BUTTERFLIES I N THE DARK

THE POWER OF CHILDREN

Children see magic because they look for it"

-Christopher Moore-

I've always admired the way my step brother sees the world. He's not like most kids; there's something unique about him, something almost magical. He has this way of looking at everything—whether it's a raincloud or a rock on the sidewalk or the hum of a passing car—and he can find a story in it. He makes the ordinary seem... extraordinary. Sometimes I think he sees things I can't, like the world still has that shimmer of wonder he's yet to lose.

When I had just shifted into the state house, I'd catch him lying on his back in the grass, staring up at the sky with wide, bright eyes. His little fingers would point to the clouds, naming them like old friends. "That one's a dragon," he'd say, or "That's a castle with a big tower." I'd laugh, something I rarely did since mum died, not really understanding how a cloud could look like anything but a lump of vapour, but he was so serious about it, so certain. I used to envy that, the way he could find something so magical in the simplest things. I think I lost that somewhere along the way, but he—he still sees it.

His imagination is his compass. The world he moves through is filled with adventure, even on the dullest days. It's as if he can see magic in everything. A leaf becomes a dragon's scale; a puddle turns into an ocean. He's always making up games with rules only he understands, laughing in a way that makes the room feel warmer, even on the coldest of days.

But when he got sick that it all changed. I wish I could shield him from it, the same way I wished I had shielded mother, the way it bent him in ways no child should have to bend. It's not just the fevers, or the pale skin, or the weakness that sets in when his body started to fail him—it's the way it takes away his spark. The magic begins to slip from his eyes, and that makes my chest tighten in a way I can't explain.

When he's well, his spirit is infectious, and the world feels like a playground. But when his illness took hold, it's like someone flipped a switch. He still smiled, but a little slower, less certain. His games slowed down, and the stories he weaved seem harder to catch. Sometimes he looked at me like he's not sure if he's still part of this world or if he was drifting somewhere far away, somewhere I can't follow.

I saw the way he tried to hold onto his magic, though. He still picked at the corners of it, reaching for the stories and the castles, even when his body betrayed him. But it got harder and harder for him to keep it up. I watched his hands tremble sometimes, the way his little body struggles to do the things it used to do without thought. It scared me, more than I want to admit, I was afraid I would lose him like I lost mum. I tried to protect him from this sickness, tried to will it away, but it's like fighting shadows.

It's then that I realized how much I needed him to believe. Not for his sake, but for mine. He has always been my light. When he saw magic in the world, it reminded me that maybe, just maybe, there's magic left for me too. And when his illness steals that from him, it feels like it's stealing something from me, as if the world we share is becoming a little less colourful, a little less full of possibility.

I didn't know how to make him better. I wish I could take all of it away, the pain, the fatigue, the worry. I'd trade anything for him to be the same carefree little boy who thinks the world is full of dragons and castles. But all I could do is be there, watch him as he clings to his wonder, even when it's harder to hold onto.

In the end, it's not about the dragons or the castles, or even the magic. It's about the way he sees the world: not in the way things are, but in the way they could be. And in that, I think he's teaching me something—maybe the most important thing. Magic isn't something we find in the world. It's something we create in how we choose to see it. And even on his worst days, when his sickness makes everything feel too heavy, he's still casting spells; even if it's just with the smile he gives me, the one that says, "There's still magic here. You just have to look for it." When the gods finally cured him I realised he had taught me a lesson.

And so, I do. I look for it, every day. Because if he can find magic in the world, then maybe, just maybe, there's enough left for both of us.