Chapter 34
Happy Birthday
The street stretched out under a soft, golden light, the kind that seems to float among the shadows of the trees. The ground, made of old, cast stone, reflected a muted sheen where footsteps repeated with a slow, measured rhythm.
The father, his blond hair tousled by the wind, kept his hands in the pockets of his light coat. He walked without haste, observing his son, who moved a little ahead, with a childlike curiosity in his brown eyes.
The mother, a redhead with a loose strand of hair on her cheek, smiled now and then, looking towards the closed shop windows, towards the flowerpots a neighbor had left on the sidewalk.
Their pace was serene, as if each step were part of a small Sunday stroll. The father commented something to her in a low voice, a trivial observation—perhaps about the weather, or about how fast the boy was growing—and they both laughed with that complicity that needs no long words.
The son, at times oblivious, kicked a small pebble that bounced with a faint clinking sound. He stopped to watch it roll, then ran a little and caught up with it again. Sometimes he looked back, checking that his parents were still close. They responded with a calm gaze, without hurrying him.
The air smelled of fresh bread and damp leaves. In the distance, a dog barked, a bicycle passed by, the murmur of the city at rest.
The three continued their walk along the sidewalk, advancing through the shadows cast by the city's facades. The houses and buildings rose on both sides, mostly two or three stories high, solid constructions of aged stone with touches of dark wood.
Some had slanted roofs covered in reddish tiles, others hid their roofs with an extra elevation of the facade.
The father observed the details like someone traversing a place known forever. He sometimes tilted his head towards a balcony from which wooden furniture peeked out, or towards a wall where the stone looked a little worn, revealing edges that were more rounded.
The mother walked beside him, letting her hand brush against the wall at times, feeling the rough texture.
The son, on the other hand, looked upward, following the lines of the rooftops with his gaze. He stopped to observe how the pigeons moving cast small shadows on the ground.
Each building seemed like a different story: one house with lace curtains in the window, another with a half-open door letting out the smell of freshly made soup.
From time to time, other people passed by—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 pace, a serene pulse that united the walkers and the city itself.
The sidewalk continued straight, with small irregularities on the ground that forced the boy to jump now and then. The father watched him with a slight smile, while the mother offered him a knowing look.
As they advanced, the variety of passersby increased. Figures crossed in both directions, each distinct in stature and presence. Some were tall and thin, others broad-shouldered, with firm steps that made the paving stones resonate.
Each person seemed to carry a different story with them. Some passersby wore simple suits of linen or wool, with earthy colors that blended with the tone of the stone. Others, in contrast, walked with the visible weight of their armor: well-fitted pieces of iron or burnished steel that reflected soft glints as they moved under the light.
There were faces marked by old scars, serene or tired gazes, calloused hands holding cloth bags. The clothes varied as much as the stories they could tell: soft linen tunics, worn wool cloaks, tough leather vests that creaked when they moved.
Among them, some wore metallic pieces, small or visible, embedded like extensions of their own garments. Polished steel vambraces covered forearms, greaves strapped to legs with dark straps. Others displayed plates on their chests, fitted, gleaming faintly in the sunlight.
Though not all wore them the same way: some were closed and heavy, others merely suggested a 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 with his eyes the gleam of a vambrace or the hollow sound a knee guard made when it hit the stone.
The air filled with small noises—footsteps, low voices, the rubbing of leather, the faint metallic clinking—and yet, everything still felt tranquil, as if even the bustle were 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 advanced further, the group of people kept changing.
Some passersby wore suits with the weight of their armor: well-fitted pieces of iron or burnished steel that reflected soft glints as they moved under the light.
The metallic sound of the plates scraping against each other marked a subtle rhythm, in time with the murmur of footsteps. There were warriors with closed breastplates covering the entire torso and others with partial protections, revealing sleeves of cloth or leather under the metal.
"Adventurers…" whispered the father with a smile.
Some carried short swords at their belts, held by worn straps; others displayed longer greatswords, sheathed in reinforced leather scabbards that scraped the ground with every movement.
The father watched the coming and going of the adventurers with a calm, almost reflective 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 the swords, the footsteps, the voices… everything was part of the same landscape, like a daily symphony that filled the street with life.
The family continued advancing, leaving that stretch of sidewalk behind. Crossing a cobbled street that led to a more open area, a wide plaza of dry tones.
As they advanced, the boy stopped suddenly, turning his head towards a sound that momentarily broke the calm of the surroundings. A metal vehicle moved heavily along the cobbled street, advancing on its thick caterpillar tracks. The steam engine puffed with a deep, constant roar, expelling puffs of white smoke that slowly dissolved in the air.
The boy watched it with wide eyes, intrigued by that mechanical movement. It wasn't the first time he had seen one, but each encounter seemed to surprise him equally. The vehicle advanced slowly, almost clumsily, while the steam hissed through the joints and the metal vibrated with a deep 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 passersby moved aside a little, making space.
The father smiled upon noticing the boy's attention and said something brief to him, a practical observation about the vehicle's weight or the engine's strength. The mother, at his side, watched the column of smoke 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 clanking 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 again the tranquil rhythm of footsteps filled the street.
The father kept watching his son.
With his small brown eyes that followed with such fascination the vehicle that was now disappearing at the end of the street. There was a mixture of wonder and admiration in that gaze, a curious spark.
The father smiled, bent down slowly, and with a firm, natural movement, lifted him into his arms until he was seated on his shoulders. The boy, surprised by the sudden height, smiled, and stretched out his arms as if wanting 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 had seen. His smile was still alive when the mother, with a gentle but decided gesture, moved a little closer. She extended her arms underneath the boy's and, carefully, lifted him from the father's shoulders. The boy immediately placed his hands on her shoulders as he slowly descended to the ground.
The father looked at her in silence during the movement, his expression serene, though with a faint glimmer of resignation in his eyes. They needed no words: her gesture was enough to express what she thought.
"Don't do that, he could fall and hurt himself."
He let out a brief, almost imperceptible sigh, and nodded with a gesture that acknowledged her point 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 both of them and interlaced his small fingers with 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 overly intense light. 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, hunching over himself. The father immediately crouched down, placing a hand on his back, while the mother encircled him from the other side, her arms open, protective, creating a small refuge around him.
"What's wrong, son?" asked the father, seeking his gaze.
The boy didn't answer; he was barely breathing in gasps, with his eyelids tightly shut and tears welling at the edges of his lashes.
The mother brushed a lock of hair from his face, trying to see his eyes. There was a mixture of worry and contained fear in her gesture.
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, his hands still on his face. The silence grew dense around them: neither the murmur of the street nor the whisper of the steam seemed to reach that small space where the three of them remained crouched.
Then, slowly, the boy moved his hands away. His fingers trembled a little, and the sunlight filtered over his skin. When he opened his eyes, both parents held their breath.
For a second, the father thought it was just a reflection of the sun, 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, a new, vibrant tone emerged, a luminous violet that spread from the center of the iris towards the edges, displacing the original color with a slow, almost hypnotic movement.
The mother leaned in a little more, observing without a word, her lips slightly parted between surprise and relief. The father also relaxed, letting out a sigh he didn't know he was holding.
For a moment, no one spoke. The three just looked at each other.
The color continued to spread until it completely covered the original tone. In a few seconds, Kaep's eyes had completely transformed. No trace of the usual 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 was not 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, in a low voice.
Kaep nodded, and the mother rested 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 glow began to fade, like a flame slowly dying out.
The violet became 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 showing its initial brilliance anymore.
The mother gently stroked his cheek, still not looking away from his eyes.
"It's over…" she whispered, almost to convince herself.
The father nodded, observing the final change attentively. 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 glow had completely disappeared, but a slight weariness remained etched on his expression.
The boy breathed deeply, more calmly, and rested his head against his mother's chest. She hugged him, and the father wrapped his arm around both of them, letting the silence envelop them. Only then, when the radiance had finished fading, did the sound of the street become present again: 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 him by the 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 echo—but for them, only that instant existed: three figures together, united by the calm and the simple love of a shared birthday.