He Who Watches Time Burn

Three months passed in the orphanage before Michael spoke to anyone his age.

His arrival had been quiet, unnoticed except by the intake clerk and the other children who whispered about him in corners. To them, he was just another troubled kid sent in with a thin blanket and bruises no one bothered to explain. His file said little. His eyes said less. No one pressed him.

But time, like water, wears away even the hardest stone.

It was a boy named Daniel who cracked through first. Scrappy, loud-mouthed, two years older but shorter than Michael by a hair. He came with a mop of black hair and a crooked tooth he refused to fix, claiming it made him look like a rogue from the stories he liked to tell.

"You always stare like that?" Daniel asked one morning over breakfast, plopping down beside him with a tray of soggy eggs and powdered milk. Michael said nothing. Just blinked. "You're like a haunted cat. Creepy, but weirdly regal."

That earned a snort from one of the other boys. And a twitch at the corner of Michael's mouth.

Daniel took it as victory.

From that day on, he attached himself to Michael like a shadow with commentary. He narrated their chores, invented games from scraps, and shared every half-stolen candy bar like it was a sacred offering. He asked questions Michael didn't always answer. But he didn't stop. And slowly, Michael found himself responding—not with words at first, but with presence. He stayed when Daniel sat. Watched when he talked. Listened.

It wasn't friendship in the usual sense. It was survival by proximity. But it was real.

Other kids filtered into the backdrop—Lena with her endless sketchpads, Tomas with his shoe collection, Marcy who claimed to speak to ghosts. They came and went like seasons. But Daniel remained.

The orphanage was not kind, but it wasn't cruel either. It was indifferent. Run by overworked staff and managed by outdated systems. It offered shelter, food, and a library with books old enough to smell like moss and time.

Michael began spending hours in that library. He read about legends and symbols, the kind of stories that blurred the line between myth and forgotten truth. Not science or theory, but fables about places that remembered things humans tried to forget. He traced ancient diagrams and memorized scripts that referenced internal forces—energies within the body, called by many names through the centuries.

Some texts spoke of an inner spark, a dormant thread within the body that could be stirred, refined, guided. Few books agreed on its name, fewer still on how it worked. But the idea clung to Michael. That somewhere inside, there was something more than muscle and thought. Something waiting to awaken.

The library itself became a comfort. The window cast long rectangles of golden light across the floor at dusk. Dust danced gently in the quiet. He'd curl into the same corner with a cushion he stole from the common room, letting time bleed away until Mia or Daniel came looking.

One afternoon, Mia lingered beside the shelf as he flipped through a fragile volume with a broken spine.

"You really like it in here," she observed.

"It's quiet."

"Or lonely."

He looked up, thoughtful. "Both."

Daniel poked his head around the archway, a pencil dangling from his lip. "Told you. Haunted cat. Probably thinks the books talk back."

Michael closed the book with a soft thump. "They don't."

"Yet," Daniel added with a grin.

They sat together a while, the three of them in companionable silence broken only by the rustling of pages. Michael flipped to a diagram showing a tree-like lattice inside a silhouette of a man, lines connecting from the chest to limbs and head. He touched the drawing lightly, feeling the strange familiarity of the design.

Later that evening, after everyone had left the library, he returned alone to copy a passage onto a scrap of paper:

"When the inner flame stirs, time no longer holds dominion—it flows to the rhythm of the bearer's breath."

He didn't know why the words made his fingertips prickle. Only that they felt like a memory waiting to surface.

He gently closed the book and slipped it back onto the shelf.

The next morning, he found Daniel sitting cross-legged in their usual corner.

"I found something," Michael said, reaching for the same book. "There's a line I want to show you. It's strange."

He flipped through the pages with practiced fingers—past the diagrams, past the brittle notes in the margins—and stopped.

Blank.

He frowned. Turned the pages back and forth.

Nothing.

The passage was gone.

Not erased. Just never there.

Daniel leaned in, curious. "You sure it was this book?"

"Yes," Michael replied, eyes scanning every line.

Daniel reached over and flipped a few more pages. "Maybe it got ripped out?"

"No. It was right here. I copied it."

He pulled the crumpled scrap from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing the faint handwriting:

When the inner flame stirs, time no longer holds dominion—it flows to the rhythm of the bearer's breath.

Daniel read it twice, then raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like something out of a fantasy novel."

"It wasn't written like that. It felt... older. Important."

"You ever think maybe you dreamed it?"

Michael didn't answer. He stared at the empty page again, then looked to the books around them. The silence of the library pressed in.

"It wasn't a dream."

Daniel tilted his head, trying to read him. "You're really spooked by this."

Michael hesitated. "I don't get spooked. But... I remember it. Not just the words. How they felt. Like they were meant for me."

Daniel folded his arms and nodded slowly. "Alright. Then we'll find it again. Maybe there's more."

Michael looked at him, surprised. "You believe me?"

"I believe you saw something. That's enough for now."

The page between them stayed blank. But a seed had been planted. One neither of them could name yet.

Daniel scratched the back of his head. "Well, mystery or not... breakfast should be ready."

Michael gave a nod, folding the paper and tucking it back into his pocket.

As they stepped out of the library, soft light filtered through tall arched windows. The walls were a patchwork of aged red brick and faded murals from years past—some painted by the children themselves. The hallway smelled faintly of baked oats and soap.

They passed a small reading nook where a pair of younger kids whispered excitedly over a picture book. A social worker helped a toddler tie his shoes, her laugh echoing gently through the hall.

Daniel talked as they walked. "I swear if they give us powdered eggs again, I'm staging a rebellion. Or a hunger strike. Maybe both."

Michael's lips twitched at the corner.

"Oh, was that a smile? Just admit it—you love the powdered eggs."

"They're abominable," Michael replied.

The word triggered something. A flicker in his gaze, sharp and distant. His mind, uninvited, pulled back—

—to a dim kitchen filled with the smell of bleach and metal. A chipped bowl of watery rice, half-spoiled vegetables, and cold meat scraps scraped from someone else's plate. That had been dinner for weeks by the end of his stay in that house. A punishment, they said, for weakness. For hesitating. For asking questions.

He remembered the nanny's voice, gentle in the early mornings, coaxing him to eat with slices of fruit she hid behind her apron. A rare kindness in a house of stone-cold silence. She'd hum while cleaning, soft tunes that didn't belong in that place. In those small moments, the world felt less cruel.

The powdered eggs were bad—but they were warm. And they were given, not earned with bruises.

He didn't speak the thought aloud. But his footsteps slowed for a breath.

Daniel didn't notice. He was still grinning, eyes forward.

Michael caught up quickly, the memory folding itself back down like an old letter returned to a drawer.

Daniel grinned. "Ha! I knew it. I'm writing that down. First opinion you've ever shared."

They turned into the cafeteria just as a few staff finished setting trays. The smell of porridge and weak cocoa filled the air. Kids buzzed at the long tables, some still half-asleep, others already in the middle of card games or whispered arguments.

Like that, a few weeks passed—filled with bantering, laughter, and powdered eggs. Slowly, the ordinary began to feel almost normal. But peace, as Michael was beginning to understand, was always temporary.