Hollywood Zenith

MAGIC WORLD

I had been alone from the very beginning—a blind orphan in a world filled with light and color I could only imagine. Yet, I wasn't unhappy. The strangers who took me in at the orphanage were kind, almost like family. For someone like me, who didn't know much about the world, even the little joys felt extraordinary.

The director of the orphanage was a compassionate man, humble and unambitious. He cared for us like a father, not out of obligation but genuine kindness. He wasn't a man of great power or wealth; he simply wanted to help, and for that, we were deeply grateful. He had a loving wife and supportive relatives who often visited. They made our simple lives warm and comforting.

We didn't have much—just the bare essentials provided by donations and kingdom relief funds. When I turned a few years old, the local temple sought help for basic duties, and I was lucky enough to be chosen. The temple priest was a renowned figure, gifted with an "Oracle" skill that allowed the gods to speak through him. The deity he served was none other than the God of Creation, the one said to have formed this magical world.

People often told me this world was one of magic, but I had never seen it. I was born blind, and though my condition never hindered my understanding or thinking, it left a void. They called me a "genius" for my sharp memory and insight, but deep down, I doubted it. While I could sense and grasp things around me, I always felt limited. In this world, effort brought rewards, and I was unable to put in the same effort as others.

"Seeing is believing," people often said, and I was painfully aware of what I lacked. Medical treatments and healing magic existed, but my blindness was a unique case. Even the most skilled priests couldn't cure me. The orphanage spent a significant amount of money trying to help, and when I grew old enough to understand the cost, I refused any further attempts.

I adapted to my blindness over time, even though it left a quiet ache in my heart. I often wondered, If I could see, how much more could I do for the people I care about?

Despite my limitations, I had a happy childhood. My friends treated me with warmth and care, often going out of their way to help me. Many of the older boys acted like doting brothers, and the elder sisters who visited the orphanage spoiled me with attention.

But perhaps the most significant gift they gave me was storytelling. The sisters would read me stories from books, and I became obsessed with them. Stories became my escape, my way of understanding the world. I would pester anyone who came by to read to me, regardless of the genre. My enthusiasm sometimes scared them off, but persistence always won in the end.

The director often joked about how I overwhelmed new volunteers with my relentless requests, and he would share these tales over dinner, his laughter lighting up the room.

Through these stories, I began to "see" the world through words. Every adjective painted a picture in my mind, though some concepts—like "beautiful"—remained elusive. People tried to explain beauty to me, but their answers were all different, leaving me even more confused. Eventually, I gave up trying to define it and focused instead on the things I could comprehend.

When I turned ten, the temple offered me my first official job: narrating religious texts to children. Although I was a child myself, I knew the scriptures well, and this was my chance to repay the people who cared for me.

My first day at the temple was unforgettable. My elder brother escorted me there, describing the grand architecture that everyone spoke of. The temple housed several gods, including the God of Creation. As I entered the temple's corridor, I suddenly felt something—a presence, watching me intently.

I had always been more sensitive to my surroundings, and this sensation sent shivers down my spine. It lasted only a moment before fading, leaving me flustered. The head priest noticed and asked if I was all right. I assured him I was fine, though the feeling lingered in my mind.

The priest led me to the "Sanctum Sanctorum," the temple's inner sanctum where the gods were enshrined. The air was filled with the sound of chants, a melody that seemed to vibrate with spiritual energy. Chanting, I learned, was a deeply spiritual practice—a way to connect with the divine.

Inside, the priest asked me to pay my respects to the God of Creation. Though I wasn't deeply religious, I agreed. Left alone in the grand hall, I knelt in prayer. I thanked the gods for my life, for the people who loved me, and for the small joys I cherished. My gratitude came from the depths of my soul.

As I finished my prayer, a voice echoed in my mind, deep and resonant.

"Child..."