Larius was tired.
Not physically.
Though that was also true.
Not mentally.
Though that was definitely true.
No.
This was a different kind of tired.
The kind that came from trying.
The library was quiet.
The library was always quiet.
Normally he liked that.
Today it felt judgmental.
A cart of returned books sat beside him.
He was shelving them.
Again.
The motions weren't hard.
Pick up book.
Read number.
Find shelf.
Place book.
Repeat.
Simple.
So simple that it somehow became infuriating.
Because he still made mistakes.
Not huge ones.
Tiny ones.
The worst kind.
He slid a book into place.
Paused.
Looked again.
Pulled it back out.
Wrong shelf.
Again.
"...seriously?"
he muttered.
A teenager nearby walked straight toward another section.
Pulled a book out.
Opened it.
Found what he wanted.
Left.
Thirty seconds.
Larius had spent five minutes finding a similar book earlier.
The comparison wasn't fair.
His brain made it anyway.
The irritation stayed with him all afternoon.
1
The gym made it worse.
Marcus corrected him three times in twenty minutes.
"Shoulders."
Larius adjusted.
"Not like that."
He adjusted again.
"Too much."
"...then what do you want?"
Marcus pointed.
"Natural."
"That's not an instruction."
"It is if you've done it long enough."
That answer landed badly.
Because that was always the answer.
Everything was always:
Time.
Practice.
Years.
Repetition.
Nobody ever seemed to have a better explanation.
Larius sat heavily on a bench afterward.
Sweat cooling against his skin.
The frustration had been building for days.
Maybe weeks.
Everywhere he looked—
people were good at things.
Marcus.
Sofia.
Mary.
The maintenance worker.
The bus driver.
The barista.
The librarian.
Everyone.
And somehow every explanation ended the same way.
"I've been doing it for years."
Years.
The word was beginning to annoy him.
2
The humiliation happened on Saturday.
Which somehow made it worse.
Because Fabian witnessed it.
The flower shop was quiet.
Sunlight filtered through the front windows.
Plants filled every available space.
Fabian sat behind the counter drawing something.
Larius entered.
Fabian waved.
Then signed something.
Larius stared.
"...hello?"
Fabian blinked.
Then signed it again.
Slower.
Larius watched carefully.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
He had no idea.
Not even close.
Fabian grabbed the notebook.
Wrote quickly.
I ASKED IF WORK WAS GOOD
Silence.
"...that wasn't even close to hello."
Fabian looked deeply disappointed.
Which somehow hurt.
Because Larius had actually been practicing.
Not much.
But some.
Enough that he thought he'd improved.
Apparently not.
Fabian signed another phrase.
Larius guessed.
Wrong.
Another.
Wrong.
Another.
Wrong.
Again.
Wrong.
Again.
Wrong.
By the sixth failure something inside him snapped.
Not outwardly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Because suddenly he was tired of being the beginner.
Tired of being bad.
Tired of failing.
Tired of everybody making things look effortless.
"Twelve days."
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Fabian blinked.
"What?"
Sofia asked.
Larius rubbed a hand over his face.
"Twelve days."
He laughed once.
The sound carried no humor.
"I've been doing this for twelve days."
Silence.
Then:
"I'm trying."
The admission felt embarrassingly childish.
"I'm actually trying."
The flower shop remained quiet.
"I practice."
He gestured vaguely.
"The breathing thing."
Another gesture.
"The gym."
Another.
"The signs."
His voice tightened.
"And somehow I'm still terrible."
Nobody spoke.
Larius looked away.
Immediately regretting the entire conversation.
3
Sofia surprised him.
She didn't comfort him.
She laughed.
Not cruelly.
Not mockingly.
Just genuinely.
Which offended him instantly.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Because twelve days."
"...what about twelve days?"
"You keep saying it like it's a long time."
The answer hit harder than expected.
Sofia walked toward a shelf of flowers.
"When I started helping my father, I killed six plants in two weeks."
Larius blinked.
"What?"
"Six."
Pause.
"Maybe seven."
Fabian immediately held up eight fingers.
"Betrayal."
Sofia pointed at him.
Fabian grinned.
Larius stared.
"You killed flowers?"
"Many."
"You?"
"Many."
The certainty in her voice felt strange.
Because she sounded completely unashamed.
Like failure wasn't a confession.
Just history.
4
Fabian pulled the notebook closer.
Thought.
Wrote.
Then pushed it across.
YOU PRACTICE ONLY WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE PRACTICING
Silence.
Larius frowned.
"...that's not true."
Fabian stared.
Larius stared back.
Then slowly looked away.
Because unfortunately—
it was a little true.
The boy immediately noticed.
Victory appeared on his face.
The notebook returned.
I PRACTICE ALL DAY
Pause.
EVERY DAY
Larius looked down.
Then at Fabian.
Then at the notebook again.
Something clicked.
Not understanding.
Not wisdom.
Just a crack.
Because Fabian wasn't learning sign language anymore.
Fabian was speaking.
The same way other people spoke English.
The same way Sofia watered flowers.
The same way Marcus corrected posture.
The same way Mary found books.
Not through effort.
Through instinct.
And instinct wasn't magic.
It was repetition buried so deep that conscious thought wasn't needed anymore.
5
That night the apartment felt unusually quiet.
The lily sat near the window.
The green shoot was slightly taller.
Maybe.
Or maybe he was imagining it.
Larius sat at the table.
Notebook open.
Pen resting in his hand.
For several minutes he didn't write anything.
Then finally:
Why does everybody make it look easy?
Below it:
Because they stopped thinking about it.
He stared at the sentence.
Then crossed it out.
Too simple.
Tried again.
Because they thought about it so many times that eventually they didn't have to anymore.
That stayed.
For the first time all day he felt slightly calmer.
Not because he understood.
Because he understood a little more than before.
The gap between him and everyone else wasn't talent.
Not entirely.
It wasn't intelligence.
Not entirely.
It was repetitions.
Thousands.
Tens of thousands.
Maybe more.
The realization didn't make him happy.
If anything it made the mountain look bigger.
But it also made it visible.
And visible mountains could eventually be climbed.
The thought lingered.
Then he looked toward the lily.
Toward the gym schedule.
The library shifts.
The sign language notes.
The breathing exercises.
All small.
All repetitive.
All annoying.
Which probably meant they were working.
And somehow—
that irritated him even more.