from others, their eyes filled with unasked questions that I didn't know how to answer.
There's a unique scent of sunshine that seems to linger around me, a warm reminder of happier times. People often asked about my unusual features, their curiosity evident in the way they looked at me, but I never felt the need to explain why I was different. It was as if I was living in a world where I didn't quite fit in, and their questions only emphasized that feeling.
I usually responded to their rudness with a friendly smile, choosing to embrace my uniqueness rather than trying to understand it completely. It felt more comfortable to accept who I was without needing to justify it to anyone else.
My mom would often tell me enchanting stories about a magical world, a place where darkness couldn't reach and gentle creatures roamed freely. She painted vivid images of beings with soft ears and wings that danced gracefully through the sky, describing a realm where every moment was filled with wonder.
Yet, despite her captivating tales, I found it hard to believe in such magic. To me, it felt like a distant dream, something that belonged only in fairy tales. My reality was rooted in the tangible, and until something truly extraordinary happened—like the ground shaking beneath my feet or the sun dimming unexpectedly—I remained doubtful about the existence of magic in my life.