Fire under the mountain

Long, long ago, long before books, long before powerful families, the world was still young. Men worked hard, their heads bowed, their hands worn. The wind blew without understanding, lightning fell without guessing. Everything seemed capricious. Uncontrollable.

In a small village huddled against the rock, lived a girl named Arha. She was no taller than the others, no wiser, no stronger. But she asked too many questions.

─ Why does fire always rise to the sky? Why does water recede when the moon gets bigger? Why do stones sing when you hit them just right?

The elders shook their heads. Parents sighed.

─ Work instead of dreaming, they said. The world doesn't need whys.

But Arha didn't listen. Every evening, she climbed alone up the mountain to the forbidden cave. Legend had it that this cave had swallowed the first men who had dared to defy the earth. But she didn't want to defy. She wanted to understand.

One day, as she sank deeper into the stone than ever before, she discovered a blue flame suspended in the air. It burned nothing. It wasn't smoking. It was waiting. She reached out her hand. And the flame touched her. At that moment, something opened inside her. A rustle. An ancient memory, like a forgotten song returning to the edge of her lips. She saw the wind draw letters. She heard the heat speak. She understood that everything was language. That everything could be learned.

She stayed in the cave for days. Listening. Imitating. Repeating.

When she came down, her eyes had changed. Her hands no longer held ashes, but a tranquil glow. She made rain fall on a dry field. She brought light to a shell. And everyone looked at her in awe.

Some people called her "witch", and others" the chosen". But Arha sought neither glory nor power. She returned to the cave and engraved the first words, the first rules. The ones that explained that magic is not a gift, nor is it cheating. It's listening. An art. A work.

Since that day, some people are born with the desire to understand. And when they close their eyes, on the edge of silence, sometimes... they hear a whisper. That of the fire beneath the mountain.

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The child and the fox

Once upon a time, there was a child from whom magic fled. It was said that magic lived everywhere, in the air, in stone, in rivers and even in the words we spoke. But he couldn't get his head around it. He repeated gestures, formulas and breaths. He watched, he listened. And yet, every time he tried to conjure up a spark, all he got was silence. Around him, the other children were having fun making the water dance, the leaves sing, the stones float. They laughed loudly, the way you laugh when you know you've understood something. He stood back, his face closed. He'd stopped answering, then stopped trying.

One day, without telling anyone, he left. He walked for a long time, not really knowing where. He just didn't want anyone to look at him as a failure. After a while, he entered the forest. An old forest, with trees so tall you couldn't see the sky. He lost his way. But strangely enough, it didn't scare him. On the contrary, it soothed him. He lay down against a trunk and closed his eyes.

─ How long are you planning to sleep there?” said a quiet voice.

He gasped. Before him stood a fox. No ordinary fox, no. This one had eyes that were too bright and fur that was too light. It looked old.

─ Are you running away from something?” asked the fox.

─ Magic,” murmured the sulky child. The fox sat down.

─ You know,” he said gently, ”you can't learn to hear birds by shouting at them.

The child lowered his head before exclaiming.

─ I'll never master magic! I'm too stupid, the others told me so, so I left.

─ Because you think you have to be like the others. But you're not like the others. You want to understand magic? Start by believing it. Not like a formula. Like you believe in the fire you feel under your skin, or in the night when it falls.

The fox stood up. He walked a few steps, then turned around.

─ Magic isn't something you force. It's something you let in.

And he disappeared into the ferns. The child stood there for a long time, listening to the forest breathe. He closed his eyes. He didn't think about succeeding. He didn't think about failing. He thought only of the wind in the leaves, the warmth in his belly, the slow beat of his heart. And in the palm of his hand, a spark was born. Tiny. But very real.

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The house that walked

Once upon a time, on the shores of a great green lake, there was an old wooden house. It had two round windows like eyes, a door that squeaked like a laugh, and four big bird legs instead of foundations. The house walked. Not fast. Not far. Just enough to change places when it felt like it. The villagers next door looked at it warily. They said it was a capricious house. That it didn't love anyone. That she didn't want any friends. So we left her alone.

But one morning, a little girl, a little too curious, a little too stubborn, approached the house.

─ Good morning,” she said politely.

The house didn't reply.

─ I know you don't like people,” she added. Sometimes I don't either. But I've broken my hut, and I could really use a roof for tonight.

She waited. Then, slowly, the door creaked open. The little girl stepped inside. The house was full of drawers that laughed, lamps that sang softly, and an old armchair that let out a happy sigh when she sat down. She slept there, lulled by the creaking of the wood and the swaying of the walls.

The next morning, the house had moved on. It was no longer by the lake, but near a meadow filled with yellow flowers.

─ Do you want to show me things?” asked the patient.

The house blinked. It wasn't a “yes”. But it wasn't a “no” either. So she stayed. For a week. Then a month. The house moved every night, and every day Elna discovered a new landscape: a clearing full of mushrooms, a hill where blue grass grew, a river that spoke low. And everywhere she went, she planted something. A seed. A story. A laugh. People began to talk.

─ We saw the house by the mill!

─ It was there, on the edge of the marsh!

─ They say a child lives in it…

But no one ever really dared go near it. Years later, the story is still told of a house that walked by itself, and of a little girl who wasn't afraid to say hello to it.