As the days went on, Caelus noticed more about the people around him, though he still could not understand them fully. The boy would sometimes glance at him from across the room, eyes wary, then quickly look away as if afraid to be caught staring. The girl's whispers to herself were soft, barely audible, but her eyes kept flicking toward him, watching his every small movement.
They… notice me. I… don't know why. I… don't know what to do.
Sometimes they cried quietly, their sobs soft and uneven, like fragments of sound that floated through the air. Caelus felt the weight of it, though he could not name it. The sadness around him was heavy, pressing, unfamiliar. And then, between the sobs, there was something else — small flickers of irritation, glances that lingered too long, sighs that carried a little frustration.
They… are upset. But why? I… I don't understand.
The nurse carried him through the house, adjusting his blankets, humming her quiet tune. Her hands were warm, and her voice was gentle, but it did not erase the confusion in the room.
Safe… maybe. But… everything is strange. Everything… is too loud. Too bright. Too… heavy.
One afternoon, the boy reached his hand toward Caelus, paused, and then withdrew it quickly. The girl, sitting near the window, let her hand hover in the air above him for a moment, then moved it back to her knees. Their hesitations were small but noticeable, and Caelus could sense the mix of curiosity and resentment in their gestures.
They… want something. But I… don't understand. I… just… exist.
The father sometimes spoke softly to the siblings, words Caelus could not comprehend. But he noticed the tones — gentle, pleading, patient, yet strained. The boy's shoulders tensed at his father's words; the girl's lips pressed into a tight line. The emotions swirled around Caelus, confusing him further.
They… feel… heavy. I… don't understand. I… just… am.
Night brought silence, but it did not bring peace. Shadows danced across the blankets, the floorboards creaked, and the small house seemed to breathe around him. The boy and girl lay nearby, their soft whispers and occasional sobs filling the room. Caelus watched them, tiny eyes wide, struggling to comprehend what it all meant.
I… am awake. I… am here. I… see them. I… feel… something, but I don't know what.
Sometimes he let out a small cry, and the siblings would shift. The boy would flinch, the girl's hands would tighten around her knees. Their quiet reactions pressed against him, an invisible weight he could not name or understand.
They… don't like me yet. They… are upset with me. But I… am here. I… just… exist.
Even in confusion, Caelus began to notice the tiny rhythms of the house: the nurse's soft humming, the father's low murmurs, the pattern of footsteps across the wooden floor, the flicker of sunlight across blankets. He could not comprehend these patterns, but their repetition made the world feel slightly less chaotic, even if only barely.
Everything… moves. Everything… happens. I… am here. I… exist.
And so, in the quiet, messy house filled with grief, subtle resentment, and soft sobs, Caelus continued to exist. He did not understand why he was here, or why his siblings looked at him with sadness and frustration, or why the world smelled and sounded and felt the way it did.
I… don't understand. I… don't know. I… just… am.
In that small, chaotic world, Caelus remained bewildered, fragile, and alive — a newborn caught in a web of grief, curiosity, and unspoken tension. Shadows and whispers surrounded him, confusing, oppressive, but endlessly present, shaping his first days in a world he could not yet name.