The days stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, as Alwin Willhem navigated a new life, one that felt both alien and hollow. Ana's absence lingered in every corner of the house, her laughter a faint echo that faded each time Sunny's cries brought Alwin back to the present.
In the quiet hours of the morning, before the world stirred, Alwin would cradle Sunny in his arms, humming melodies he barely remembered. He marveled at the tiny hands grasping at his coat, the faint rise and fall of his son's breathing, so small yet full of promise. Each moment felt like a victory against the crushing weight of loss.
Raising Sunny was an art of patience and improvisation. Alwin, a man of discipline and rigor, approached fatherhood with the same methodical care he gave to his alchemy. He read aloud from ancient texts—not just lullabies, but formulas and philosophies, his deep voice filling the lit study with words Sunny couldn't yet comprehend.
"This," he said one evening, holding up a glass vial that refracted the firelight into brilliant hues, "is the essence of life. At least, that's what the philosophers would say." Sunny, barely a year old, reached for the shimmering glass, his wide eyes reflecting its glow.
Alwin chuckled softly. "Curious already, are you? Good. You'll need that."
But there were nights when the loneliness of it all became unbearable. Alwin would sit by the window, Sunny asleep in the cradle nearby, and stare out at the frost-covered garden. The moonlight painted the world in silvers and blues, casting shadows that felt alive. He would think of Ana then—her gentle touch, her laughter that had once filled the emptiness. And in those moments, he spoke to her, as if she could still hear him.
"He's growing stronger every day," he murmured, his gaze distant. "But I worry, Ana. This world… it's not kind. And there's so much I haven't told him. So much he'll have to learn."
By the time Sunny was three, his curiosity was insatiable. He would follow Alwin through the house, stumbling over the worn wooden floors, his small hands reaching for anything within grasp. The Greythorn study, once a sanctuary for Alwin's alchemical pursuits, became a playground for Sunny's boundless energy.
One day, as Alwin was grinding herbs in a mortar, Sunny clambered onto a stool and pointed at the gleaming brass instruments on the desk. "What's that, Papa?"
Alwin smiled, setting down his work. "That's a calcinator. It's used to purify materials—to strip them down to their essence. Much like life itself, Sunny. Sometimes, we must endure fire to reveal what we truly are."
Sunny tilted his head, his brow furrowing in thought. Alwin couldn't help but laugh at the sight. "You'll understand when you're older," he said, ruffling his son's hair.
But not all lessons were so gentle. The military demanded more of Alwin with each passing season, and there were times when he had to leave Sunny in the care of a trusted neighbor or servant. He would return days later, weary from long marches and battles fought in distant lands, only to find Sunny waiting by the door, his small face lighting up with joy at his father's return.
"Papa!" Sunny would cry, running into his arms. And in those moments, Alwin would forget the weight of his duties, the blood on his hands, the shadows that seemed to follow him.
Still, the world outside the Willhem estate was changing. Whispers of unrest spread through the towns, rumors of strange happenings in distant places. Alwin heard these tales during his military councils and saw the fear in the eyes of his men. He tried to shield Sunny from these truths, but even a child could sense the unease that crept closer with each passing year.
And then there was the house itself. The Willhem estate, with its towering spires and endless halls, seemed alive in ways Alwin could not explain. Sunny would sometimes stop mid-play and stare at a shadow that moved where none should, or point at a corner of the room, insisting he saw "a lady with pretty hair." Alwin dismissed these moments as the whims of a child's imagination, but deep down, he felt the same cold presence that had lingered since Ana's passing.
One evening, as Sunny sat on the rug by the fire, stacking wooden blocks into precarious towers, Alwin watched him with a mixture of pride and unease. He couldn't help but wonder what future awaited his son—what truths he would uncover, and what secrets the world would demand of him.
"Sunny," Alwin said softly, his voice tinged with both love and fear. "You're going to be extraordinary one day. But there are things in this world—things I can't protect you from. All I can do is prepare you."
Sunny looked up, his innocent eyes meeting his father's. "Prepare me for what, Papa?"
Alwin hesitated, the weight of his knowledge pressing down on him like a shroud. "For everything, my boy. For everything."
The years that followed were not easy, but they were full of quiet, meaningful moments between father and son. In the mornings, the Willhem house was filled with the scent of brewing tea and faint traces of chemicals wafting from the alchemy workshop. Sunny would sit at the wooden table, swinging his legs as he ate a simple breakfast while Alwin prepared for the day's lessons. The man who once led soldiers into battle now found himself teaching a child to tie his boots or read his first words from old, weathered alchemical texts.
Alchemy became their shared language, a bond forged in the soft light of the study. Sunny's fascination with the craft was insatiable. He would sit on a high stool beside the workbench, his small hands reaching for tools he didn't yet know how to use. His wide, curious eyes followed Alwin's every move as his father demonstrated the art of mixing elements with care and precision.
One particular morning, when Sunny was no older than seven, Alwin showed him a simple reaction—turning base metals to shimmering dust. Sunny's face lit up with astonishment, the golden flecks dancing in the light like stars.
"How did you do that?" Sunny asked, leaning closer to the table, his voice filled with wonder.
Alwin chuckled, gently ruffling his son's messy dark hair. "It's not magic, Sunny. It's understanding. Fire is fire, water is water—but together, they can change the world. Alchemy teaches us that nothing is truly ordinary."
Sunny tilted his head, considering his father's words. "So it's like when you made the smoke that disappeared?" he asked, mimicking the motion of vapor rising with his hands.
"Exactly like that," Alwin replied with a rare, soft smile. But then his tone shifted, his voice becoming serious. "But alchemy isn't just tricks, son. It's knowledge. It's discipline. And it's dangerous if you don't respect it."
The boy nodded solemnly, though his mind was already racing with the possibilities of what he could learn. Alwin watched him closely, his expression a mix of pride and concern.