The glade was dying.
What once shimmered with dew-soaked ferns and whispering light now stood hushed and hollow. The trees, once proud with mossy coats and jewel-toned bark, slouched like forgotten elders. Their leaves drooped as if trying to retreat into the branches. Even the wind had abandoned the place—still, heavy, wrong.
Rune stood in the center, pulse thudding in his ears, the skin of his palms tingling. His breath clouded in front of him, too sharp for summer. Beneath his bare feet, the ground felt brittle. Hollow. As if it might crack and swallow him whole if he moved too hard.
He stretched out his arms, called the old words, summoned the rhythms.
Nothing.
No glow. No warmth. Just the strained creak of a vine curling inward, drying into ash.
Behind him: a crunch, a shuffle, and then that maddeningly casual voice—
“You look like a squirrel trying to will itself into a thunderstorm.”
Rune’s shoulders stiffened. “Fizzle.”
Fizzle stood on a leaning log nearby, juggling two glowing beetles. They blinked lazily between his fingers like living marbles. His wild tuft of hair was pinned back with a twig. “Serious face. Power stance. Shaky knees. Classic ‘I-got-nothin-left-in-the-tank’ energy.”
Rune turned slowly, jaw tight. “Do you have any idea what’s at stake?”
“Yeah,” Fizzle said, hopping down with a flourish. “Your sense of humor.”
Rune closed his eyes. Tried again.
Magic. Come on.
He felt something—heat, pressure, a flicker—and then… sputter. Gone.
He gasped, chest aching. His fingers felt like ice.
The glade stared back. Unmoved. Unimpressed.
“Maybe it’s not the glade that’s broken,” Fizzle offered, stepping around him and peering at a graying mushroom. “Maybe it’s you.”
Rune’s voice cracked. “I’ve done everything I’m supposed to. I’ve meditated. I’ve recited the bindings. I’ve aligned with the rootlines—”
“Yeah, but have you played leaf darts lately?”
Rune turned sharply. “This isn’t a game.”
Fizzle blinked. “Neither is forgetting how to feel anything at all.”
They walked through brambles, silence yawning between them. The path narrowed until it vanished into mossy underbrush. Fizzle didn’t need a trail. He walked as if the forest simply moved around him.
Eventually, they reached it: a hollow tree, worn down by storms and memory.
Rune hesitated.
The door was still there—just a lopsided sheet of bark they'd once carved with a crooked sun. He pushed it open.
Inside, the hideout was smaller than he remembered. But the walls still held their history: chalk runes, spirals, nonsense creatures with too many legs. A mural of dancing hedgehogs. One badly drawn troll with Rune’s own old haircut.
Dust tickled his throat. The air was damp with forgotten laughter.
Fizzle plopped onto a flat stone. “This place missed you.”
Rune stepped inside. The silence was heavy—but not hostile. Just waiting.
He ran a finger along the wall. His old doodles crackled faintly under the moss. Had he really forgotten this? Forgotten what it felt like to make magic with no purpose but joy?
Fizzle held out a stub of charcoal. “Bet the wall still listens.”
Rune stared. Then took it.
His hand moved without thinking. A swirl. A comet. A mushroom with sunglasses.
He snorted. And then—a flicker. The chalk glowed.
Fizzle grinned. “That’s more like it.”
They stayed for hours.
Rune drummed on a hollow log. Fizzle summoned floating fireflies that danced to no rhythm. They painted the walls with glowroot ink and nonsense spells, some of which actually worked.
They sang songs with no words, just sounds. Rune’s cheeks hurt from laughing.
And in that chaos, that messy, joyful noise—the magic returned.
It flowed back not with a roar, but a purr. A warmth at his core. A hum that reached his fingertips.
When they stepped back into the glade, the air shimmered. Flowers stirred. The trees leaned in, curious.
Rune didn’t chant. Didn’t posture.
He danced barefoot across the dirt. Tossed petals like spells. Sketched light into the air with his fingertips.
The ground responded. Vines reached upward. Leaves unfurled with sighs of relief. Colors came back—not the ones Rune expected, but better. Wilder. Alive.
Fizzle swung past on a vine, yelling, “MAGIC’S JUST FUN THAT GOT SERIOUS!”
Rune collapsed into the grass, breathless, grinning like a lunatic.
He tilted his face to the sky and whispered, “From now on… I play first. The world can wait.”
A Letter from Rune: When Magic Fades
Hey there,
If you’re still reading this, I’m guessing something in you feels a little… gray.
Maybe the sparkle’s gone flat. Maybe your days feel heavy, or your heart’s gone quiet.
I get it.
My magic didn’t disappear because I wasn’t trying hard enough.
It vanished because I forgot how to play.
I forgot how to enjoy anything that didn’t check a box or fix a problem.
So here’s my dare:
Don’t try to be productive. Don’t try to impress.
Just… try to remember what made you feel alive—before the world got so serious.
Journal with me:
What’s something you used to do just for fun that you haven’t done in a long time?
(Be specific. Drawing dragons? Making up stories? Doodling faces in the margins?)What was the last time you laughed so hard you snorted, choked, or cried?
(What were you doing? Who were you with?)If your soul had a coloring book, what would be on the first page?
(A mountain of glitter? A dancing frog? A portal made of stardust?)What would ‘play’ look like for you today—even if it’s just five minutes?
(No rules. Scribble, sing, bake weird cookies, finger paint your emotions.)What’s one silly, joyful, or rebellious act you could do this week to feed your magic?
(Give it a name. Make it official. Schedule it. Let no grown-up voice cancel it.)
You’re not broken. You’re just overdue for a little wonder.
From one recovering burnout to another—
Play first. The world can wait.
—Rune
Share this post