I had a plan.

  One of those plans you don't understand where they come from, but they're just there, complete, perfect, like someone put them in your head while you slept.

  Along with a nameless urgency, the certainty that time was running out, even if I didn't remember why.

  Don't ask me how I knew. I just knew.

  The problem with brilliant plans is they require hands that don't shake, fingers that obey, and, most importantly, an age higher than "still in diapers."

  But details are overrated.

  At least, that was the plan.

  "Ooo."

  My chubby hands traced symbols along my face and arms. Like this. And like this. Slowly, with…

  Okay, not with precision. With something that resembled precision if you closed one eye and ignored the laws of geometry.

  I was sitting next to the glass of water, now half full of ash taken from the cold fireplace.

  Spring had arrived and Tarin only lit the fire in the evening to warm us up a bit for dinner. During the night its heat was enough not to wake up with little ice crystals decorating your eyebrows.

  He was a carpenter and his craftsman nature prevented him from wasting good wood. Even if the wood for the fireplace wasn't the kind destined for his works.

  That, but mostly he was really stingy. "And wood costs money."

  Dad was sitting at the dining table, fiddling with some tool. Every now and then he'd turn out of obligation, but his thoughts were always on his tool and his gaze completely absent. He wouldn't have noticed even if a bat carried me flying in circles around the dining room.

  Yes, like this. Gently. I'll make it work.

  My chubby finger dipped in the glass. The water was cold against my skin. The ash had thickened it, made it slimy. It left a gray film on my fingertip.

  Then gentle pressure on my skin. One cheek. Now the other. There.

  With these magic tattoos I'll finally be able to do what this body can't do. Like those of the elf from... where did I see elves?

  A tower! No. I don't remember.

  I lowered my head in frustration and saw the cotton fabric wrapped between my legs.

  How humiliating!

  But it was necessary. Despite my numerous efforts and progress, I still wasn't able to control my most basic functions. Even though the concept was easy for me, something prevented me from reaching this goal.

  Mom said I was precocious, but I think all mothers say that. Even Tarin, his mom always said he was precocious.

  If he really was precocious once, his progress must have stopped a long time ago.

  I still couldn't control the urges of my needs, but at least now I wasn't immobile and helpless, flailing my arms. Now I could crawl, even if my latest bump testified to the fact that I still needed to learn to look ahead properly.

  I scratched the bump.

  Oh no, my magic ink.

  Oh well, let's say it goes from perfect work to almost perfect. No big deal.

  I smeared myself with complete coverage on the area that hurt.

  The clean little outfit Mom had put on me was on the floor. Not too dirty with ash because I'd decided to take it off only after the first magic lines.

  After all, I'd have to do them on my chest too.

  Here we go.

  I started drawing splendid buds and brambles on my belly.

  How do you make buds? And brambles?

  Circles are fine... yes yes... Even a bit crooked and irregular. Flowers aren't all the same and symmetrical after all.

  Symmetrical. What a beautiful word.

  "Sssii uaua." Nothing, the words still wouldn't come out.

  "AHAHAHA"

  Who's that?

  Oh it's my voice. I'm still not used to it. I don't know why but I always think I have a more... mmm... less... whatever.

  I scanned the room. I was almost done, but how could I be sure without a mirror?

  I observed the room, but aside from the ramshackle wooden floorboards, a dining table and an old cold fireplace there was nothing.

  No wait, there was a door where a smell of food came from.

  So hungry!

  Every now and then Mom lets me taste some pieces or some soup between one feeding and another.

  I'm a bit tired of milk.

  Anyway, from that side only the smell of food and Mom humming.

  No mirrors. Didn't matter. After all, I think I was pretty careful.

  I scratched my cheek with my dirty hand.

  I studied my fingers: opened, closed. Too slow and too soft.

  How much longer?

  I clenched my fists until the soft nails pressed against my palms. Nothing. Not even enough strength to hurt.

  How much time before this body obeys me? Before I manage to do... something?

  I didn't remember what. But the urgency was there, a weight in my ribcage, constant. I didn't know how to explain it.

  Like time was running and I was stuck, trapped in this shell of soft, uncontrollable flesh.

  I had to be able to do. Not simply exist. Not simply crawl and get dirty and laugh at sounds I didn't want to make.

  I had to…

  What did I have to do?

  I didn't know.

  But I felt it was important. I felt I didn't have time to waste.

  Even if I didn't understand why.

  From the other side of the room, something heavy hit the floor, a dull thud that rattled the wooden boards.

  "Ow! By the Five!"

  Dad's voice. Followed by a long hissing breath. His thumb was stuck in his mouth and a tear was running down his cheek.

  Who's the 'champ' now, eh?

  "Tarin?"

  Mom's voice from the kitchen, a thin melody that interrupted.

  "Everything okay over there?"

  "Unagahj."

  She arrived with a pot lid in her hand.

  "Try taking your finger out of your mouth and repeating."

  "Darling, I hammered my thumb. Look."

  “Poor big boy. Do you have a boo-boo?” She joked.

  A drool-covered thumb emerged from his mouth, red as... a tomato.

  Mirina set the lid on the table but it fell with a prolonged metallic tinkle as it settled. She was too intent on examining Dad's thumb to pick it up right away.

  She examined it for a moment, feeling the saliva-covered finger with her fingers despite Dad's protests of pain as he complained like a dog left without food in his bowl.

  Gross. Though... it's not worse than what I do in these diapers.

  "It's red as a tomato, but nothing serious."

  I pricked up my ears at that word. What's a tomato?

  Oh no, if she sees me she'll stop me right before the conclusion. I'm almost done!

  "Dear?"

  "Yes, Tarin?"

  She answered while continuing to observe the reddened thumb.

  "What's this burning smell coming from the kitchen?"

  "Ahhh."

  And she ran off without sparing me a glance.

  "Everything okay, Arek? Mommy's a bit busy. Food's almost ready."

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  "Okay mama," Tarin answered in a high-pitched voice.

  "Tarin, stop acting like the baby you are. You watching over Arek, are you?"

  "Yes yes. He's fine, he's here with me playing and stuff."

  And he waved his hand, picked up the hammer from the floor and went back to his repair.

  Danger avoided. For now!

  My mother resumed humming, a melody I didn't recognize, maybe she didn't even recognize it, but her lips always shifted to that rhythm when she cooked.

  I returned to the tattoos. Almost done. A few more lines on my torso, and it would be ready.

  Lines or circles? Better circles, they're cuter? Smiley faces? No no... though... no!

  My fingers traced with increasing confidence. Each mark settled on my skin, precise and deliberate.

  Perfect. They're just perfect.

  They had to be. I felt them right.

  "Ahaha!"

  The sound exploded from my throat high-pitched, sudden, uncontrolled.

  Who... oh. My voice again.

  Even thinking. Thinking worked perfectly. Words formed clear in my head, sharp, precise.

  But do all newborns think this much? That doesn't quite convince me.

  Doesn't matter.

  Last smiley face on my chest. SO CUTE!

  There. Finally my power is ready to be born. Legs and arms won't betray me anymore!

  I stopped. Breathed.

  Done.

  I stopped. Really examined what I'd done.

  My arms. My face. My chest. All covered in marks: gray, uneven lines.

  Dirty water. Ash running down. The hands of a newborn shaking too much to draw anything precise.

  They're not tattoos. They're a mess.

  I knew it. Even before I finished, I already knew.

  But what else did I have? What else could I do, trapped in a body that wouldn't listen, with arms that shifted like branches in the wind?

  I could wait. Five years. Ten. Until my hands actually worked.

  But something inside, something I didn't understand, but that screamed anyway, kept telling me I didn't have time.

  That every day lost was a day someone else paid for. Someone important. Someone with a name that started with L.

  The thought slipped away before I could grab it.

  I have to try. Even if I fail. Even if it's ridiculous.

  At least I'll have tried.

  I closed my eyes.

  Focus. It has to work. It has to…

  My arms covered in marks: gray lines, irregular, that shone wet in the light. My face. My neck. My chest.

  They appeared to shift. No, they were running.

  Slow but inexorable, the ash-dirty water slid down, leaving irregular streaks on my skin.

  Nooo.

  And then a reflection.

  The pot lid near the table.

  Mom had dropped it but hadn't picked it up to return to the kitchen.

  Shiny metal that reflected the spring morning light filtered from the window. It was leaning on its side, on its handle, and by shifting slightly I saw myself.

  A half-naked child covered in ink, random lines and circles and black handprints.

  A few complete smiley faces and a few were forgotten halfway.

  Something doesn't add up... at all.

  Not magnificent intricate tattoos. Not magic dancing on skin.

  Mere ash. Mere mess.

  My heart tightened.

  Not flowers and vines that light up and shift creating intricate magic.

  Will it still work?

  Pressure built beneath my ribs.

  It wasn't supposed to be like this. In my head they were perfect. Water and ash aren't dense enough. It's all ruined.

  But…wait.

  Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe the tattoos didn't need to be perfect to work. Maybe the shape and intention were enough.

  I have to try anyway.

  I had no other choice. I had nothing else.

  I closed my eyes. Infant hands resting on the wooden floor. Legs bent under me.

  Focus. It has to work. It has to work!

  There were no other options.

  The warmth was there. I felt it. Small. Shy. Like a flame waiting to be fed.

  I pushed against that warmth and it shifted.

  Not with these limbs. Not with my body. With something deeper. Something I didn't know I had but that responded anyway.

  And the warmth trembled for an instant.

  It works. It really works.

  My belly filled with that presence: warm, alive, pulsing. Not pain. Not discomfort. Pure heat that grew, that expanded, that pressed against my ribs like it wanted to get out.

  Yes. Yes.

  The tattoos on my skin, they had to shift now. I had to crawl. Had to…

  The warmth flowed again.

  But not upward. Not toward my arms or toward my skin.

  It went down.

  Down past my stomach. Down toward my belly. Lower and lower.

  And then the warmth disappeared. Sudden cold in my belly. Like something had been sucked away, leaving only emptiness.

  The pressure. Growing. Accumulating.

  My body contracted, muscles tensing without asking permission, stomach tightening.

  Juck… what's this smell? It stinks!

  Oh god.

  And the tattoos, what remained of them, ran even faster. The water sliding, the ash leaving gray streaks on my skin..

  It's all ruined. Everything.

  From the other side of the room, someone coughed.

  "Tarin." The 'I' in the name drawn out a bit longer than usual.

  Mom's voice, calm, but with that shade that promised trouble.

  "Do you smell something funny, too?"

  He glanced up at her, then realized he'd been called out. "Don't look at me, Mirina! I had nothing to do with it this time!" Immediately on the defensive.

  "Then..."

  There was a moment of silence when my mother's gaze landed on me. Then...

  "Arek!" Her voice rose an octave. "For heaven's sake. What have you done?"

  Quick steps from the kitchen entrance. Mirina emerged completely from the door with a pot lid in hand, metal reflecting the window light.

  "You're all dirty! I thought your dad was looking over you."

  My face burned. It wasn’t from the dirt or the ash, but from something else.

  I failed again!

  My body wouldn't listen. The magic wouldn't come. I was trapped in this prison of flesh that cried when I didn't want it to, that emptied itself when it shouldn't, that never, never, responded when needed.

  And they laughed. Because for them I was a child playing.

  They didn't know. Couldn't know. That inside there was someone screaming.

  She stopped in front of me. I peered up. Her fac e oscillated between shock and something that resembled... Is she smiling?

  She turned to my father, who still hadn't turned around.

  "Didn't I tell you to watch him for a moment while I prepared dinner?"

  "I watched him!"

  My father rubbed his left shoulder without turning around.

  "Every now and then!"

  "Every now and then." My mother's voice was dangerously calm.

  "Yes! I was here two steps away! And he was calm, playing…"

  "Playing?"

  "Yes, playing! He wasn't screaming, wasn't crying, so…"

  "Tarin Grey."

  The full name. Never a good sign.

  "Look at him. NOW."

  My father finally turned.

  His eyes widened. His mouth opened. And then…

  A laugh. Booming. Too loud. That sound that always filled the room and shook the floorboards.

  "AHAHAHAHA! By the Five, Mirina! LOOK!"

  "I'm looking, don't laugh!"

  "But… but how… AHAHAHAHA!"

  My father held his belly, the painful thumb apparently forgotten. Tears streaked his cheeks.

  My mother shook her head, but her lips trembled. She was trying not to laugh.

  "It's not funny, Tarin."

  "IT'S HILARIOUS!"

  Another booming laugh.

  "Look! He used the ash from the fireplace! And the water! How did he think of that?"

  "I…"

  My mother stopped. She bit her lip.

  "Okay, maybe it's a little funny."

  "A LITTLE?"

  And then she laughed too. A more delicate sound, but genuine.

  For a moment we stayed like that, them laughing, me covered in ash, and the spring sun filtering through the window illuminating the dust particles in the air.

  Then my mother sighed.

  That sigh she always released when she had to clean up something I'd done.

  "All righty, little artist."

  Artist. Like I'd done something intentional.

  "Let's see about making you presentable before dinner burns completely."

  Mirina lifted me, one hand under my armpits, the other supporting the weighted diaper.

  Ash-dirty water dripped from my arms onto the floor.

  "You certainly have imagination, little one!"

  Tarin approached, still laughing, and examined my "tattoos" up close.

  "They're... what are they? Drawings? They almost resemble…"

  He stopped.

  "They almost resemble... smiley faces?"

  "Smiley faces?"

  My mother raised an eyebrow.

  "Tarin, he's too young to…"

  "I know, I know, but look."

  He pointed at the circles on my belly.

  "They're circles, and these are little eyes and a mouth and stuff, see?"

  They exchanged a glance, something passing between them, an unspoken question.

  Then my mother shook her head and smiled.

  "You're seeing things, dear. He's a baby who played with what he had within reach."

  "Yes. Yes, of course."

  My father laughed again, quieter.

  "But... he's precocious, right?"

  "All mothers and fathers say that about their children, love."

  My mother started humming that nameless melody about five gods while she carried me toward the tub in the corner of the room.

  My face burned. My ears. My neck. Heat rising for no reason, no fever, no crying.

  Worse than ash in my eyes.

  As she immersed me in the warm water, I stared at my infant hands.

  The tattoos didn't work. The heat I felt wasn't glory or power, it was... well, physical humiliation.

  I was overwhelmed and stomach turned. The ash on my skin. The smell. The diaper.

  The world around became blurry: indistinct shapes, distant voices.

  Maybe all babies feel like this. Trapped and helpless in a body that doesn't respond as it should.

  Magic wass supposed to be the solution. I felt it. Otherwise how else would I have known?

  Was this the solution? The body doesn't respond as it should? Fine, then I'll use something else to move, grasp and...

  I need to be patient. I'll grow.

  If only I'd kept my eyes open one more moment.

  "There we go, my little one. Now let's remove all this gray," she whispered.

  The coolness of the water caressed my chest, but it was strange. I didn't feel the weight of the wet cloth on my skin. There was a sensation of unnatural lightness, like a thousand invisible fingers were tickling my pores.

  I peered up, eyes still heavy with anger and frustration.

  The water... the water wasn't falling.

  Above me, a transparent sphere levitated, trembling, viscous to look at like molten glass. Perfect drops slid along the curved surface without detaching, shiny under the spring light.

  I'm dreaming.

  I had to be dreaming. Too tired to be surprised.

  My mother kept humming, her voice thin and steady. Her fingers drifted through the air with light grace, almost distracted, and the sphere followed her every gesture.

  The sphere floated at the height of her face. Mirina gestured, a slow circular motion, and the bubble slid downward.

  Cool. Soft. It pressed against my cheek. The ash behind my ears slipped away, sucked inside the trembling mass. Gray spreading in the transparent water. My skin turned pink again.

  Beautiful, I told myself, watching a reflection of light dancing inside the sphere. A really elegant hallucination. Good job Arek, at least your madness has style.

  The thought vanished almost immediately. I was too small to chase logic, too tired to grasp the fact that natural laws were being humiliated before my eyes. Tiredness arrived like a wave, heavy and dark.

  My mother's hands supported me, solid and warm. The melody continued to cradle my failure, while the impossible water danced one last time in the air before returning, with a breath, into the tub.

  Maybe one day I'd understand why I saw water flying. Maybe one day I'd be awake enough to notice that the magic I desperately sought in ash was actually tucking me in.

  But for today, the darkness was stronger than any question. And this time, in my sleep, there was no cold. Only the scent of soap and the memory of an impossible sphere of water.