(Euryale's POV)
I didn't understand why everyone kept looking at me differently these days.
Mom smiled more often, her eyes lingering on me longer than before. Pa gave me those long, quiet glances when he thought I wasn't paying attention, and Silas would sometimes tilt his head, squinting at me as if I were a puzzle that only he could understand.
But I wasn't a puzzle. I was just… me.
I liked chasing Silas around the garden until we collapsed in the grass, laughing so hard the birds would scatter. I liked dipping my toes in the cold river water, yelling just to hear the echo bounce back from the hills. I liked drawing strange animals in the dirt with sticks, giving them names no one else would ever understand.
This life was all I knew—and yet, it felt bigger than any life I'd had before.
Once, Pa asked me what my earliest memory was. I paused, trying to think.
"My first memory?" I frowned. "Waking up in bed and Silas jumping on me, yelling, 'Race you to the porch!'"
Pa laughed, ruffling my hair.
"That sounds about right," he said.
And that was the end of it. No lectures. No questions. Just acceptance.
I loved mornings. The smell of freshly baked bread drifting from the kitchen. Mom's soft humming as she prepared breakfast. The golden sunlight spilling across the floor. She would often sit in the chair by the window now, her hand resting on her growing belly. Sometimes I'd curl up beside her, pressing my ear gently against it.
"Can the baby hear me?" I asked once.
"Maybe," she smiled, brushing hair from my forehead. "Why don't you say something?"
I leaned close, whispering, "Hi, I'm your big brother. I'm gonna teach you how to throw rocks into the river, chase butterflies, and maybe even sneak a piece of bread before lunch."
Mom laughed softly, her fingers stroking my hair.
"You'll be the best big brother," she whispered, her voice trembling just a little.
Silas and I built forts from old blankets, ran through the fields in the late afternoon sun, and made up songs that rhymed with nothing at all. We got into trouble—like the time we accidentally let the chickens loose—but we always fixed our mistakes. Pa called us "my little hurricanes," and though he sighed at the chaos, I could see the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile every time.
"Just wait," he said once, "one day you two will be the reason this house collapses entirely. And I'll laugh the whole time."
One evening, Mom sat in the garden while Pa tended to the stew over the fire. I ran back from the meadow, holding a small flower I had picked.
"For you," I said, holding it out with both hands.
She looked surprised, then gently took it. "Thank you, sweetheart."
"I thought it looked like the color of your dress," I said.
She studied me for a moment, then smiled softly. "You know," she murmured, "you've been even more cheerful lately. Brighter. More playful. Like something heavy just disappeared from your chest."
I tilted my head. "I don't feel heavy," I said simply. "I feel… happy."
She nodded, and for the first time, I saw her completely at ease. She stroked my back with a slow, gentle rhythm, and I felt something I didn't know I had—relief. For her, for me, for all of us.
At night, I'd crawl into bed with Silas half-asleep across the room. The house smelled of wood and herbs, warm and comforting, like a soft blanket wrapped around us all.
I loved how Mom called me when she needed help—her soft voice carrying through the rooms. I loved the strength in Pa's arms when he lifted me onto his shoulders or steadied me while I carried water. I loved the small warmth of Silas pressing against me when thunder rolled across the hills, the way he trusted me without question.
This was my life. And I would never trade it.
The next morning, Mom sat by the window, humming while sewing tiny clothes—little shirts, mittens, and socks for the baby.
"Ma," I said, stepping up beside her, "can I help?"
Her eyes widened, misting slightly, before she smiled. "Of course, darling. Sit here."
She guided my small hands, showing me how to fold the clothes carefully, stack them neatly. I listened to her soft instructions, her voice steady and warm, and I didn't think twice when I called her "Ma." It felt right, natural.
And calling Pa "Pa" was the same—easy, right, and unspoken.
These weren't just names—they were mine to give them. They were the words that bound us. They were my family. The only ones I had ever known, and the only ones I needed.
Even when the sun rose high and the wind tugged at the curtains, when Silas tumbled over and laughed, or when Pa called out for me to help bring in firewood, or when Mom's belly stretched and the baby kicked under my fingers—I knew it all was enough.
I was Euryale.
I was their son.
And I was home.