Euryale's POV
Silas had discovered the joy of chasing chickens.
They were harmless, fat little birds that wandered near the garden. Salah never minded them—he said they kept pests away and made good eggs—but to Silas, they were thrilling mysteries with wings.
Each morning, the moment he spotted one, he let out a squeal of excitement. "There! There's one!" he shouted, toddling across the yard on unsteady legs, arms flailing for balance. The chickens scattered with indignant squawks, feathers fluttering in every direction. Silas would stumble after them, laughing so hard he sometimes toppled over in the dirt.
Xena appeared on the porch, her hands dusted with flour from kneading dough. She shook her head with a smile. "You're going to owe me three baths today," she called, laughing.
"I'll get him before he escapes the yard!" Salah replied, running after Silas with mock urgency.
And me? I followed quietly behind, always close enough to catch him if he fell, but never too close to spoil the adventure. I liked watching him discover the world for himself.
He didn't know how protected he was. That was the point.
Life had settled into a rhythm.
Mornings were soft. The sun poured through the open windows, brushing warm lines across the floorboards. Xena hummed as she stirred the breakfast pot, the scent of herbs and baking bread mixing with the salt carried in by the sea breeze. Salah brought in water from the well and checked on the garden. I usually swept the porch or helped Silas into his little boots—though he often took them off just to feel the dirt under his toes.
He was endlessly curious.
Shiny things drew his attention—copper spoons, the silver buckle on Salah's belt, beetles with iridescent shells. He liked to tug on my hair when I carried him, giggling as if testing my patience. And he liked stories—not the kind I once told about wars and empires, but the kind I invented now: tales about brave turtles, lost shoes, and moons that forgot how to rise.
He clung to me most at night.
Xena had noticed. "He's always calmer when you're holding him," she said one evening, brushing her fingers through his hair. "Like he knows you're… special."
I didn't answer. I didn't know what "special" meant anymore. I only knew I was here. Part of their days. A hand steadying Silas as he grew. A quiet presence in their home. And somehow, that was enough.
One evening, Salah dragged an old tree branch out of the shed. He cut it down and lashed it to thick ropes he'd hung from the strongest bough in the garden.
"What are you doing?" I asked, curious, as he wiped sweat from his brow.
"A swing," he said, voice proud and full of exaggeration. "For the boy. He deserves to fly."
I glanced at Silas. He was sitting cross-legged on the grass, wide-eyed and frowning in concentration at the ropes.
"You won't know if you don't try," I whispered, lifting him into the seat.
His initial suspicion melted into delight. His shrieks echoed across the yard as I pushed him gently.
"Higher! Higher!" he yelled.
"You'll fly away if I'm not careful!" I teased, holding him steady with just enough grip to let him feel free.
He kicked and flailed, fists clutching the rope, hair tousled by the wind. "Fly! Fly!" he repeated, laughing until I laughed too.
Behind us, Salah leaned against the porch with hands in his pockets, grinning like a man who'd just discovered a new planet. Xena rested her hand over her growing belly, glowing with life instead of illness.
Silas would soon have a sibling.
I thought I might feel something strange—jealousy, or fear of change—but I didn't. Instead, I felt… proud.
This family, once quiet and tired, now bloomed like the herbs in Xena's window box. And I—once only a shadow from the ocean floor—was here to witness it. To protect it. To love it in the only ways I now knew.
Each night, I carried Silas to bed. He resisted at first, wanting "just one more story," "one more swing," "one more game with the pebbles," or "just one more spoon for the birds."
But eventually, his small body surrendered to sleep, head pressed against my shoulder, soft breath warming my neck.
"I'll be right here," I whispered. Even though he couldn't hear me anymore, I meant it.
One afternoon, with Xena resting and Salah out fishing, I sat by the garden with Silas in my lap. The bees moved lazily from flower to flower, their tiny wings humming in the sunlight.
"Buzz," Silas said solemnly.
"Yes," I echoed softly. "Buzz."
He leaned his head against my chest and whispered something I couldn't understand. But it didn't matter. The meaning was in the weight of him, in the trust pressing against me.
I remembered the emptiness I had once known—silence so vast it had swallowed my name, a deep ocean with no shore, no voice, no warmth.
But here, there was no echo. Only life. Only laughter. Only trust.
At sunset, we all gathered on the porch. Xena rested in her chair, Silas curled against her, thumb in his mouth. Salah leaned against the doorway with a cup of tea, his face relaxed for the first time in weeks.
I sat on the step, arms wrapped around my knees, watching the sky turn gold and pink.
We didn't speak much. We didn't need to. We simply existed together. The chickens clucked lazily in the distance. The wind whispered through the trees. Somewhere inside, soup simmered softly.
It was nothing grand.
No parades. No trophies. No battles. No magic.
Just peace.
And that was everything.