Chapter 34
Happy Birthday
The street stretched out under a soft, golden light, the kind that seems to hang suspended between the shadows of the trees. The old, fused stone pavement reflected a muted gleam where footsteps fell in a slow, measured rhythm.
The father, his blonde hair tousled by the wind, kept his hands in the pockets of his light coat. He walked without hurry, watching his son, who moved a few steps ahead, a child's curiosity in his brown eyes.
The mother, a redhead with a loose strand of hair brushing her cheek, smiled now and then, her gaze drifting over the closed shop windows, the flower pots a neighbor had left on the curb.
Their pace was serene, as if each step was part of a small Sunday stroll. The father murmured something in a low voice, a trivial observation—perhaps about the weather, or how fast the boy was growing—and they both laughed with a complicity that needed no long words.
The son, oblivious at times, kicked a small pebble that skittered with a faint clink. He'd stop to watch it roll, then run a little to catch up and kick it again. Sometimes he glanced back, checking that his parents were still close. They answered with a calm look, never rushing him.
The air smelled of fresh bread and damp leaves. In the distance, a dog barked, a bicycle passed, the city murmured at rest.
The three continued their walk along the sidewalk, moving through the shadows cast by the city's facades. Houses and buildings rose on both sides, most two or three stories tall, solid constructions of aged stone with touches of dark wood. Some had slanted roofs covered in reddish tiles; others hid their roofs behind an extra elevation of the facade.
The father observed the details like someone revisiting a place known forever. He sometimes tilted his head toward a balcony with wooden furniture or a wall where the stone was a little worn, its edges rounded smooth.
The mother walked beside him, letting her hand occasionally brush against the wall, feeling the rough texture.
The son, meanwhile, looked upward, tracing the lines of the rooftops with his eyes. He stopped to watch the pigeons moving, their small shadows flitting across the ground. Each building seemed a different story: one house with lace curtains in the window, another with a door slightly ajar, the smell of freshly made soup escaping.
From time to time, other people passed—an old woman with a basket of bread, a young man pushing a bicycle—but no one was in a hurry. Everything seemed to move at a shared rhythm, a serene pulse connecting the walkers and the city itself.
The sidewalk continued straight, with small irregularities that made the boy jump now and then. The father watched him with a faint smile, while the mother offered a knowing look.
As they advanced, the variety of passersby increased. Figures crossed in both directions, each distinct in bearing and presence. Some were tall and thin, others broad-shouldered, their firm steps making the paving stones resonate. Each person seemed to carry a different story. Some wore simple clothes of linen or wool, in earthy colors that blended with the stone. Others walked with the visible weight of their armor: well-fitted pieces of iron or burnished steel that reflected soft glints of light as they moved.
There were faces marked by old scars, serene or weary gazes, calloused hands holding cloth bags. The clothing varied as much as the stories they might tell: soft linen tunics, worn wool cloaks, cured leather vests that creaked with movement.
Among them, some wore metal pieces, small or visible, embedded like extensions of their own garments. Polished steel bracers covered forearms, greaves strapped to legs with dark leather. Others displayed plates on their chests, fitted tight, gleaming dully in the sunlight. Though not all wore them the same way: some were closed and heavy, others merely suggested defense, more ornamental than practical.
The father observed them with calm curiosity. The mother stayed close, her gaze wandering from face to face, admiring the details without rush. The son, fascinated, followed the glint of a bracer or the hollow sound a knee guard made when it tapped against stone.
The air filled with small noises—footsteps, low voices, the scrape of leather, the faint metallic jingling—and yet, everything still felt tranquil, as if even the bustle was part of the general calm of the afternoon.
The family kept walking, enveloped in that serene murmur of daily life that gave the city a constant, almost breathing, pulse.
As they went further, the group of people kept changing.
Some passersby wore suits with the weight of their armor: pieces of iron or burnished steel, well-fitted, reflecting soft glints as they moved under the light.
The metallic sound of plates rubbing together marked a subtle rhythm, keeping time with the murmur of footsteps. There were warriors with closed breastplates covering the entire torso and others with partial protection, revealing sleeves of cloth or leather beneath the metal.
"Adventurers…" the father whispered with a smile.
Some carried short swords at their belts, held by worn straps; others sported longer greatswords, sheathed in reinforced leather scabbards that scraped the ground with each movement.
The father watched the coming and going of the adventurers with a tranquil, almost thoughtful gaze. The mother, without losing her serenity, held the son by the shoulder when a figure with a spear crossed in front of them. The boy looked up, fascinated, following the gleam of the metal until he lost it among the reflections from the balconies.
The sound of swords, footsteps, voices… it all formed part of the same landscape, like a daily symphony filling the street with life.
The family continued on, leaving that section of sidewalk behind. They crossed a cobbled street leading to a more open area, a wide plaza in dry, dusty tones.
As they advanced, the boy stopped suddenly, turning his head toward a sound that momentarily broke the calm of the surroundings. A metal vehicle moved heavily along the cobbled street, advancing on its thick treads. The steam engine snorted with a deep, constant roar, expelling puffs of white smoke that slowly dissolved in the air.
The boy watched with wide eyes, intrigued by the mechanical motion. It wasn't the first time he'd seen one, but each encounter seemed to surprise him just the same. The vehicle advanced slowly, almost clumsily, while steam hissed from its joints and the metal vibrated with a profound hum.
On the back, a large load was secured with thick straps: iron plates, tubes, and blocks of polished stone that reflected the light like dull mirrors.
Seeing it pass, some pedestrians stepped aside, giving it space.
The father smiled, noticing the boy's attention, and said something brief, a practical observation about the vehicle's weight or the engine's strength. The mother, beside him, watched the column of steam rise above the rooftops and let out a soft, almost nostalgic laugh. The boy, without looking away, seemed to imagine what it would be like to be inside that machine, to feel the heat of the metal, to hear the rhythmic clatter of the pistons from within.
When the vehicle slowly turned the corner, it left behind a faint trail of smoke and a metallic smell. The sound of the engine faded away among the buildings, and once more the tranquil rhythm of footsteps filled the street.
The father kept watching his son.
His small brown eyes still followed with such fascination the vehicle now disappearing down the end of the street. In that gaze was a mix of wonder and admiration, a spark of curiosity.
The father smiled, bent down slowly, and with a firm, natural movement, lifted him up to sit on his shoulders. The boy, surprised by the sudden height, grinned and stretched his arms out as if trying to reach the steam clouds the engine had left floating in the air.
"Marvelous, isn't it?" said the father, looking ahead with an expression of quiet pride. "Technology is incredible."
The boy nodded enthusiastically, still marveling at what he'd seen. His smile was still alive when the mother, with a gentle but decisive gesture, moved a little closer. She reached up and, carefully, lifted him down from the father's shoulders. The boy immediately placed his hands on her shoulders as he descended slowly to the ground.
The father watched her in silence during the movement, his expression serene, though with a faint glint of resignation in his eyes. No words were needed: her gesture was enough.
Don't do that, he could fall and hurt himself.
He let out a brief, almost imperceptible sigh, and nodded in a gesture that acknowledged her reason without argument. The mother, satisfied but without severity, gave him a look that mixed care and affection.
Once back on the ground, the boy, standing again, looked at them both and slipped his small fingers into theirs.
But suddenly, Kaep frowned and blinked hard. He felt something strange in his eyes: a sharp, unexpected burning, as if the air had turned to dust or light too intense. He let go of his parents' hands and brought his fingers to his face, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Kaep…" the mother's voice came first, soft but tense.
The boy slowly knelt on the ground, curling in on himself. The father immediately crouched, placing a hand on his back, while the mother moved to his other side, her arms open, protective, creating a small refuge around him.
"What's wrong, son?" asked the father, searching for his gaze.
The boy didn't answer; he just breathed in ragged gasps, eyelids squeezed tight, tears welling at the edges of his lashes.
The mother brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, trying to see his eyes. Her expression held a mix of worry and contained fear.
The father looked around instinctively, as if expecting to find the cause in the air.
Kaep remained for a moment with his eyes closed, breathing with difficulty, hands still covering his face. The silence grew dense around them: neither the murmur of the street nor the whisper of steam seemed to reach that small space where the three of them crouched.
Then, slowly, the boy lowered his hands. His fingers trembled slightly, and the sunlight fell on his skin. When he opened his eyes, both parents held their breath.
For a second, the father thought it was just a trick of the light, a passing glint.
But no…
The change was real. The brown color of Kaep's eyes began to dissolve, like ink fading in water. In its place emerged a new, vibrant tone, a luminous violet spreading from the center of the iris toward the edges, displacing the original color with a slow, almost hypnotic movement.
The mother leaned in a little closer, watching without a word, her lips parted between surprise and relief. The father relaxed too, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
For a moment, no one spoke. The three just looked at each other.
The color kept spreading until it completely covered the original tone. In a few seconds, Kaep's eyes had transformed entirely. No trace of the familiar brown remained; in its place, a pure, luminous violet seemed to shine from within, as if a small light had awakened deep in his gaze.
The father and mother remained motionless, fascinated. That radiance wasn't aggressive, nor blinding: it was soft, warm, almost hypnotic. The boy blinked, looking at them with some confusion, not understanding the beauty he reflected. For an instant, the light seemed to dance within his pupils, vibrating like a reflection on water.
The father smiled faintly, incredulous but calm, and ran his hand through the boy's hair.
"Better?" he asked, his voice low.
Kaep nodded, and the mother pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes in relief. The air began to move again, the distant noise gradually returned, and the city remained alive, oblivious to what had just occurred.
But the moment didn't last long. Little by little, the brilliance began to fade, like a flame slowly dying.
The violet grew more opaque, losing its luminosity until it settled into a muted, serene, but distinct tone, as if the color had decided to stay, though without its initial radiance.
The mother stroked his cheek gently, still not looking away from his eyes.
"It's over…" she whispered, almost to convince herself.
The father nodded, watching the final change carefully. What remained in Kaep's gaze was a tranquil violet, beautiful in its own way.
Kaep breathed with some difficulty, his eyelids still heavy. The radiance had vanished completely, but a slight weariness was etched on his expression.
The boy took a deep breath, calmer now, and rested his head against his mother's chest. She hugged him, and the father wrapped an arm around them both, letting the silence envelop them. Only then, when the glow had fully faded, did the sound of the street return: the voices, the steam, the footsteps. Everything continued its course, as if nothing had happened.
The boy slowly lifted his gaze. His eyes, now a muted violet, met theirs. For a moment, everything hung suspended—the air, the street, the distant murmur of the city—until both parents smiled at the same time, with that warmth that only arises from love and shared relief.
"Happy birthday, Kaep," they said in unison, their voices soft and full of affection.
The boy blinked, surprised at first, and then a timid smile formed on his face. Those simple words seemed to erase everything else.
The father ruffled his hair affectionately, while the mother hugged his shoulders.
The moment filled with a luminous stillness, as if time itself had stopped to let them celebrate in silence.
The city remained alive around them—the sound of steam, the passage of people, the metallic echoes—but for them, only that instant existed: three figures together, united by the calm and the simple love of a shared birthday.