On a tempestuous day in the rainy season, when the heavens had unleashed torrents for three relentless days, a child was born into this world, drawn by the threads of fate, as if stepping toward some grand upheaval. Within the fragile walls of a swaying hut in a remote vilge, the sky growled with thunder, and the newborn’s cry cut through the thick air, resounding with startling crity.

  The midwife, Mrs. Kim, murmured under her breath, “A harbinger of mighty power,” as she wrapped the infant in a fresh, clean cloth. It was a season of fierce storms, a time when the boundaries between realms grew frail. The child’s mother, Nora, exhausted from the ordeal of birth, stretched out trembling hands to Mrs. Kim and whispered, “Is he well?” The midwife gently pced the babe in her arms and lifted a nearby oil mp, its soft glow revealing the child’s face.

  In that fleeting moment, the infant reached toward the flickering light and smiled. The fme wavered, its hue shifting from golden yellow to cerulean blue, then to deep purple and crimson red—a cascade of colors unfolding before their eyes. Mrs. Kim stared, transfixed by wonder, as Nora, voice trembling with awe, asked, “What… what is this?” Still caught in the spell of amazement, Mrs. Kim replied, “He commands the essence of form.”

  In this world, all existence is woven from intricate threads, a tapestry of complexity. There exists an art, known to all, of mastering these threads to reshape reality. Yet even those blessed with rare gifts cannot glimpse the threads they wield until the age of six. To perceive and bend them from the cradle is a marvel unheard of, even among royal bloodlines. “To see and control the threads from birth,” Mrs. Kim said, her voice hushed with reverence, “is a power unknown to our world.”

  As these wonders unfolded, the rain that had battered the earth for three days fell silent, its end unnoticed by those within. U Kyaw, the father, had been chanting prayers before the hut when the child’s ughter and the shifting glow within caught his ear and eye. Heart pounding with dread, he burst into the room, words spilling forth: “What has happened? Is the child safe? Is my wife unharmed?”

  His turmoil stemmed from years of longing—married long ago, his wife Nora, now thirty-nine, had borne no children until this moment, a hope they had all but abandoned. The birth of their first son, marked by this unearthly dispy of light, overwhelmed U Kyaw, leaving him at a loss. Such a phenomenon was beyond anything he had ever known, fueling his unease.

  Mrs. Kim urged him to breathe, then recounted the extraordinary events. To the stunned father, she said, “Your son is touched by grace from the moment of his birth. For one so young to govern the threads is a marvel I have never witnessed in all my days.”

  At her words, U Kyaw’s face darkened with a storm of emotions. A man of simple understanding, he knew only the rudiments of the threads—how could he nurture such a gift? Pride swelled within him, mingled with joy, yet shadowed by fear for the child born with such power. A father’s heart burned with unspoken worries, the weight of his son’s boundless potential and unseen perils too vast to voice.

  Mrs. Kim began, “We must summon the elders; they will—” but her words halted as a cup beside them rose into the air, lifted by the child’s outstretched hand. Silence gripped the room, the astonishment of parents and midwife unbroken, until the cup plummeted with a shattering crash, followed by the babe’s faint wail.

  Mrs. Kim spoke again, “Your son reshapes the nature of things. Twice now he has done this. For us, such mastery takes months—to see an object’s essence, to craft new traits, to weave them into being with the binding of names. Yet this child, moments from the womb, wields it as if by instinct…”

  Her voice trailed off, words eluding her in the face of such a miracle. U Kyaw, offering his thanks, suggested she rest. As she rose to leave, Mrs. Kim promised, “I will speak to the elders and return at dawn,” then stepped into the night. Yet even as she reached her home, her mind churned, unable to let go of the marvel she had witnessed.

  U Kyaw, weary to his bones, slumped into a chair, lost in thought. Nora, tears glistening in her eyes, whispered, “Will they take our son away?” He answered, “I cannot say, my love. Whatever road he treads, we must stand beside him.” Their words faded into a heavy silence.

  In that quiet, a soft breeze stirred, and moonlight poured through the window, bathing the child in its radiant embrace, as if nature itself sang his welcome. The infant, his face pure and untroubled, slept soundly in his mother’s arms, and the night slipped into a tranquil close.