The cottage was quiet now, save for the soft crackle of the hearth and the rhythmic breathing of my boys. I gently tucked the blanket around Marcus, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. He stirred slightly but didn't wake.
His small fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt. My weary gaze fell to his temple, where lay the bandage I'd carefully applied.
Slowly, I peeled it away, my heart skipping a beat. The wound that had bled so freely just hours ago was almost gone. Only a faint, silvery line remained, as if weeks—not hours—had passed.
I sat back and sighed, my hands trembling slightly. I stared at Marcus, then at the other two boys nestled close to him.
Could it be?
The thought had crossed my mind before. The truth was, I had lied to myself, thinking that they would be normal. That they were humans, after all. But now, with this sign before me, it was difficult to ignore.
My boys were different.
I was different.
