Time has a strange way of folding over memories, like pages in a book pressed too tightly together.
Nathan never remembered exactly when he stopped thinking about the tree—or the voice. One day it was just… gone. Like a dream that slips through your fingers the moment you open your eyes.
By the time he turned ten, Nathan La Gracious no longer thought about the shimmer in the woods, the shadow that watched him, or the whisper that once invited him beyond the veil of reality.
The memory had vanished, tucked away in some corner of his mind like a misplaced toy.
And yet, something had changed.
He was older now. Not taller than most kids, not louder—but different in a way no one could quite name. He smiled when people expected him to. He laughed in all the right places. He raised his hand in class and helped clean up after projects. Teachers loved him. Kids trusted him. Adults called him mature.
But inside, Nathan had begun to understand something strange about people—and something stranger about himself.
They lied with their emotions.
Not always with malice. Not always to deceive. But most people wore masks—smiling when they were afraid, acting brave when they were breaking, pretending to care when they were lost in their own thoughts. Nathan could *hear* the truth even as he looked into their eyes.
And so, at ten years old, Nathan learned the art of playing along.
When his friend James cried about his dog running away, Nathan sat beside him and said the right things. But James's thoughts weren't about the dog. They were about how he feared his parents would fight again without something to focus on. Nathan held his hand and stayed quiet. That was what James needed—not comfort for the dog, but the illusion that someone understood without asking questions.
When Sophia smiled in class, Nathan heard the words she didn't say: *"I wish someone knew how tired I am."*
He offered her a piece of his lunch the next day without explanation. She didn't say thank you. She didn't have to.
Nathan had started to use his gift—not just to listen, but to *help.*
Not through big heroics. Not with powers or fanfare. Just in quiet, invisible ways. A conversation timed just right. A distraction that kept someone from crying in front of others. A truth delivered in the shape of a joke.
He understood people more than they understood themselves.
But the more he helped, the more he realized something else.
He didn't feel what they felt.
Not really.
"He asked him self who I am"
He *understood* sadness, but didn't weep with it. He *recognized* joy, but it didn't bloom in his chest the way it did in theirs. It was like reading music without hearing the song.
His empathy was real—but hollow.
He wondered, sometimes, if something inside him was broken. Or if, long ago, something had been *taken.*
Still, he smiled. He listened. He helped.
Because it made others better.
Because it made him *useful.*