The air inside the mansion was colder than outside. Not in temperature—but in feeling. It was too quiet, too still, as if the place had been holding its breath for years.
Cain moved down the corridor, the child in his arms silent now, as if the darkness had lulled him. Paper walls. Polished wood floors. The faint scent of cedar and incense clung to the halls.
She was already waiting.
At the far end of the hallway, just before the nursery room, a woman stood in white scrubs beneath a low-hanging lantern. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun, her posture still, her expression unreadable. She looked young, but her eyes were sharp—not with fear, but calculation.
Cain stopped a few feet away from her. They didn't exchange names.
"You'll care for him," he said.
"I understand," she replied.
He handed over the child.
She took him without hesitation, cradling the infant with experienced hands. Her movements were careful but not gentle. Efficient. Like someone who'd done this many times before, for people just like Cain.
"He's blind," Cain said.
"I know."
The baby stirred against her chest. She didn't look at him. Instead, she studied Cain—just for a second—then looked past him down the hall.
"Feeding schedule?" she asked.
"Handle it."
"Will he have a name?"
Cain's voice was flat. "Eventually."
She gave a single nod and turned toward the room.
The door slid open silently, revealing a space more like a training chamber than a nursery. No pastels. No toys. Just a crib of dark wood, a cabinet, and a chair by the window where the morning sun would never reach.
Cain watched her place the child inside.
He didn't follow her in.
He turned and walked away.
He walked down the west wing corridor, his steps echoing against the old wood. He passed paper-screen doors and shadowed alcoves until he reached his own chamber.
Inside, the lights were dim. The scent of sandalwood lingered faintly in the air.
He peeled off his coat and tossed it onto the stand, then went into the adjoining washroom. Cold water. No steam. He splashed his face once, twice. Watched the droplets trail down his skin in the mirror. His reflection stared back—unmoving, unreadable.
Then a single tear fell.
Just one.
He didn't wipe it away.
He let it hang there, like a wound that refused to clot.
She was gone.
Not a lover. Not a companion. Not even a friend in the traditional sense. But she was his. His wife. The only one who had stayed—understood his world and stepped into it willingly.
And now she was gone.
He stood there for another moment before pulling himself upright again. The mask returned. The stillness. He ran a hand through his hair, then turned and made his way down the hall toward the nursery.
The door was still open.
The nurse stood beside the crib, adjusting a cloth. She glanced up as he entered.
"Leave us," Cain said.
She nodded once, brushing past him without a word.
Cain approached the crib.
The child lay quietly now, wrapped in white, small fingers curling slightly in sleep. His pale hair caught the soft light like silk, and his eyes—those unseeing blue crystals—rested half-lidded.
Cain stared down at him.
"You..." he said softly, the word hanging in the stillness.
He paused.
"You have her hair," he murmured. "White like the snow... and her eyes. Sky-blue. Crystal."
Memories flickered—her voice, soft but firm, the way she spoke of names before the delivery. "If it's a boy... Keal. I like Keal."
Cain's jaw tightened.
"Keal," he whispered. Then louder. "Keal Vire."
The name seemed to settle into the room like dust, final and irrevocable.
"That's your name," he said. "From now on."
He turned toward the door.
"Nurse," he called.
She returned almost instantly.
"His name is Keal," Cain said.
The nurse gave a nod. "Understood."
Cain didn't speak again.
He just looked once more at the child—his son—and then stepped back into the hall.
Time moved differently in the mansion.
The world outside ticked on with noise and motion. But here, inside these quiet wooden walls surrounded by mist and silence, time crept—slow and deliberate. Like Cain himself.
Weeks passed.
The nurse, known only as Rhea, kept the child fed and cleaned. She never asked questions. She didn't coo or sing lullabies. She treated Keal as something between patient and mission. But even she couldn't help but notice that the child rarely cried unless startled.
He was quiet.
Too quiet.
Blind infants often reacted differently. They didn't reach for what they couldn't see. They didn't smile at faces. But Keal… he listened. The soft rustle of Rhea's robes. The sliding doors. The clink of a tea cup from down the hall. His head would turn slightly, ears twitching in small, deliberate movements.
Cain noticed.
He began spending more time near the boy—not touching him, not comforting him, just... watching.
Keal was six weeks old when Cain entered the nursery alone one morning. Rhea stood, gave a slight bow, and left without a word.
Cain knelt beside the crib. He held no softness in his eyes. No warmth in his posture. Just observation.
Keal turned his head toward the subtle scuff of Cain's boots on the wooden floor.
"You hear me," Cain murmured.
The child let out a soft gurgle.
Not random. Not confused.
Responsive.
Cain reached into his coat and drew out a small bell—dull silver, no decoration. He rang it once. A sharp, clear note.
Keal flinched.
Then, he tilted his head toward the sound.
Cain moved the bell to the other side of the crib and rang it again.
Again, Keal turned—slower this time, but purposeful.
Cain stared at him. His mouth tightened slightly.
"You won't see this world," he said softly. "But you'll know it. Better than those who do."
He stood and left the bell hanging from a thin cord near the crib.
Over the next days, Cain would return and move the bell. Sometimes high. Sometimes low. Sometimes he would ring it once. Other times he wouldn't ring it at all.
He watched.
Watched as the boy began to reach toward the sound, not like a child searching for comfort—but like someone trying to map the world in his own way.