In a quiet neighbourhood on the edge of a sleepy town, nestled between oak trees and tidy gardens, lived a peculiar little boy named Milo. At first glance, Milo appeared to be like any other seventeen-year-old: young and serious, with a mop of dark curls and a habit of watching adults far more carefully than they watched him. But Milo had a secret—one that he didn’t share with anyone. Not his teachers, not the mailman, and certainly not his tired, always-humming mother.
Milo could make adults disappear.
Not just in the way a child might pretend someone vanished with a finger snap. No, Milo had a real power, strange and quiet and final. All he had to do was blink—one slow, deliberate blink—while thinking about the person who upset him. And poof. Gone. As if they’d never existed.
It started the year his dad left.
Milo didn’t understand everything that was said that day, just that there was shouting and his mother crying and the door slamming in a way it had never slammed before. His father told him he’d "be back soon" and kissed the top of his head with lips that didn’t feel warm. But days passed, then weeks, and Milo’s bedtimes became quieter and sadder. The house echoed more.
One afternoon, standing by the front window, Milo muttered, “I wish you were really gone.” Then he blinked, slowly, picturing his father’s face. The photo by the fireplace—one with his parents smiling at a summer picnic—suddenly curled up like old paper and turned to dust. The coat his dad had left behind vanished from the closet. The scent of his cologne, once stubbornly clinging to pillows, was simply… gone.
And strangest of all, when Milo asked his mother later that night, “Where’s Dad?” she furrowed her brow in confusion.
“Who, sweetie?”
She didn’t remember him at all.
Over the next few months, Milo began to test his power—though he wasn’t careless. A substitute teacher who yelled too much and never smiled? Blink. Gone. A neighbour who snapped at him for picking apples? Blink. Gone. A babysitter who called him “creepy” under her breath? Blink. Gone.
Each time, their absence left no trace. Their homes emptied as if no one had ever lived there. Others didn’t mourn them. It was like the world rearranged itself to forget, just like his mother had forgotten his father.
Soon, Milo’s life became strangely perfect. Everyone in his world was careful, pleasant, and overly kind. Teachers praised his drawings. The principal gave him extra recess. Even the grumpy crossing guard gave him a cheerful wave every morning.
But perfect isn’t always peaceful.
One chilly November day, a new librarian arrived at school. Her name was Miss Thistle, and she had thick silver hair pinned up like a cloud and eyes that seemed to see more than they should.
The first time Milo walked into the library, she looked up from her book and said, “Ah, you’re the one.”
Milo froze. “The one what?”
“The one who’s been blinking.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
She didn’t answer. Just handed him a worn book titled “The Children Who Changed the World.” Her eyes twinkled as she added, “Be careful what you change, Milo. Power likes to take more than it gives.”
He nearly blinked her away right then.
But something held him back. For the first time, an adult knew. And she wasn’t afraid.
That night, Milo sat on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand. Was she magic too? A spy? A witch? Or just a very strange old lady who liked books too much?
The next day at school, he found the library dark. Miss Thistle was gone. Another librarian sat in her chair—a young man with big glasses and a tight smile.
“Where’s Miss Thistle?” Milo asked.
“Who?” the man said, blinking.
Milo’s blood went cold. He hadn’t blinked. He hadn’t.
That night, he dreamed of a forest where trees whispered his name. A shadowy version of Miss Thistle stood in the mist, her lips not moving, but her voice everywhere: “You blinked too much. You’ve unbalanced the world. It’s watching you now.”
From that day on, things began to change.
The world no longer forgot quite so neatly. A teacher Milo blinked away left behind a crying spouse who insisted something was wrong. A cashier he disliked and blinked away led to a store that closed, boarded up with angry signs and lost jobs.
His mother grew quieter. More tired. Shadows under her eyes. “I feel like I’ve lost something,” she whispered one morning. “But I can’t remember what.”
Milo felt guilt like a stone in his chest. He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. Just… to fix things.
But power, as Miss Thistle had warned, doesn’t just go away.
One cold December afternoon, Milo sat in the schoolyard alone. Snow was falling gently, and he stared at the frost forming on the swing chains. A girl sat down beside him. She was new—he hadn’t seen her before. She wore yellow boots and a bright red scarf and looked at him not with fear or admiration, but curiosity.
“I’m Sadie,” she said.
“Milo.”
“I know,” she replied. “My mum says you’re the one who keeps making people disappear.”
Milo looked at her sharply. “She remembers?”
“Sort of,” Sadie said. “She remembers... holes. Emptiness. Like a missing puzzle piece. She says it started after we moved here.”
Milo stood. “You should stay away from me.”
“Why?” she asked gently.
“Because I ruin things.”
Sadie tilted her head. “Or maybe you just need someone to help you stop.”
The next day, Milo didn’t blink anyone away.
Or the day after that.
It wasn’t easy. Adults were annoying. They made dumb rules and forgot what it was like to be small and curious and loud. But Milo began to try something else. He talked to them. Told them when they upset him. Asked questions. Some still didn’t listen. But some did.
And slowly, the world began to stitch itself back together.
His mother started singing in the kitchen again.
The photo of his dad reappeared on the mantel one morning, dusty and cracked—but there.
He even swore he saw Miss Thistle across the street one evening, nodding slowly before vanishing into a crowd.
Milo still had the power. He could feel it. Like a storm curled behind his eyelids. But now he chose not to use it.
Not unless he absolutely had to.
And as he sat beside Sadie under the oak tree in the schoolyard, watching the clouds move, he thought maybe power wasn’t about blinking people away.
Maybe real power was learning to keep them around—and helping them become better.
Just like he was trying to be.
One blink at a time.
Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model
_(tall)-125329755.jpg "Brian Wilson")
