Under the cloak of night, the sapphire moon cast its glow upon the eerie Gravesville cemetery. Swirling red smoke arose amidst the tombstones, conjuring what seemed to be a door. As the smoke dissipated, mysterious markings and symbols emerged on the door, written in ancient languages long forgotten to the modern world.
With every trace of smoke gone, the door became vividly clear. Its knobs turned open, revealing a hazy image of a world only mentioned in sacred texts—rivers of blood, clouds ablaze, trees lined with limbs instead of leaves, and monstrous creatures roaming this forsaken land. Upon closer inspection, it was evident these creatures were chasing something—or rather, someone. A man and a woman dressed in black suits ran toward the door amidst a vicious battle against these horrid beings.
The man's arms had no flesh; instead, they were composed of dark bones. In his hands he wielded a simple black blade, its length sharp and smooth from tip to base, a grim skull carved into the hilt. The woman wielded a bow and arrow devoid of bones. As the pair ran closer to the door, entangled in battle with their demonic pursuers, the creatures began gaining ground.
Realizing this, the man halted abruptly and faced his enemies head-on. The woman understood his intentions, hesitating before he shouted at her to hurry toward the shrinking doorway. She protested until he gestured toward her womb—her pregnant state now visible—and pleaded for her escape before it was too late. Reluctantly, she resumed her run to safety.
As she neared the portal, one monster darted past the others, lunging at her with alarming speed. Time seemed to slow: her desperate sprint, the man locked in combat, the fate of their unborn child precariously hanging by a thread.
Eyes shut tight with determination, the man whispered ancient words and hurled his black blade. Time snapped back into place. The creature leaped at the woman as she crossed the threshold; the blade struck true, impaling the beast mid-air. The man smiled his final, tearful grin before being consumed by the throng of darkness.
In the desolate cemetery, the creature died atop the woman, its lifeless hands clutching her throat. The black blade had pierced both the monster and the unborn child it sought to protect. As the door dissolved into smoke, the woman's body went limp, her final cry echoing into the night.
And then—the silence was broken. A wail. A newborn's cry.
---
Beneath the cold stillness of the cemetery, a man knelt before a gravestone. His trembling hands pressed into the earth, fresh soil still clinging to his palms. The name of his wife and their stillborn child, etched into stone, glistened faintly under the moonlight. His shoulders shook with grief as he bowed his head, whispering prayers between broken sobs.
"Forgive me… I couldn't save you," he choked, his tears falling freely onto the mound. "Both of you…"
It was then he heard it—a scream. A woman's scream, sharp and fleeting, carried by the wind. He lifted his head, heart pounding. And then came another sound, closer, clearer: the desperate cry of a newborn child.
Wary, he rose to his feet and followed the sound through crooked rows of headstones until he reached a clearing. There, among scattered ash and cloth, lay a child. The infant's body was smeared with soot, tiny limbs flailing as it wailed against the night.
The man froze. His heart twisted. Slowly, almost disbelieving, he crouched and lifted the newborn into his arms. Instincts overtook his grief—he checked the infant's breathing, cleared its airways, and rubbed gently at its back until the cries softened. His hands steadied, the practiced movements of a doctor returning as though summoned by fate.
"Shh… you're alright," he whispered, voice breaking. "You're safe now."
He looked around, his mind racing. "Who in their right mind would leave a newborn here?" His voice cracked, half-rage, half-despair. Yet as he looked down at the child's face, something else swelled in his chest. A pull, an ache he could not explain.
He held the baby close and lifted his gaze to the starless sky. Tears streaked down his face.
"If this is God's way of giving me another chance," he whispered hoarsely, "I swear… I won't let another newborn die."
Clutching the child to his chest, he turned back toward the graves he had just filled. He stopped only once, placing a trembling hand on the stone that bore his family's names.
"Rest now," he prayed softly. "I'll carry him… for you."
He turned and walked onward, past the arching gates that read Gravesville Cemetery. Beneath their cold iron letters, the man carried the child into the night, his steps heavy with grief yet lit with fragile hope.
He whispered one final vow into the newborn's ear.
"From this day on… your name will be Clay."
***********
Fifteen years passed since that night in Gravesville.
The sharp smell of disinfectant hung in the hospital's hallway. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, sterile and cold. A boy sat slouched on a narrow bench, his right leg bouncing restlessly up and down. His short black hair was tousled, as though he had run out the door without checking the mirror. He wore a heavy hoodie half-zipped over a plain T-shirt, jeans tucked into scuffed sneakers, and a puffy jacket thrown over it all. A scarf was wrapped clumsily around his neck, and his hands were buried in the sleeves, rubbing together for warmth. He kept blowing into his palms, watching the mist vanish into the stale air.
The door ahead creaked open, and a nurse stepped out. She was middle-aged, her eyes kind but tired.
"Sir," she said gently, "he's ready for you. But be careful. He's still under his medication. Don't tire him out."
Clay stood quickly, his chair scraping against the tile. "Thank you," he muttered, dipping his head as he brushed past her.
The room was dim, the only light coming from the monitors beside the bed. Their steady beeps broke the silence. Tubes and wires wound into the thin frame of an old man lying back on the mattress. His once-strong face was pale, lined with age and weariness.
Clay's chest tightened at the sight. He tried to mask it, forcing a crooked smile. "What's all this, Dad? You planning on turning into a Transformer? These machines weren't here yesterday."
The man chuckled, his laugh breaking into a ragged cough. "If only. No… they're here because I'm… breaking down. Condition's getting worse."
Clay pulled the chair closer and dropped into it, his eyes fixed on his father. "Well, that's not fair. Transformers get upgrades, and you get stuck with wires."
"Upgrades," the old man wheezed with a faint grin. "I'll settle for a reboot at this point."
They both laughed lightly, though the sound was fragile. The machines beeped on, indifferent.
For a while, Clay talked about the little things—school, the annoying cafeteria food, the way winter bit at his hands on the way here. His father listened, nodding and smiling, even when coughs interrupted.
Finally, the old man's gaze softened. "Clay," he whispered, voice hoarse but deliberate. "You know I've loved you like my very own. Raising you… it's been the greatest blessing of my life. You grew into a cheerful young man. I'm proud of you."
Clay swallowed hard. His smile faltered. "Don't… don't start talking like that."
His father's lips trembled into a smile, though his eyes betrayed the weight of truth. "I probably won't make it another week." He coughed again, clutching at the blanket. "Listen to me. Don't sign the next round of funding for my medication. Use the money instead. There's no point in pouring water into a sinking ship."
Clay's eyes widened. He sat forward, shaking his head. "No. Don't say that. I'm not gonna let you—"
"Clay," his father cut in, firm despite his weakness. "You'll have no family to lean on once I'm gone. No relatives, no one else. You'll need something to start your life. The money I saved as a doctor—it's yours now. Promise me you'll use it."
"I'm not promising that," Clay said quickly, his voice sharp, his hands clenching on his knees.
The old man's breath grew shallow, his eyelids heavy. "Sometimes, son… mercy means letting go." His words faded as sleep overtook him, the monitors humming steadily in his place.
Clay sat frozen, jaw tight, his body coiled with protest he could not release. Finally, he pushed back the chair, its legs scraping loud against the floor. He rose, staring once more at the frail figure in the bed.
Disappointment weighed on his face as he turned away. Quietly, he closed the door behind him.
The hospital corridors stretched long and sterile as he walked. He pulled his hands deep into his sleeves, head low. Near the exit, the woman at the billing desk called out.
"Clay," she said softly, sliding a clipboard across. "Your father's forms. It's time to sign."
The boy stared at the papers, his father's words echoing in his head. Don't sign the next round… use the money… no point in saving a sinking ship.
His pen hovered. His chest heaved.
And then—he signed. Each stroke heavier than the last.
Pushing the clipboard back, he muttered a faint thanks and walked away.
At the hospital's glass doors, he stopped only once, lifting the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. The fabric was black, the hood bearing the outline of a pale skull.
With his face shadowed and his hands buried in his pockets, Clay stepped into the winter night.
The doors slid shut behind him.