The morning sun touched the little wooden home gently, as though it knew better than to arrive too loudly.
Soft gold spilled through the narrow gaps in the shutters, stretching across the floor in long, warm lines. Outside, the sea murmured in the distance—steady, patient. Inside, the scent of boiling herbs and fish broth filled the air, comforting and familiar.
Salah stood at the hearth, stirring the pot slowly. He moved with care, as if sudden motions might shatter the fragile peace that had settled over their lives.
Behind him—
A soft rustle.
Fabric shifting.
Salah froze.
He turned.
His wife was awake.
Not only awake—she was sitting up, back supported by the wall, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her face was still thin, but there was color in it now. Life.
"Are you—?" Salah's voice caught. "Do you need to lie back down?"
She shook her head gently. "No. I just… wanted to sit for a bit."
He rushed to her side at once, hands hovering uselessly in the air, unsure whether to support her or pull her into an embrace.
"My back's sore," she added softly, almost apologetic. "From lying so long."
"You shouldn't push yourself," he said, though his voice trembled.
She smiled faintly. "I'm not breaking, Salah."
It was the first time in weeks she had sat up on her own.
For a moment, Salah forgot how to breathe.
Before he could say anything else, a small sound drifted from the nearby cot.
A coo.
Soft. Curious.
They both turned.
Euryale lay awake, tiny hands lifted toward the air, fingers opening and closing as if grasping for something unseen. His eyes—dark, deep, impossibly old—followed the sound of her voice like a tide pulled by the moon.
"Oh," she whispered.
She reached out slowly.
Euryale's fingers wrapped around hers with surprising strength.
Salah's breath hitched.
"He's strong," he murmured.
Her lips curved into a gentle smile. "So are you."
She leaned closer to the child. "You're awake too," she whispered. "We're all waking up again, aren't we?"
Euryale gazed up at her, unblinking.
As if he understood.
The days that followed felt… lighter.
As though some unseen weight had lifted from the house.
Salah's wife began to laugh again—not loudly, not often, but genuinely. She hummed old songs while folding clothes, stopping now and then to catch her breath. She cleaned in small bursts, rested when she needed, and smiled without forcing it.
Euryale was never far from her.
He crawled after her with quiet determination, watching her with an intensity that made Salah pause more than once.
"He watches you like an old man watches the sea," Salah said one evening, knotting a fishing net.
She laughed softly. "Maybe he's just clever."
"Or curious."
"Or lonely," she said after a moment.
Salah glanced at the child.
Maybe.
Euryale changed quickly.
Too quickly.
He began to walk long before any child should have. Not clumsy, wavering steps—but steady ones. Balanced. Intentional. He wandered from room to room, touching walls, furniture, tools.
Studying.
And sometimes… things reacted.
Wood seemed to hum faintly beneath his palm. Cloth stirred as if breathing. Metal rang softly, like something remembered being awake.
Salah noticed.
His wife noticed.
But neither spoke of it.
Not yet.
One evening, Euryale stood beneath the wind chime by the door.
He reached up—but did not touch it.
The air around him stilled completely.
Then—
The chime rang.
Once.
Clear. Soft. Perfect.
Without a breath of wind.
Salah's wife turned from the hearth. "Did you hear that?"
Salah nodded slowly. "Yeah."
They looked at the child.
He stared up at the chime, eyes reflecting something distant—something old.
A memory.
He said nothing.
He never did.
By the second month, Salah's wife had regained her strength.
She walked to the edge of their garden. Gathered herbs. Touched the soil with bare hands. Her voice was clearer. Her steps lighter.
Sometimes, when she carried Euryale, she whispered to him.
Not prayers.
Not questions.
"Thank you," she murmured once, pressing her forehead to his soft hair. "I don't know what you are… but thank you."
Euryale placed his hand gently over her chest.
Where the sickness had once lived.
And smiled.
One afternoon, they walked to the cliffs overlooking the sea.
It was her first time leaving the house since falling ill.
Salah carried a woven basket with bread and fruit. The wind tugged at their sleeves as the grass gave way to stone, the ocean roaring far below.
Euryale toddled ahead.
"Salah—" she warned softly.
But the boy stopped on his own and sat, gazing at the waves.
"He's not afraid," Salah said quietly.
She watched the child.
They sat together, sharing food and silence.
At last, she spoke.
"I thought I was going to die."
Salah's hand tightened around hers.
"Every night," she continued, voice trembling. "I felt myself slipping away."
"You didn't," he said firmly.
She looked at Euryale. "Because of him."
Salah nodded.
"We'll raise him," she whispered. "Whatever he is… whoever he was… he's our son."
Salah looked out over the shimmering sea.
"He's not here to destroy," he said softly.
The wind brushed past them like a promise.
And behind his calm, watchful eyes—
Euryale listened.
And remembered.