Tornados in my bedroom are common, but the earthquake currently happening is not.

Its tremors started in my teacup, sending the amber liquid sloshing over the sides. The next round hurls me out of my chair, my chin banging on the floor. Pieces of charcoal are crushed underfoot, the wind gusts ravaging my hair. Another roll through the earth, and I curl into a fetal position, wincing when a book hits my back.

“Dad! Dad, Tula, help me!” My mug clips my shoulder, shattering against the wooden planks. I squeeze in tighter, crying out when a picture frame crashes down onto the back of my neck. Charcoal dust and liquid are staining my cream-braided rug. Bruises are forming. The four walls of my attic bedroom shudder, frames and sketches of my stranger fluttering down like leaves.

The tea leaves yellowing stains across his face.

There’s a thunderous rumbling, things in the closet clatter, and books are tumbling from the shelves lining a wall. “Tula! Dad!” I’m scrambling to grab ahold of the bed, the door, anything to get my feet back under me. My dad, my grandmother, I have to get to them. Are they already out? Are they safe?

Kova’s bushy tail peeks from under the bed where the red fox cowers. I chance crawling under to get her, then stay put when a roar of wind drowns out all other noise. My eyes fill as I watch years of my artwork destroyed by the twister’s winds; I can only imagine what the disaster is doing to the tree groves and river outside.

If I can center my core, I can make the winds tame. I need to control my emotions, and the tornado will stop. One slow breath after the other forces my heartbeat to its normal rhythm.  I hug Kova under an arm and squirm out, gusts tearing at my clothes -

Abruptly, it stops. Have I gotten my powers back under control? I must have.

The sudden silence is deafening, but I’m more shocked by what’s left behind. A young man in a navy suit stands in the center of my room. His face matches my shredded sketches lying around us. His hands are the same ones I’ve drawn a thousand times over. Everything about him, from the dark hair color I had to create with coffee grounds to the hazel eyes I could never get quite right, is now here, in the flesh.

“It’s you,” I say. Our eyes connect.

“It’s you!” He glares. “Why am I seeing you everywhere?!”

Okay, so he sees me too. I try to move in closer, and he holds my green vase above his head. I hadn’t even noticed him picking it up. “I don’t know, but-”

“Get back.” The boy growls. He’s got a good foot or more on me; I can only imagine what kind of damage that vase could do. “I wish you no harm, but I will defend myself if necessary.”

Fives, this is weird. I hold up my hands. “Okay. I don’t want to hurt you either.” I take another step. “Also, if you could be careful with that-”  He rears back, hurling the vase at my face. I duck, knowing I won’t be fast enough. Somewhere behind me, I wait to hear the glass break.

But I don’t. It’s disappeared

“That was a warning.” His voice turns my spine to ice. “Stop your manipulations and tell me what this is. How did you create a tornado in my living quarters? Why do I see your face in my sleep?”

“I don’t-” He doesn’t let me finish.

“A chemical? Gas you’ve dispersed.” He considers me as warily as I now watch him. The room is starting to rumble again. That’s not me. Is the earthquake being caused by him?

“Whatever your goal may be, it will get you nothing.” He continues. “My father won’t pay any ransoms.”

“Please just listen to me!” Another rumble leaves my legs quaking; his head whips around in fear. “I’m not doing this, I swear. How did you get in my room? Can you at least tell me who you are?”

“So you can narrow down your victims list?” He hisses. The tea wetness is beginning to seep into the soles of my socks.

“So I can help!” Help my drawing with his paranoia, right? It’s fine. This is fine. “I’ll even go first.  I’m Zara. You messed up my room.” I tell him. He looks around him and frowns but finally admits,

“Toren. You’ve messed up my head.”

And then he disappears, and I pass out.

                                                                ******

The first thing I am aware of is curls of hair on my face and itching my nose. Despite feeling like it weighs thirty pounds, my hand can lift and scratch it.

"Sleeping beauty rises! I told you she was just trying to get out of training." Bash crows from somewhere nearby. I make a mental note to punch my best friend later.

"Quiet boy." Tula rarely raises her voice. She doesn't need to, with a tone that can freeze your blood. The woman just makes 5’2, and I’ve seen grown men straighten their backs and avoid eye contact when she starts tossing out orders. “Zara still needs to rest, using her gifts like this-”

I want to disagree, but my grandmother is right. I was four the first time I learned of my gifts, and our garage was left in shambles. I slept for three days. This time, at least, I can move my limbs. I wonder if Toren’s gift is the earthquakes; he probably feels just as bad- Toren. Oh no.

“What hap- Toren! Where’s Toren?!” All the memories come rushing back at once, making me dizzy when I sit up too fast. A wrinkled brown hand, Tula’s, is pushing me back down. “What happened?!” I ask again, already winded.

     “I sent Bash to retrieve you when you were late for training. He found you lying up here.”

Here, being my room, a glance confirms. I’m pleasantly surprised to find someone’s whisked away the wet rug and replaced it, that my books are once again an array of colors on their shelves built into one entire wall. A pile of torn sketches is stacked on the old desk by the window, my little river pebble collection once again lining the sill. The cork lamp on the nightstand is gone though; it is probably ruined in the twister. It seems to be the only thing to have any lasting damage, though; even the skylights above my bed look squeaky clean.

“There was quite the mess, too.” My grandmother continues and nods at the broom in the corner, another stack of frames and papers beside it. “It’s been years since you’ve slipped up with your aero kinesis, so I assume this was intentional – “

"She’s in no shape to answer questions! Thank the stars above. Are you hurt, my little sparrow?” Papa is too quick; he pulls me into a hug before anyone else can speak. The black stubble on his chin scratches my cheek; I need to make sure he remembers to shave.

“Does anything hurt? Move your arms and legs, Little Bird. How many fingers am I holding up?” The verbal vomit spews forth. Tawny hands that are rough from burns and scars received in his workshop tip my chin up to check my eyes while he frets. Tula sighs, shooing him off.

"You'll choke her in your haste to help, Koldof! Enough of this. You two, out. I'll tend to her, and then you can return once you've collected yourselves.” Despite loud protests, they are ushered from my room with the door firmly shut in their wake.

Tula releases a long-suffering sigh, returning to me once she's certain Papa won't try to sneak back in. She pushes her black pepper hair out of her russet eyes; white curls have begun to slip from beneath the blue silk scarf she's wearing as a head wrap today.

"Let's get this over with before the worrywart breaks down the door." Her grumbling makes me smile, as always does, but I still need her assistance to sit up. She picks up a Media on the floor.

“Tell me what happened,” She orders.

“I saw him. He threw the vase...” It’s all rushing back, his sudden appearance and our conversation, the powers he drew on. “There was wind everywhere, my entire room was shaking...”

“He who, youngling?” She folds her toned arms and waits patiently.

“His name was Toren. My-” Unbidden, my eyes flicker over to my sketchbook, and Tula’s gaze follows. It’s managed to stay on the chair by the vanity, opened to the page I used this morning.  She picks it up from the bed and looks over my latest scribbles.  It's the same room I always draw but one I've yet to see in person. The colors of the space are still in neutral tones. That's something that's never changed. The Sci-Board, easily erased with the flick of the wrist, is again taking up one wall. It used to be a whiteboard when my boy went through a vintage phase; now, it’s fully electric and automated. Books line another partition, so many books in a rainbow of size and colors. Usually, they're neatly organized, like the rest of this bedroom.

Today, it's a hurricane. There are illegible crawls on the Sci-Board, with the desk chair in front of it tipped over. Books have been flung everywhere. There are printouts and torn paper littering the ground.

And in the corner is the vase he’d thrown. My vase. Whole, not yet cracked. 

"Your boy isn't doing well, is he?" Tula asks quietly.

Everyone in the household is familiar with "my" boy. I started drawing him when I was little, and his world went from scribbles to full sketches as I grew older.

     I check my hands; the smears of graphite are still there. "Not… not today, no." I don't know how to explain the feeling of being swallowed by emotion. A driving force that refuses to be ignored. I should have been terrified, or anxious, to say the least. But to say the words aloud… suddenly something that seemed such a faraway impossibility is knocking at my door.

"Your pictures... they aren't like they used to be." She comments, bringing the pad over. Tula holds it beside the canvas I’d done of him just yesterday. “Little Bird, is there something I should know?” My fingers skim over the sharp jaw, the uneven curve of his peaches and cream mouth. All these years, glimpses, and shadows of my future. It didn’t hold a candle to the real thing.

“He was here,” I tell her.