My father stepped forward, placing his hand gently against the glass surface of the containment cylinder. A few moments passed, and then the glowing liquid inside began to drain, slowly receding until the container was completely empty.
The beautiful woman—whom I could only assume was my true mother—remained suspended in her icy prison. The bone-chilling cold that radiated from her abruptly ceased, vanishing as if it had never existed.
Without hesitation, my robotic mother moved forward, cradling me in her metallic arms as she handed me over to my father. He took a step back, creating space, while she placed her mechanical hand against the container. The glass slid downward, revealing the frozen form within.
My robotic mother reached into the ice, her hand pressing against the thick frost. A faint cracking sound filled the air. At first, it was subtle, but as the seconds passed, the cracks grew louder, splintering like fractured glass.
Sensing the imminent release, my father conjured a shimmering force field around us, sealing me away from whatever was about to happen. The moment the icy prison shattered completely, an overwhelming wave of cold erupted outward. Frozen shards exploded in all directions—only to freeze midair, held in place by some unseen force.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the ice and cold collapsed to the ground. My robotic mother, as if drained of power, fell to her knees, motionless.
Seeing her metallic body motionless on the floor made my chest tighten—a sharp ache I never expected to feel. It surprised me. I thought I had outgrown things like heartache, especially over something like this… over a machine.
And yet, there it was—that hollow, sinking feeling.
In the center of it all, suspended in the air, stood my mother's real body.
It was a hard pill to swallow. I had grown so used to my robotic mother—the warmth in her cheerful voice, the familiar rhythm of her presence—that seeing her replaced by someone else… by herself, no less… felt deeply unsettling.
The irony of it all struck me, and I couldn't help but laugh inwardly. What a ridiculous feeling. To be uncomfortable because the real thing had taken the place of the imitation.
Her floating body slowly descended, as if the very air itself cradled her descent. The moment her feet touched the ground, her eyes fluttered open—beautiful, dark blue orbs that seemed to pierce through reality itself.
Just seeing her eyes gave me an intense, bone-chilling sensation that surged through the room.
It wasn't a physical force. No gust of cold wind. No shimmering aura. Just… her presence. A silent, invisible wave that gnawed at the edges of my mind.
Her gaze alone held the weight of an empire—cold, distant, and unfeeling. She didn't need a crown to look like royalty. She was a queen. A cold-hearted one.
I stood there, frozen—not from fear, but from something deeper. A realization.
Since the day I was born, I've felt… different. Like I had unlocked a hidden sense, something beyond sight, sound, or touch. A sixth sense. I could feel people—not just their presence, but the very essence of who they were.
At first, I dismissed it as paranoia. Just a trick of the mind.
But the more I was exposed to people beyond my parents, the clearer it became. This wasn't some fleeting suspicion or overactive imagination. I was sensing something real—like glimpsing into the soul hidden beneath the flesh.
And her?
She was an abyss. Cold. Boundless. Unforgiving.
Compared to my father—who had a calm and collected demeanor, as if he was hiding something even from himself—she didn't hide it. That emptiness, that frost… it was laid bare.
Her deep, cold blue eyes shifted, landing on my father. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, an unspoken conversation passing between them. A history I couldn't understand.
Then her gaze drifted to me.
In an instant, everything changed.
The cold, stern mask she wore shattered, replaced by a radiant warmth. Her eyes—once distant and icy—were now filled with gentleness, overflowing with something I hadn't expected: love.
It was so sudden, so genuine, I questioned if that icy glare had been real at all. Had I imagined it?
She opened her arms, stepping closer with a soft, inviting smile. There was no hesitation. No fear. Just a warmth that melted the invisible barrier between us.
In one swift, graceful motion, she gently snatched me from my father's arms, cradling me against her chest as if she'd been waiting for this moment her entire life.
Her embrace was warm—shockingly warm—like the very embodiment of comfort. It seeped into my skin, into my heart, unraveling something I didn't know was tightly wound inside me.
For the first time, I realized… I didn't know what to feel.
"Finally, I can hold my adorable little baby with my own arms!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with overwhelming joy as she smothered my face with kisses.
I squirmed uncomfortably, trying to push her away with my small hands. Why is she like this? I thought my cheeks were growing sore from her relentless affection. Despite my attempts, she only smiled wider, her eyes sparkling with a strange, childlike delight as she continued her attack of kisses.
It wasn't until my father gently placed his hand on her shoulder that she finally stopped. She froze, as if snapping out of a trance, then slowly turned her head to look at him. A soft, gentle smile replaced her playful expression.
"Do you miss my body, my love?" she asked sweetly, her voice tender but carrying an underlying confidence.
My father, always composed and stoic, showed a rare flicker of surprise—his eyes widening ever so slightly. But within seconds, he regained his usual calm demeanor, his expression softening.
"I'm in love with you," he replied, his voice steady and sincere, "It doesn't matter in what shape or size you come in."
The moment felt oddly surreal as I stood there, watching the exchange between my parents. My mother's face was flushed, a soft blush coloring her cheeks, and her smile seemed to shine even brighter. Her gaze shifted to me, and she spoke in a playful, teasing tone, "Look, isn't your dad so romantic? But hearing such romantic words from him, with his ever-stoic face, don't you think that's a little weird?"
She addressed me as though expecting a response, as though I was part of the conversation. I felt a strong urge to agree with her, to be involved in this moment, but I couldn't bring myself to. I was caught between wanting to participate and the fear of revealing too much, of exposing myself by showing too much understanding. So, I simply looked at her, my expression blank.
I turned my gaze to my father, trying to gauge his reaction, to see what was behind his calm, collected exterior. But as usual, his face was unreadable—his stoic demeanor unchanging. He spoke to my mother in his usual, neutral tone, "It's about time. Hurry up."
My mother's smile wavered for just a moment, a slight frown crossing her face, before she quickly recovered and returned to her bright smile. But seeing what was happening made me regret being born as a baby again.
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If we reach 100 stones, I'll reward you all with a bonus chapter!