In the village square, everyone had a power. Zara flew. Bram breathed fire. Milo watched.
Zara zoomed overhead, spinning loops of light. Bram made flames dance into the air. Milo tapped his palms together. Nothing happened.
He scuffed his shoes and slipped behind the well. He waited until the noise faded.
CRACK. The bridge split in two. Old Mrs. Pelly's basket tumbled toward the rushing water.
Zara dove but bounced off the far bank. Bram blasted heat at the stones, but they would not move.
Milo stepped to the edge and tilted his head. He heard a tiny voice — the cat was trapped in a log, sliding toward the rapids.
Milo did not fly. He did not burn. He crawled onto the log and hummed — the low steady sound he used for spooked horses.
The cat stopped struggling. Milo slid backward, one hand on the log, one arm under the cat, and dragged them both to solid ground.
The cat rubbed its head against Milo's wrist. Mrs. Pelly dropped to her knees and wrapped her apron around the cat. The whole square turned to look at Milo — not past him, at him.
Milo stood very still, the cat purring against his coat. His fingers trembled. He looked at his plain palms. The villagers whispered and pointed.
A bird landed on the broken bridge railing and sang three clear notes. Milo tucked his hands into his pockets and walked toward home. The cat's purring followed him.
That evening, Milo sat on his porch and listened — not with his ears, but with his whole body leaning forward. The next morning, he placed his palm on the bridge stone and listened until the stones hummed back.