I was eight years old when my father just vanished. A normal drive back home, one like any other, not worth remembering suddenly turned into the most important and tragic event in my life. My mother was at the wheel, driving our old Toyota, I was in the back seat, and he was in the passenger seat. It was late at night, we were returning from a school event, they were talking, as usual, speaking about how well I had done at the recital or something. Suddenly, dad told mom that we should stop for a second at the gas station, he had to do something quickly, mom let out a giggle and pulled over, we sat and waited for a bit. As the minutes slowly and painfully turned into an hour, mom's expression changed from patience into worry, and then into something I hadn't seen before in her: fear. She got off, leaving the car door open behind her, the cold air of the night brushing against my fur, I grasped the armrest firmly. Not even two minutes passed, she had returned, alone, "E...
The sun rose lazily over the rolling fields of Golden Hills, its golden rays casting long shadows across the quaint town nestled in a lush valley. The soft hum of morning life filled the air—birds chirped from the branches of oak trees, the gentle clatter of breakfast dishes echoed from open windows. Golden Hills was a place where time felt slower—but not in a bad way. It was the sort of town where people knew your name—and your quirks, too. That’s why no one batted an eye when the sound of a loud BANG reverberated from the wooden shed in the corner of the Zonai family’s yard, followed by a plume of green smoke rising above the rooftops. From out of the shed stumbled a tall Zonai boy, around fourteen years old, coughing as he removed a heavy soldering mask from his face. “Note to self: rockets are activated outside ,” Zynan muttered, waving away the lingering smoke as he trudged toward the house. “Oh, Zynan, dear,” his mother, Leira, called from the kitchen, where she sat sipping tea a...