Rachel's POV
Five years ago everything felt still, quiet, except for the steady weight of my son in my arms. He was so small, so delicate, but the moment I held him, it was like the world shifted. The aches, the exhaustion, the lingering soreness from labor—none of it mattered anymore.
I couldn't stop staring at him. His tiny fingers clung to my thumb with more strength than I thought possible, and his face, though streaked with tears, was beautiful in a way that took my breath away. But there was something in his eyes that unsettled me. It wasn't just the fussiness of a newborn or the confusion of this strange new world he'd been thrust into. No, it felt deeper, as though he carried some burden far too heavy for his fragile body.
I brushed a tear from his cheek, my heart aching at the sight. His cries were raw, almost desperate, and I couldn't help but feel helpless. Was he in pain? Afraid? Or was this just how all new mothers felt—that constant questioning, that worry you're not doing enough?
Humming a lullaby helped calm him, though my voice wavered. I hadn't sung it in years, but the melody came back to me easily, soft and familiar. It was something my mother had sung to me when I was small, and now, holding him, I felt the circle of it all—the connection of generations, the quiet promise to protect and nurture.
The creak of the floorboards drew my attention. I glanced up to see Grayson standing in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the morning light. Relief washed over me at the sight of him. No matter how strong I tried to be, having him here made everything feel a little easier, a little less overwhelming.
He moved toward us with that steady calm of his, kneeling beside me without a word. I felt his hand on my shoulder, solid and reassuring, and leaned into it, letting some of the tension melt away. Together, we watched our son, the silence between us filled with unspoken love and awe.
When Grayson reached out, brushing a finger against the baby's tiny hand, my heart swelled. Our son grabbed hold, his grip surprisingly firm, and I couldn't help but smile. For all his fussing, he was strong. I could see it already, even in these first moments.
I adjusted him in my arms, cradling him closer as his cries softened to quiet hiccups. He was finally calming, his breathing evening out, and I let myself relax a little. Grayson murmured something, his voice warm and soothing, and I felt the weight of his presence like an anchor.
Looking down at our baby, I felt overwhelmed—not with fear or exhaustion, but with love. It was fierce, almost primal, the kind of love that made me want to shield him from everything in the world that could hurt him. But it also came with a quiet, tender joy. He was ours.
The future loomed uncertain, as it always did, but right now, none of that mattered. This room, this moment, was all I needed. Whatever came next, whatever challenges we faced, I knew we would face them together.
I pressed a kiss to his forehead, breathing in the faint, new-baby scent of him. "You're safe," I whispered in my heart, not needing words to make the promise. "I'll keep you safe."
Five years later, I found myself wondering if I'd been so wrong to dismiss it all.
Richard had always been different. Quiet, observant, mature in a way that sometimes unnerved me. He was just a child, but there were moments when he carried himself with a presence far beyond his years. He had a habit of disappearing into his room for hours, and though he always claimed he was reading, I sometimes caught glimpses of him sitting cross-legged on the floor, his expression focused and distant.
Today was one of those days. Dinner was ready, and I called out for him, my voice echoing through the small house. "Richard! Dinner's ready. Come help set the table!"
When he finally emerged, his face was flushed, his hair slightly damp as though he'd been exerting himself. He offered a small smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes, and went about helping me without a word.
"You've been cooped up in your room again," Grayson said gruffly from his seat at the table. "What were you doing this time?"
"Just reading," Richard replied, his voice smooth and practiced.
I exchanged a glance with Grayson but said nothing. It wasn't unusual for Richard to lose himself in his books, but there was a guardedness to him lately that I couldn't ignore.
Later that evening, the market was alive with its usual symphony of sights and sounds: golden light spilling from lanterns, the sharp scent of roasted meat mingling with the sweet smell of fresh apples, the chatter of vendors, and the laughter of villagers as they haggled over prices. The cobblestone paths glimmered under the soft glow of evening light, and the air felt warm, peaceful, and perfect. I was sorting through a bundle of carrots, focused on picking the freshest ones for dinner, when I felt it.
A sharp, unmistakable something.
It was as if the air shifted for a moment—too subtle to be real, yet unmistakable enough to make my heart lurch. I froze, my hand clutching a carrot, my breath catching. My eyes darted toward Richard.
He was standing a few steps behind me, holding an apple in his hand, looking entirely normal—too normal, in fact. But his posture wasn't. His body was rigid, his small frame trembling, his green-blue eyes staring off into the distance like they were fixed on something far beyond the familiar lights of the market. My stomach dropped.
I glanced again. There was something about his gaze. A faint glow. Just at the edges of his eyes, a subtle, green light, like distant fireflies against the darkening sky. My heart slammed into my ribs, and for a split second, my breath felt trapped in my chest.
Impossible.
It couldn't be real. Not Richard. Not my five-year-old son. A child, barely old enough to understand what it meant to stand on his own two feet, could not possess eyes that glowed faintly like that. Not unless I had completely lost my mind.
But my breath came fast, and my hand trembled as though my very being were trying to convince me otherwise.
"Richard?" I called, unsure if my voice was steady, uncertain if I was even seeing what I thought I was seeing.
His head snapped slightly, his shoulders jerking. His body was wound tight, his whole frame braced as if he were trying to suppress something, and then he spoke. His voice came out tight, controlled, far too calm for the way his body was acting.
"Yeah, I'm fine, Mom,"
He said it so quickly, so casually, that I nearly convinced myself it was nothing. I blinked, trying to push the strange, almost unearthly sensation away. But I couldn't shake it. My hands trembled against the carrots. My gaze lingered on him for just a moment longer. His shoulders were still tense, his gaze still trained on something I couldn't see. His words should have reassured me, but they felt brittle. Forced.
I glanced at the cobblestone paths. The air was still. The market hummed with life as though nothing had happened. My hand went back to the carrots, but my thoughts wouldn't quiet. It had to be my imagination. A trick of shadows, or perhaps fatigue, or stress.
I'd been on edge lately, after all. Between raising Richard, running errands, and managing our little home, my mind had felt stretched thin. Maybe I was projecting my own fears onto his gaze. Maybe the green light was just a trick of light and reflection. My imagination, spiraling out of control.
But even as I told myself that, my chest felt tight. That glow still lingered at the edges of my thoughts. It felt wrong, too real, but the logical side of my mind was already dismissing it.
He couldn't have a glow. A five-year-old child didn't possess power, didn't command presence, didn't create earth-shaking shifts beneath his feet.
I glanced at him again. His expression was calm now, almost casual, but his hand still clutched the apple like a lifeline. His gaze had drifted, and the momentary green glow had vanished, swallowed by the golden light of lanterns and fading evening.
I nodded slowly, trying to convince myself again. Of course it was nothing. Just my mind playing tricks on me. Just my exhaustion. I tried to shake the feeling as I gathered a few more carrots and focused back on the market's life.
But I couldn't quiet the unease. Not entirely.
I had seen something. I knew I had.
But it was impossible.
My son was five years old. Five. There was no way his eyes could glow, no way the air could tremble beneath his feet, no way the sensation of power could linger in his presence. That wasn't possible. That wasn't real.
I forced myself to breathe, to focus, to ground my thoughts in logic. "You've got a vivid imagination, sweetheart," I told myself, trying to ease my own fears. "It's probably nothing."
But deep down, something didn't feel so certain.
I glanced back at Richard one last time. He was looking at the garlic now, his little hands reaching out to touch it, entirely innocent, entirely normal. His gaze was steady, his voice casual. He seemed fine.
And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had glimpsed something that would linger with me for a long, long time.
It had to be my imagination.