Prologue-ish
My mom used to tell me all kinds of stories. Stories about how magic danced in the world around us. The quiet kind of magic that only exists as an indescribable feeling. She said it could be anywhere if you knew how to feel for it. Deep in your bones, your blood, your gut.
I believe her stories. I always have, and I always will. She was amazing.
Mom had a secret little mantra, only for the three of us. “Magic is strong, but love is stronger.” That was likely meant to be some kind of life lesson disguised in a bedtime story. However, it may not have just been that after all.
Sometimes when I trust my gut I know things that I probably shouldn’t. I’m sure your typical lucky oddsmaker could muster up the same feeling though, so it’s probably just luck, insanely good luck.
Mom called it a gift.
Dad called it a problem.
I call it a bit of both, whatever it is.
Dad, well, I can’t say the same thing for him. He’s… our dad, and that’s all I’ve got for you.
He doesn’t tell us stories. Rather, he rules.
Where moms voice feels like a soft summer breeze, his voice feels like a biting arctic chill.
Asking questions is off the table. He doesn’t want to hear them.
He seems to lead his life by the words of a long dead writer. “It is better to be feared than loved, if one cannot be both,” Machiavelli. Some rich aristocrat from Italy.
I learned about him in high school, and dad later quoted him as a joke. It didn’t sound like a joke. It’s kind of his whole personality.
He wants authority. Discipline. Control. Not to mention his drive for power. Which is uniquely ironic because he seems to resent even talking about magic.
Nick seems to understand somehow. Like he’s cracked this code to please our dad, but truthfully, I never want to learn it. I can’t be sure if it’s him actually agreeing or if he’s just trying to survive our broken family.
Nick’s my twin. He’s older by two minutes, and I’ll never hear the end of it. He was born at 11:59 on October 30th, and me at 12:01 on October 31st. We were pretty much born strange at this point.
In some ways we couldn’t be any more different if we tried. In others we’re still tuned to the same familiar frequency. The kind of comfort you can only find in someone so close to you.
He’s better at fitting into whatever mold dad wants him to though. I used to fight back on it but now I just stay quiet. I don’t think that means either of us have given up though.
Used to we’d both awe over the stories of magic that mom told us. Not anymore.
The silence is like a rift in itself. A scar that won’t heal. Even though we took our positions on it a couple years ago.
Despite us disagreeing, he still looks out for me. He doesn’t say it out loud much, but I know deep down he’s usually on my side.
I just wish either of us knew what side that is.
Things are different now. Or maybe they’re just different here. It’s a deep feeling, but it weighs heavy on my chest.
We left behind the big city, where the strangest thing was people talking to their cats, and came to this small city on a mission for dad. I’m pretty sure even our house is haunted.
There’s something… alive… about this town. A deep hum under the surface. It’s almost like it grows louder in certain places.
Dad claims it’s a new start, but I think we just got too comfortable in the last place. When everything came to a lull it was time to go again.
I think he messed up this time though. This town just feels like there isn’t a lull in its future.
Plus, my luck has been off the charts here. I figure that’s as good of a sign as any to start using it.
I don’t know what waits for us here, but I have a feeling this town will unearth memories that I don’t even remember.
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