Silent Observers

Chapter 2: Silent Observers

The days blurred together, each one slipping into the next like the edges of a dream that refused to sharpen. I was older now, but still so small, so fragile. My world had expanded, but only in subtle ways.

I wasn't alone anymore. The shadows that had once flickered around me now had faces. Names. There were other children—like me, but not like me. Some of them moved with a confidence I couldn't understand, their steps sure, their actions deliberate. They were older, more certain in the sterile halls of the facility. Others were younger, fumbling through their days, still learning how to exist here.

I watched them all. Every movement, every interaction. They fascinated me, these other children. Some of them could do things I didn't have the words for. There was one boy, older than me by a few years, who could lift his hand and make the lights flicker in response. It was subtle—just a brief dimming as though the light itself hesitated under his gaze—but it happened.

I couldn't look away.

Then there were others—children who made me feel unsettled, though I didn't know why. One girl, who always sat quietly by herself, could make objects move without touching them. I watched her once, her eyes fixed on a small toy, her focus so intense it made the air around her feel strange. Slowly, the toy slid across the floor, creeping toward her as if pulled by something invisible.

I wanted to ask how she did it. I wanted to know why they were different—why they could control things, manipulate the world around them. But I didn't ask. The words wouldn't form, and even if they did, I didn't know if they would answer. We were all strangers here, separated by something invisible, something the staff enforced with their cold stares and even colder hands.

The staff never spoke to me. Not directly, at least. They came and went, checking on us, running their tests, their eyes always scanning, but never lingering on me. It was the others they focused on—the ones who could do things I couldn't understand. They never looked at me like that.

It was as though I didn't exist.

I tried to mimic the others, hoping I could be like them. I'd sit and concentrate as hard as I could, lifting my hand, willing the lights to flicker the way the older boy made them. I stared at the toys on the floor, imagining them moving toward me. But no matter how hard I tried, nothing ever happened.

I was… different.

The thought gnawed at me, wrapping itself around every attempt, every failure. Different. I hated the word, though I didn't fully understand it. The other children were noticed, they were touched by the staff, their presence acknowledged with something that looked like approval. I, on the other hand, was overlooked, ignored as though my existence was a mistake.

But still, I could feel it—deep inside, a pulse of energy, faint but persistent. It was there, buried somewhere, waiting. I just didn't know how to reach it.

I began watching the others more closely after that, with a sharper, more desperate curiosity. I observed every flick of their fingers, every glance, every small gesture. What did they know that I didn't? How did they command the world around them while I remained trapped in my own body, powerless?

The feeling inside me—the need to understand—grew stronger with each passing day.

One afternoon, when the hallways were quiet and the staff had turned their attention elsewhere, I tried again. I waited until I was sure no one was watching, then lifted my hand, focusing all my will on the lights above me. The pulse inside me felt stronger this time, closer. I could almost reach it, almost pull it out of the place where it hid.

But just as my hand began to rise, I felt a cold grip on my arm. Startled, I turned my head to see one of the staff standing beside me, their expression hard and unforgiving. Their fingers dug into my skin, firm but not painful, and their disapproving gaze stung more than any physical pain could.

They muttered something—words I didn't understand—but I didn't need to know the language to feel the meaning behind them. Disapproval. Dismissal. Whatever I had been trying to do, it wasn't for me.

I stared up at them, confused and frustrated. The rejection sat heavily in my chest, twisting inside me. I didn't understand. Why not me? Why was I different? Why couldn't I do what the others did?

The staff member released my arm and walked away without another glance, leaving me alone once again. My hand was still trembling, not from fear, but from the effort of trying. The lights above flickered faintly as they always did—but it wasn't because of me.

It never was.

The days continued to pass in the same rhythm. The other children kept practicing their strange abilities, growing more comfortable with their powers, while I remained on the sidelines, watching. Always watching. I felt invisible, an observer in a world I couldn't touch. But inside, something was shifting, growing. A question had taken root in my mind, and it wouldn't leave.

Why wasn't I like them?