The air rippled as the first child entered the world. Silence followed. No cry came, only a shallow, uneven breath that seemed to teeter on the edge of stillness. His body, small and fragile, shivered weakly in the midwife’s hands. Yet, his eyes—open and unblinking—held a light far too steady for a newborn. I am here, the thought flickered in his mind, clear, bright, undeniable. He couldn’t yet grasp what here meant, but he knew he existed, and his fragile form wasn’t a match for the awareness burning inside him.
Moments later, a wail cut through the air, strong and piercing. The second child, his brother, burst into the world with a force that demanded attention. His fists flailed, his cries filled the room, and his small but sturdy body writhed with energy. The midwife almost sighed in relief as she handed the second boy to the father, whose face lit with pride.
“This one is strong,” the man said, his voice warm and filled with approval. He cradled the child with practiced hands, marveling at the boy’s vigor.
But the midwife hesitated with the firstborn. “He’s… quiet,” she said carefully, placing the frail boy into his mother’s trembling arms. “And very small.”
The mother’s smile faltered as she looked at her silent son. Her hands trembled as she held him closer, her thumb brushing over his pale cheek. “Why isn’t he crying?” she whispered, her voice unsteady. Her eyes searched the midwife’s face for answers, but none came.
“He’s breathing,” the midwife replied, though her tone lacked conviction. “But… weakly.”
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The father glanced briefly at the firstborn but returned his attention to the second boy, who wriggled in his arms, a picture of life and strength. “This one’s got a fire in him,” he said, his chest swelling with pride. “Look at how he moves already!”
But the mother wasn’t listening. Her focus stayed on the silent child, whose tiny chest rose and fell so faintly it was as though the act of living was a battle. “He’s too weak,” she murmured, fear creeping into her voice. “Why doesn’t he cry? Why—” Her words broke, and she hugged him closer, as though her warmth alone might will him to strength.
The little girl, Leyna, watched from her mother’s side, her golden hair falling into her wide eyes. She didn’t fully understand the worry, but it unsettled her. She reached out to touch the quiet baby’s hand, but her mother gently pulled him back, her protective instinct sharp.
The quiet boy didn’t cry, didn’t flinch, but his eyes moved with a clarity that was unnerving. He studied his mother’s face, her trembling lips, the tears pooling in her eyes. He saw the father’s broad smile, his gaze fixed on the crying child. He even noted the girl’s hesitant curiosity. None of it made sense, but the connections—the emotions—were unmistakable. He didn’t have words for these feelings yet, but he understood them.
They are mine, he thought, though he didn’t know the word family. His intellect surged, far outpacing the feeble strength of his body. And I am theirs.
The father chuckled, still enthralled by the second boy. “This one will be a fighter, just like his old man,” he said, bouncing the crying child slightly. “He’s got the strength for it.”
“And the other?” the mother whispered, her voice barely audible.
The father’s face softened briefly, but his gaze didn’t linger. “He’ll grow,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction. He turned back to the stronger boy, a smile spreading across his face. “He just needs time.”
The mother’s grip on the silent child tightened. She wasn’t convinced.
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. Outside, the wind howled faintly, carrying the weight of unspoken fears. The mother looked down at her quiet son, whose unblinking eyes met hers with a sharpness that made her heart ache.
Why doesn’t he cry?
End of chapter 1