The youngest of the four children, Aron moved through the world softly — like he was afraid to leave a footprint. At five and a half, he spoke little but observed much. His wide black eyes, so similar to Ethan's, would linger on things most people never noticed — the flicker of candlelight, the slow spiral of a leaf caught in the wind, the faint hum of the stars above.
Adrian always said that Aron was a quiet miracle. Ethan never corrected him.
Aron had a small telescope by his bedroom window. It wasn't fancy — just a gift from Isaac last year — but he treated it with reverence. Every night, he would sit by the window and stare at the sky, whispering names of constellations under his breath like lullabies.
"He's obsessed," Seraphina said one morning, chewing toast. "Like, I tried to tell him about planets and he corrected me."
"He's not obsessed," Adrian replied, sipping tea. "He's just… curious."
