The mornings had started to feel normal again — at least on the surface.
Becca smiled as always, the sun streamed through the kitchen window, and the smell of coffee and pancakes filled the air. But inside
Ryan, nothing was the same.
Ever since the night he split the tree trunk, something had changed.
It wasn't just strength.
It was as if the world around him had gained an absurd level of sharpness — vivid, invasive, almost suffocating.
The first time he noticed was something simple.
He was having breakfast, distracted, when the sound of a car three streets away made him lift his head.
The engine sounded like it was right beside him, the metallic rumble echoing inside his skull.
He frowned, looking around.
"What is it, honey ?" asked Becca, turning from the stove.
Ryan hesitated. "Nothing… I thought I heard something."
She smiled. "It was probably just the neighbor."
But he knew it wasn't.
He was hearing everything.
The footsteps of a bird on the roof. The ticking of the wall clock sounding like drumbeats. Even his mother's heartbeat — steady, constant, comforting — pulsed in his ears as if it were inside his own chest.
At first, it was fascinating.
Then, torturous.
At night, every creak of the house, every electric hum, every breath felt like a scream.
He covered his ears, but the sound kept going, as if it came from inside his head.
He cried silently, trembling, trying not to wake Becca.
Control… I need to learn to control it…
That was when he noticed something else: his sense of smell and taste had changed too.
That morning, Becca served orange juice — the usual. Ryan took a sip, but the taste made him flinch.
It wasn't juice. Or rather, it was, but there was something more — a chemical bitterness mixed with the natural sweetness of the fruit. A taste of plastic, of detergent.
He looked at the cup, confused, and his mother noticed.
"What is it, Ry ? Didn't like it ?"
"It's… different," he said, trying to sound casual. "A little weird."
Becca frowned, smelling the cup. "Hm, maybe it wasn't rinsed properly. Sorry, sweetheart." She smiled and went back to the counter.
Ryan watched her for a moment, his stomach tightening.
I can taste chemical compounds… just from a cup that wasn't rinsed well.
It was impressive — and terrifying.
Over the next few days, every sense seemed to intensify.
He could hear Becca's footsteps in the hallway even when she walked barefoot. He could count how many leaves moved when the wind blew. Sometimes, he could smell food being prepared by staff hundreds of meters from the house.
It was like living inside a screaming world.
But he couldn't stop.
At night, he returned to the hidden clearing.
There, he trained in silence, taking deep breaths, trying to focus on one sound at a time. First the wind. Then the rustling of leaves. Then his own heartbeat.
Focus. Don't let it swallow you.
It took days before he could muffle the rest — until he could isolate a single sound. When he finally succeeded, he dropped to his knees, exhausted, sweat dripping down his face.
I'm learning… I'm doing it.
But there was still fear.
Fear of losing control. Of hurting someone. Of being discovered.
One morning, Becca found him sitting in the backyard, staring at the sky, his expression distant.
"Hey, are you okay ?"
He hesitated. He wanted to tell her everything — about the strength, the sounds, the strange taste of the juice, the constant fear. But something held him back.
"I'm fine, Mom. Just… thinking again."
She sat beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
"Thinking about what ?"
Ryan smiled, looking at the golden horizon.
"About how I wish things could stay like this forever."
Becca smiled, unaware of the weight behind the words.
He wanted to say, "about how I want to protect you forever."
But the words died in his throat.
That night, Ryan returned to the clearing.
The stars shimmered above him, and the wind carried the scent of the forest. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Every sound, every smell, every vibration was intense — but now he tried to embrace them, not flee from them.
I can hear the world… feel the world.
So I can control it.
He opened his eyes and looked at his hands.
"I'm not him," he murmured. "But maybe I can be what he should've been."
A distant thunder rumbled, and the nine-year-old boy, hidden among the trees, smiled.
Slowly, he was beginning to understand what he truly was — and what he could become.