The child slept, but the room was not still.
Moonlight stretched thin across the walls, silver and cold, yet within its reach lay something warmer, heavier—an unease neither mother nor father dared name aloud.
His small chest rose and fell, fragile as paper. And yet, with each breath, the air seemed to quiver, as though the unseen currents of night bent toward him.
The mother leaned closer, clutching the blanket tight around his body."Do you see it?" she whispered, her voice a thread.
The father's eyes narrowed, flickering with something between fear and pride. "I feel it."
For a moment, silence pressed in. The baby shifted, his lips parting as if caught in some secret dream. The air pulsed, faint but undeniable.
"He must not show it too soon," the mother murmured, voice trembling. "If they sense this—"
The father's hand stilled her words. His gaze never left the sleeping infant."Then we bury it deeper than breath. Until he is ready."
And so they watched, whispering in the dark, their fear curling around the fragile rise and fall of their son's breathing—while outside, the world itself seemed to lean closer.
The chamber was silent save for the faint rasp of the baby's breath. Han-woo slept with tiny fists curled against his chest, lashes quivering in restless dream. A faint heat still clung to his skin from the strange moment before, when his cry had broken through the night like the crack of thunder.
The mother sat rigid beside him, her hand hovering above his chest but not daring to touch. Her eyes glistened, dark with fear.
The father lingered near the shuttered window, back pressed against the wooden frame as though the shadows themselves were listening. His shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched. He had the look of a man calculating, weighing dangers invisible to the child they guarded.
Finally, he spoke in a low rasp—more breath than voice."Too soon."
The mother flinched. "I felt it too. Not… not normal breath, not a child's warmth. It was something else."
The father's hand lifted to silence her, though his own gaze trembled with unease. "Do not name it. Not yet. Not here."
Her eyes darted toward the sleeping form. "If others learn…" She swallowed the rest of the words, pressing her lips tight.
A long silence stretched. The only sound was the soft creak of the house settling, the faint night-wind outside.
At last, the father crossed to her side, crouching low. His voice was a thin whisper now, sharper than any blade."They will test the children when the season turns. If his… stirrings… are noticed, we cannot hide them."
The mother's fingers tightened on her robe. "Then we must hide him now. Before the eyes of the sect fall on him. Before the elders begin their watching."
He stared at her, face shadowed by the dim lantern light. "Hide him? For how long? The child cannot be wrapped in silence forever. If they suspect—if they think we are concealing—"
Her whisper cut him off, fierce and trembling. "Better suspicion than him taken from us."
The father's face hardened. He turned his gaze back to the crib. The infant stirred, a faint whimper rising before sinking again into shallow sleep. Even in that fragile sound, the air seemed to shift, as if something unseen leaned closer to listen.
Both parents stiffened. Neither dared to move until the silence returned.
Finally, the father whispered again, words heavy as stone."Then we vow this: no word of what we felt leaves this room. We will smother it, bury it in plain sight. He will be raised as ordinary. If the sect looks, they will see nothing but a child—our child. And only when he is strong enough to bear their gaze will the truth be allowed to breathe."
The mother bowed her head, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She pressed her palm to the wooden crib, not touching Han-woo but close enough that her warmth lingered.
"We will keep him," she murmured. "At any cost."
The father's gaze did not move from the child. His whisper was a vow to the night itself:
"No one must ever know."
The room sank into silence once more, their secret binding itself in shadow.