Chapter 6 – Blink
There were quiet pockets of time at St. Theresia.
Not often—but they existed.
In the days that followed his first successful shift, Thomas began to notice them more and more. Times when the little ones were napping. Times when Sister Mary was busy with paperwork or speaking with visitors. Times when Johnny and Daisy were too absorbed in a game to need him.
And during those moments, Thomas slipped away.
Not far. Just past the hedge, around the side of the garden where no windows looked out, and where Sister Mary rarely walked. A patch of grass between the crumbling stone fence and the back shed. Secluded. Quiet. Safe.
Perfect.
This was where he trained.
At first, it was just repetition.
He'd stand in one spot, focus on the sensation he remembered from the fall—the panic, the reflex, the sheer need—and try to force that memory into motion.
Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't.
When it failed, he simply remained where he stood, breathing hard with frustration, staring at the grass like it had betrayed him.
But when it worked…
There was no mistaking it.
The twist of space. The flicker in vision. The strange, weightless shift.
And he would be somewhere else.
At first, only a few feet. Then a meter. Then nearly the length of a garden bed.
He fell into a rhythm. Shift. Rest. Shift. Fail. Try again.
After days of this, a pattern emerged.
"It's not about fear," he muttered aloud one afternoon. "It's about intensity."
The emotional trigger from the tree fall—panic—had only served to ignite the reaction. But now that he was calm, he had to manufacture that same depth of focus. It wasn't easy.
He began to experiment.
First, he'd stare at a spot on the ground a few feet ahead. A leaf, a stick, a patch of moss. He'd lock his eyes onto it. He'd imagine standing on it. Then he'd try to be there.
Blink.
Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't.
But failure taught him just as much as success.
He noticed that if his thoughts drifted—if he thought about what he'd eat for lunch, or if Daisy was still coloring inside—he failed.
Total focus was required.
Absolute concentration.
But there was progress.
Soon, he no longer needed to reimagine the sensation of falling. He didn't have to recreate panic. He simply had to see the destination. Want to be there. And then—let space fold.
One afternoon, after shifting successfully four times in a row, Thomas sat back against the shed, panting and sweaty. A breeze rustled through the hedges. Birds chirped above.
He smiled.
"This is it," he whispered. "This is the magic I always dreamed of."
He lifted his hand and clenched his tiny fingers into a fist.
"In my old world," he said to no one, "this spell had a name."
He stared at a nearby flowerbed.
"Blink."
Then he vanished—and reappeared at the edge of the flowers in a snap.
His grin widened.
"Welcome back, old friend."
Training became a daily ritual.
After breakfast and the morning scramble, he'd wait for the quiet window. Then he'd slip behind the shed, crouch low, and begin his work.
Each session had its own theme.
Distance was the next challenge.
He tried shifting farther and farther—toward the fence, then across the garden path, then to a smooth stone by the hedge. The further he tried, the harder it became.
At first, he couldn't move more than three meters at a time.
He'd focus on a distant point, but the magic would stutter, and he'd remain frozen, sweating and exhausted.
But then—slowly—it improved.
Four meters. Then five.
One afternoon, he managed six and collapsed afterward with his arms spread wide in the grass, laughing softly to himself.
"It's like stretching a muscle," he thought. "Overuse it, and it resists. But stretch it gradually... and it adapts."
He made a mental list of what he knew so far:
Space Spell: Blink
Type: Short-range spatial displacement
Trigger: Pure concentration on a destination
Limits:
Requires direct line of sight
Longer distances increase difficulty exponentially
Mental distractions break the spell
Progression:
Instinctual at first (emotional trigger)
Now based on spatial intent
Potential range increasing with use
Thomas wished he had a notebook.
In his old life, he would've had charts, runes, diagrams floating in the air, projections calculating angles and magical tension.
Here, it was all raw.
All instinct.
It made him wonder what kind of world this truly was.
If magic here was emotional, not mechanical.
If spells were cast not by signs and symbols, but by sheer will.
It changed everything.
And it made him feel... dangerous.
He looked down at his tiny hands.
To the others, he was just a precocious toddler. Smart, maybe even strange, but still a child.
They didn't know what lay beneath.
Didn't know that he could disappear and reappear on a whim.
Didn't know that space obeyed him now—just a little, just enough.
He had so many questions.
Was this just the beginning?
Were there more layers to this power?
Could he learn to bring things with him? Objects? People?
Could he bend space around others?
Could he see beyond normal dimensions?
But for now—he needed patience.
He needed practice.
One morning, after a particularly smooth series of ten Blinks, Thomas sat under the hedge, hugging his knees, eyes shining.
He had never felt this way in his old life.
Back then, he had been a man who watched greatness from afar. A man who built a kingdom out of ideas, but who was denied the magic he so deeply admired.
Now—he was magic.
He didn't need staffs. He didn't need tomes.
He had instinct, and that was enough.
Space listened.
And he would master it.
One Blink at a time.