The world grows louder as my body grows stronger.
Not louder in noise—my parents' voices are the same soft, warm tones they've always been—but louder in detail. I hear things I didn't before. The soft shift of fabric when my mother turns. The faint creak of old wood when my father walks past. The distant rumble of the forest—deeper, more frequent, more… alive.
And my body responds to all of it.
I wake to the pale morning glow slipping past the shutters. My mother is already up, humming as she stirs something warm on the stove. My father's absence tells me he's outside chopping wood or checking traps.
My mother notices me stirring and turns, her eyes softening instantly.
"Good morning, my little sun," she whispers, lifting me from the cradle. She settles me against her shoulder, rubbing gentle circles on my back. "You slept well."
I babble a few sounds—not yet real words, but shaped enough that she beams with pride.
"There you go," she murmurs. "Talk to me."
She carries me to the blanket near the fire and kneels down, setting me gently on my stomach.
"All right," she says. "Let's practice."
Practice.
It's almost a ritual now.
My arms plant against the blanket. My legs curl slightly beneath me. My elbows lock more often than they buckle. My mother watches my every movement with excitement tinged by protective worry.
I lift.
Not far, but higher than yesterday. My body forms a shaky arch—arms straight, knees tucked, spine taut with effort.
My mother holds her breath.
I inch forward.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
She lets out a soft gasp. "You're crawling."
Technically it's still clumsy. Awkward. More dragging than real crawling.
But it's crawling.
I move again, determination buzzing through me like fire.
A faint chime rings softly behind my thoughts.
Daily Quest Added: Crawl
Reward: +1 Speed
I push, pulling my knees under me.
Daily Quest Completed
Speed +1
Reward: Minor Limb Coordination Increase
My limbs feel smoother. More synchronized.
My mother's laugh is bright and full.
"Vereen!" she calls. "Come see!"
My father steps inside moments later, shaking melted frost from his sleeves. He freezes when he sees me crawling toward him.
"Well," he breathes, grinning, "aren't you eager to grow up?"
He crouches down and holds his hands wide.
"Come here, little warrior."
I move toward him.
Not gracefully. Not quickly.
But deliberately.
When I reach him, he scoops me up, lifting me high enough that my stomach flips.
"Ha!" he laughs, spinning once. "Look at that. Already crawling."
My mother crosses her arms, though she can't hide her smile.
"He's going to be moving all over the house now."
My father shrugs. "Let him. He needs it."
She sighs. "I'll never get a moment's rest."
"You'll sleep when he's grown," he teases.
She flicks his arm. "Don't rush him."
I babble something resembling a laugh.
Both of them freeze.
"Did you hear that?" my mother whispers.
"He laughed," my father says, eyes wide.
My mother cups my face gently. "Do it again, little sun."
I try.
A soft sound escapes me—somewhere between a giggle and a squeak.
They melt instantly.
"Oh spirits," my mother whispers, hugging me tightly. "You're going to break my heart at this rate."
My father kisses the top of my head. "He's perfect."
For the first time since being reborn, I almost believe it.
Later that afternoon, my father decides the weather is mild enough to take me outside again—this time for a different sort of introduction.
He doesn't take me near the forest. My mother made that rule clear. Instead, he walks me through the center of the village. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of melting snow and fresh-cut wood.
People greet us warmly.
"There he is!"
"The golden-eyed child!"
"Look how big he's gotten!"
Some wave; some offer small wooden toys; others simply admire me from a distance.
My father's chest swells with pride every time.
"He's strong," he says again and again.
Strong.
I don't know if he means physically or something deeper. Maybe both.
He stops near a small clearing where a few children play in the slush, tossing snow clumps or poking the ground with sticks.
One of them—an older girl with freckles and a messy braid—approaches shyly.
"Can I see him?" she asks.
My father nods and kneels so she can get closer.
She peers at me, eyes wide. "His eyes really are gold."
My father chuckles. "Just like his mother."
"And his hair too," the girl adds. She reaches out a tentative finger, then looks up for permission.
Father nods once.
She touches my hand.
I close my fingers instinctively around her small finger.
Her breath catches. She grins. "He's strong!"
My father laughs. "Told you."
More children gather, curiosity shining in their eyes. My father lets them look but not touch—I see the protective edge in his posture, the way he positions himself between them and me.
"Be gentle," he warns.
They nod quickly.
"We will!"
For a moment, everything feels peaceful.
Normal.
But then—
The ground rumbles.
Very faint. Barely noticeable.
The children pause.
My father stiffens.
A second rumble follows—slightly stronger.
The older kids look toward the forest.
"Is that…?"
"Again?"
"What's in there?"
My father stands quickly, lifting me higher in his arms.
"That's enough outside time for today."
The children scatter. My father strides toward home with a speed I've never felt from him before.
At the halfway point, he meets my mother rushing outside, cloak thrown hastily over her shoulders.
"Vereen!" she calls, relief flooding her voice the moment she sees us. "Are you all right?"
"We're fine," he assures her, though his grip on me tightens. "But the forest—"
"I heard," she says quietly, eyes flicking toward the treeline. "It felt closer."
My father nods grimly, brushing a hand along my back.
"Let's get inside."
They do.
And for the rest of the day, they stay close—closer than usual.
As evening settles in, the house fills with warmth from the fire and the soft aroma of soup simmering in the pot. My mother sits me on her lap while she stirs with her free hand.
"You scared me earlier," she murmurs.
I rest against her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart.
"It's all right now," she whispers.
My father sits near the window, eyes scanning the darkening forest edge. His bow rests beside him, string taut.
He's tense.
More tense than I've ever seen him.
Finally he turns toward us.
"We need to be more careful," he says softly.
My mother nods. "I agree."
"We can't let him crawl near the door," he adds. "Or the windows. Not until we know what's happening."
She holds me tighter. "He doesn't go anywhere without one of us."
My father sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
"I don't like this."
My mother cups my cheek. "Let's focus on today. He took his first crawling steps. That's something worth celebrating."
My father's shoulders relax slightly.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "It is."
Later that night, after my parents have settled down to rest, something unexpected happens.
I'm placed on the blanket near the fire while they talk softly nearby. They think I'm tired. They think I'm calm.
But I'm not.
My legs twitch.
My arms push.
A strange restless energy builds in me.
I want to move.
I want to stand.
I try lifting again—arms locked, knees tucked—and this time I shift my weight… forward.
I slide.
Then tip.
Then—
My body sways toward the wooden stool beside the fire.
Too fast.
Too far.
My mother gasps. "Lucifer!"
My father lunges before I hit the floor, catching me mid-fall. His arms wrap around me instantly, breath shaking.
"Careful," he murmurs, voice tight. "Careful…"
My heart pounds harder than my tiny chest knows how to handle.
My mother rushes over and gathers me into her arms, pressing my head to her shoulder.
"Oh spirits… you scared us…"
She rocks gently, soothing both of us.
My father exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's too quick now. We need to move things. The stools. The tools. Everything sharp."
My mother nods, hugging me close. "We'll fix it tomorrow."
I nestle against her, comforted by her warmth, chastened by the fall, driven by something deeper than my tiny body understands.
I want to move.
I want to grow.
I want to reach the strength this world requires.
But every new achievement carries risk.
My parents feel each risk like a blade to their hearts.
And I feel their fear as deeply as their love.
Night settles thick and heavy around the house.
My parents keep me close after the fall—closer than usual. My mother refuses to put me back on the blanket unless she's right beside me. My father keeps scanning the room like there are hidden dangers lurking in the shadows.
Maybe there are.
"This house needs to be safer," my mother mutters as she paces with me in her arms. "He's too quick now. Too curious."
My father nods, already moving tools and stools away from the fire. He shifts a basket of dried herbs to the top shelf, checks the latch on the window again, then straightens the rug so there are no corners I could catch on.
His movements are methodical, bordering on anxious.
"He could have hurt himself," he says quietly.
"He didn't," my mother replies, kissing my forehead. "Because you caught him."
He stops moving. For a moment, the fire crackles loudly enough to fill the silence between them.
Then he steps toward us and rests a large hand gently on my back.
"I'll always catch him if he falls," he murmurs.
My mother lowers her head, touching her cheek to mine. "We both will."
Their warmth surrounds me like a shield.
But beneath their love, a faint tremor stirs beneath the floorboards—the echo of something shifting far away, deep in the forest. So faint my parents don't notice.
But I do.
And it sends a ripple through me.
Not fear.
Not dread.
Recognition.
The System hums faintly.
The future stirs.
The story moves.
But I'm still small.
Still learning.
Still growing.
A few hours later, my mother finally settles on the floor near the fire, sitting cross-legged with me nestled in her lap. She rocks gently, humming a soft melody—something old, something warm.
The kind of song meant to cradle both a child and a mother's fears.
My father sits beside her, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out. Exhaustion softens his posture, but his eyes remain alert.
He watches the fire.
Then he watches the window.
Then he watches me.
He can't stop.
My mother nudges him lightly. "Vereen, relax."
He sighs. "I'm trying."
Her hand finds his knee. "He's safe."
He glances at me. "He's too fearless."
She smiles faintly. "He gets that from you."
He scoffs. "No, he gets it from you."
"Me?" she laughs. "I'm cautious. You're the wild one."
He raises a brow. "Who was the one who chased a rabid chicken out of the neighbor's barn with a broom?"
She swats his arm. "Don't bring that up."
"Terrifying," he teases. "That chicken never stood a chance."
She covers her face with her free hand in embarrassment while I watch them in fascination.
Their laughter fills the room, and I feel something quietly powerful.
Belonging.
I belonged nowhere in my last life.
Here… I belong to them.
And they belong to me.
My mother shifts me in her lap, positioning me so I'm sitting with support behind my back. My balance isn't perfect, but with her hands braced around my sides, I remain upright.
She smiles as I blink, adjusting to the new posture.
"Look at you," she whispers. "Almost sitting."
My father leans in, studying me with bright eyes.
"Try this," he says softly.
He places a smooth wooden block—a small square he carved earlier—just within my reach.
My fingers twitch.
He nudges it closer. "Go on. Take it."
I reach out, wobbling dangerously but determined.
My fingers brush the wood. Slip.
Try again.
Brush. Grip.
My mother gasps. "He's holding it!"
My father laughs. "Of course he is. He's strong."
The block is heavier than the toy wolf, but not by much. I curl my fingers around it tightly, refusing to let go.
My arm wavers.
My balance sways.
My torso tilts—
My mother catches me before I topple backward, pulling me securely against her chest.
"There, there," she murmurs. "Not too fast."
My father rubs my back gently. "He's getting better every day."
The System hums faintly.
Daily Quest Added: Hold Object While Sitting
Reward: +1 Strength
I grip the block more firmly.
Daily Quest Completed
Strength +1
Reward: Slight Postural Stability Increase
My back straightens marginally—enough that my father's eyes widen.
"Did you see that?"
My mother nods, awed. "He's adjusting himself. On his own."
They exchange a look.
A look filled with wonder.
Fear.
Pride.
And the dawning realization that I may not grow like other children.
My mother cups my face, brushing her thumb along my cheek.
"You're so special," she whispers.
My father leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
"Just don't scare us again," he murmurs.
I can't promise that.
But I press the wooden block against my chest, and they both laugh.
Later that evening, my father begins tidying the house while my mother prepares me for sleep. She hums the same melody as before, her voice barely above a whisper.
She wraps me in a soft blanket and places me gently in my cradle.
"You're growing so fast," she murmurs, brushing a curl from my forehead. "Faster than I can keep up with."
Her hand lingers there, warm and protective.
"When you stand," she whispers, "I'll be right here."
My father steps over and rests his hand on the cradle too.
"And when you walk," he adds, "I'll guide you."
"And when you run," she says quietly, "we'll chase after you."
He nods. "And when you fall—"
"I'll catch him," she interrupts.
They smile at each other.
Then both look down at me.
"You don't have to do anything alone," my mother whispers.
My father nods. "We're your home."
My chest tightens—not physically, but emotionally. Something heavy presses behind my ribs.
These two people…
They don't just love me.
They anchor me.
They are the first true family I've ever had.
My mother strokes my cheek. "Sleep now, little sun."
My father taps the cradle once in his quiet nightly ritual.
"I'll be right here," he whispers.
Their silhouettes fade as the fire dims, leaving only the soft glow of dying embers.
I listen to the rhythm of their breathing.
Night deepens.
The forest shifts in the distance.
The world prepares for the future.
But for now…
I close my eyes.
I sleep wrapped in love.
And tomorrow, I will grow again.