You'd think that after helping clean one muddy doll and finding a few lost goats, I'd be declared the Universal Ambassador of Good Deeds or something, right?
Wrong.
Apparently, the Great Cosmic Council (a group of old, glowing beings who float a little too proudly) thought I needed "formal training."
Formal training?
I've existed longer than Saturn's rings. I glow in seven shades depending on my mood. I can snap my energy and create a miniature mango tree... sometimes. But no—according to them, I lacked "subtlety."
The nerve.
Still, I was assigned to the most prestigious—and by that, I mean bizarre—training program in the Dimension of Moderated Miracles. Or as I like to call it: Cosmic Kindergarten.
I arrived with a trail of sparkles and confidence. That lasted until I met the instructor: Master Plink.
Now, imagine a floating jellybean with glasses and the disapproving face of a disappointed librarian. That's Master Plink.
He floated up to me, tapped his clipboard, and said, "Echo. You're the one who turned a picnic into a spontaneous snowstorm, yes?"
"Technically, it was a gentle frost."
"You froze their soup, Echo."
Fair point.
I was enrolled into three daily classes: Emotion Navigation, Miracle Mechanics, and Don't Scare the Humans 101. Spoiler: I failed the first test. I thought the human child wanted a flying pony. Turns out he was afraid of horses. And flight. And glitter.
Oops.
Emotion Navigation was particularly hard. How was I supposed to know that tears could mean sadness and joy and being attacked by pepper flakes?
One time, I saw a girl crying while watching a movie. I assumed she was being emotionally harmed, so I summoned a protective force field around her house. Unfortunately, it also knocked out power for five city blocks.
Master Plink gave me a golden sticker that read: "You Tried." I stuck it to my energy core. It glowed with mild shame.
Emotion was complicated. You'd think I'd be great at understanding it—being a magical being of light and all. But no. Every time someone sneezed near me, I either summoned a raincloud, a rainbow, or once, a small choir of floating frogs.
We had drills. Emotional simulations. One involved comforting a heartbroken alien poet from the Nebulan Isles. I accidentally turned his sorrow into a bubble gum storm. He didn't complain. Said it was "therapeutic."
Still, I struggled. Feelings are like tangled glow strings—you pull on one and all the others blink in chaos.
Miracle Mechanics was a bit more... me.
We got to practice creating helpful things like self-warming blankets, healing lights, and snacks that never ended. I accidentally made a cookie that grew legs and tried to escape, but it was delicious while it lasted. Even Plink agreed, with a small "Hmph."
There was a test where we had to design something that could help in a thunderstorm. I made a rainproof, happiness-emitting umbrella. Problem was, it made everyone dance uncontrollably.
Master Plink called it "mildly catastrophic." But secretly, I think he liked it. I caught his clipboard tapping to the beat.
Then came the real test: a simulation called "Planet 17X-L – The Crisis Scenario."
We were dropped into a virtual world where panicked beings needed help, floods were incoming, and chaos reigned. I was ready. I'd practiced. I had a plan.
Ten minutes in?
The simulated volcano exploded because I tried to cool the lava with an ice cream spell.
That's right. Ice cream.
I panicked! Lava was hot, ice cream is cold—it made sense in theory!
Master Plink face-floated into his clipboard and muttered something about "dimensional disaster insurance."
But by the end of it all, I did learn. I learned to wait before acting. To listen before glowing. And most importantly, I learned how to feel what others felt.
That was the turning point.
During our final test, we were sent to help a virtual village where people had lost hope. No disasters, no monsters—just sadness.
While others summoned fireworks or treasure chests, I sat beside an old man and simply asked, "Do you want to talk?"
He looked up, tears in his simulation-eyes, and said, "Thank you for seeing me."
That's when I got my badge. Not a gold sticker. A real one.
A glowing, soft emblem of empathy.
I graduated.
Sort of.
I still hadn't figured out how to not scare birds, and I may have accidentally gifted a real human a blanket that sings lullabies in thirty-seven languages. But hey, progress.
After graduation, the Council finally gave me freedom again. I could go where I was needed.
And the pull... it returned.
Stronger. Clearer.
The village by the sea was calling me. And with it, the boy who stood like a lighthouse—steady, bright, and all alone.
Swapnil.
My glowing heart-thing fluttered.
I wasn't perfect. I wasn't even particularly graceful.
But I was ready.
Kind of.
Hopefully.
Probably not.
But that never stopped me before.