(Euryale's POV)
Sometimes, I wake up just before the sun.
The world feels quiet then, like everything is still sleeping—except the birds, who always start chirping too early. The soft creak of our house as it settles, the smell of dew in the air, and the faint hum of wind through the trees—those things feel like old friends now.
I stretch, yawn, and slide off the bed without waking Silas. He's all tangled in the blanket again, snoring gently, one arm flopped over the edge of the bed.
I pad out barefoot to the porch where Ma's rocking slowly, already awake, a warm cup in her hands. Her belly's rounder now. She smiles when she sees me.
"You're up early," she says.
"So are you," I reply, climbing into her lap even though I'm getting a little big for it.
"I can't sleep as well these days," she sighs. "The baby is a kicker."
"Maybe they're practicing kung fu in there."
She laughs and kisses the top of my head.
Pa returns later that morning with a few herbs and supplies from the market. He always smells like smoke and salt and river water. When he walks in, Silas and I rush to greet him like little dogs waiting for their favorite human.
He picks us both up at once—groaning like it's a struggle even though we know it isn't.
"You're getting heavy," he says with a grin.
"Maybe you're getting weak," I tease.
He laughs and sets us down, ruffling our hair.
Every day with Pa feels like a story waiting to happen. One afternoon, he takes us to a nearby hill and teaches us how to whistle using blades of grass. Another day, he lets us help mend a net and tells us about the time he caught a fish bigger than his boat. (Silas says he made it up. I kind of hope it's true.)
Ma says I'm different now. Happier. Freer. I don't remember being any other way.
Some days, I ask questions about the world: why birds fly, why water sparkles, why the moon changes shape. Silas answers most of them with made-up science. Pa just says, "That's the fun of it, isn't it? Not knowing everything."
And maybe he's right.
I don't feel the need to know everything. I just want to live it.
Ma gets more tired now. She sits more often, her feet swelling. I bring her water and draw silly pictures of babies with wobbly heads to make her laugh.
Sometimes, I fall asleep at her feet while she sews or hums. She strokes my hair gently, and I feel safe—like I'm supposed to be here.
I can't imagine being anywhere else.
At night, I lie awake a little longer.
I stare at the ceiling, listening to Silas breathe, the wind outside, the crickets singing their little songs.
I wonder what the baby will be like. Will they be loud like Silas or quiet like me? Will they like frogs or stars or drawing in the dirt? I don't know.
But I do know I'll protect them. I'll make them laugh. I'll share my snacks. I'll carry them on my shoulders when they get tired.
I'll be the best big brother I can be.
One afternoon, a few of the village kids come to play. We race sticks down the river and build forts from fallen branches. I win a game of tag and fall laughing into the grass.
Later, Ma watches from the porch, smiling.
"You've really come into your own," she says quietly to Pa.
"He's not as quiet anymore," Pa agrees. "Feels like we've had him forever."
They're talking about me. I smile, pretending not to hear.
The baby's due soon.
Everything feels a little slower, a little softer now. We take our time with meals. We spend more evenings together, watching the sun dip below the hills. Pa's hands are rough but gentle as he helps Ma walk from room to room.
Silas makes up names for the baby. Some are ridiculous. One of them is "Moss Potato."
I suggest "Star." Ma says it's beautiful.
Every day feels like a warm memory already.