In the lightless, bright neighborhood of malice and tyranny, a mother and her child found solace within the embrace of each other as the little one asked, "Are you okay?"
The mother, unsure of how to answer her son's query, could only but helplessly reply, a simple "Yes" through hitches and cracks in her voice.
Kurian gazed up at her as he said to her, "Mother, do you know?"
"What?" the woman asked in short breaths as the boy said, "If the sides of your lips are curled up, you cannot feel your tongue."
Though it was just a small ramble, the woman involuntarily followed what her son had said, resulting in a bizarre yet poignant sight: eyes that were full of sorrow, framed by a fragile, hopeful smile.
No, the smile itself was not something that was born out of hope. Rather, it was a smile that gave hope to others.
Looking at that smile, Kurian was baffled beyond words as he wondered, 'Exactly what has led to this beautiful smile being hidden from the world?'
"You look beautiful with a smile, Mother," Kurian audibly and genuinely gasped as he praised the woman's smile, which seemed to be a symbol of hope itself.
The appearance of that smile was simply too bizarre for its existence in this sentinel-forsaken place.
Kurian smiled as he registered his lips curling up. The woman, noticing what he'd done, chided softly, "You little..." She tugged his ear with a faint smile. "... You tricked me."
"I'm sorry," Kurian weakly whispered, realizing his pain tolerance wasn't what it used to be. He could endure, but not like in his past life.
Hearing his plea, her grip softened. She then brushed his cheek with trembling fingers, tears glimmering in her eyes. "I wish I could see you smile," she said.
"???"
Kurian flinched. 'Didn't I just smile?'
He tried again — his mind registered a grin, but his hand confirmed otherwise. 'My face... it's not smiling.'
Confused, his gaze fell to his mother's bruised form, and a memory stirred. During a wartime in his previous life, some pregnant women had given birth to children with nerve defects caused by stress.
'Can it be?' Kurian mused the possibility.
As Ferdinand, he had never suffered such things. But now, it seemed he had — he had lost control over his voluntary facial movements.
Kurian was a child born stoic, his face locked in apathy. Yet he hated it; an expressionless face, though useful, was nothing compared to one that could express a myriad of emotions.
He gazed at his mother, who looked at him with curiosity as she asked, "Are you using your hands to curl your lips up?"
Immediately, Kurian used his index fingers to pull his lips into a forced smile. The woman seemed content even seeing that, as she embraced him, lifting him up and whispering softly, "You look beautiful, baby."
"Mother," Kurian called out, his voice faint.
"Hmm?"
"I do not want to see you hurt," Kurian said. The woman flinched, her body trembling, before she asked a foolish question born from worry for her child, "Do you know what's happening to Mommy?"
"Yes," Kurian replied. The woman held her breath as he continued, "Mommy is hurt by the bad guys."
"!!?" Her eyes widened before she let out a shaky, but relived sigh, realizing that Kurian was just a child.
She gently set him down and admitted, "Yes, I am indeed hurt, but..." She ruffled his hair and forced a smile. "As long as you are okay, I am fine."
"But I am not!" Kurian protested.
"!!?" The woman was taken aback.
Child though he was, powerless though he might be, he could not stand seeing the helpless ones suffer.
"Hush." Gently, she placed a finger over his lips, silencing him before saying softly, "I'm the adult here. I know what I'm doing."
Kurian paused, his thoughts stirring. 'These words…'
"I'm doing this to protect you," his mother continued, her voice trembling slightly. "Because you're the most precious person in the world to me."
At those words, Kurian's eyes glistened, tears threatening to spill. Seeing this, the woman panicked, her voice quick and uneven. "W-What? Hey, what's wrong?"
"How selfish…" Kurian whispered.
"Yeah, I know it's selfish to do all this on my own," she admitted quickly, hoping to calm him. "Please don't cry."
Kurian lowered his gaze, a deep sense of shame washing over him. Her words — "I'm the adult here. I know what I'm doing." — echoed painfully in his mind. They were the exact words he had once said to that child.
He wondered, 'Was I selfish for not allowing anyone else to take part in that war? For carrying all the burden alone?'
Kurian had always sought a unified victory, not one won by a single man. Yet during the battle with Baal, he had chosen to fight alone, holding back the soldiers and even that gifted child.
At the time, he had deemed it necessary — the most logical course of action. But now, with hindsight weighing on him, he questioned himself. 'Wasn't that just selfishness disguised as selflessness?'
Shaking his head, Kurian looked at his mother, who stood flustered and unsure of what to do. Then, forcing a small smile, she suggested, "How about I sing a song for you? Your mother's pretty good at it."
In a hum that rose to rival the hymns of heaven, the woman sang a melody that captured Kurian's full attention.
His ears strained, shutting out every other sound, drawn solely to that voice — like the fireflies that had once mesmerized him in his childhood.
"O Sentinel, can you please give me some time?
A little peace of mind.
Fate can do whatever it wants to me,
as long as it spares my dear sunshine.
I do not know whom should I turn to.
My life has but become like a hew.
Now, not even a day goes by where I am not looking forward to see the dawn a new."
Frustrated by her own life, she poured everything into the song — every ache, every regret — as though spitting out the bitterness that had long been trapped inside. Her voice trembled with emotion as her hands reached toward Kurian, her song continuing.
"Oh beautiful one, can you come a little closer?
I need your warmth in this world of posers.
You were in my heart, my mind, and now in my arms.
I believe I am no longer surrounded by those dark closures.
I will give you my all, just please don't leave me.
What more can I give, when I've given you my all, and I am still left to fall?
I don't want to fall."
She continued humming, and suddenly a voice joined in. The woman's eyes widened as Kurian followed her rhythm and began to sing.
"Whom should I ask what their mind is thinking?
My body feels light, yet it has started sinking.
All but a dwindling hope has been abandoned,
Defeat and hope presented in a tandem.
Yet here you are, still persistently standing."
Kurian, swayed by her melody, found himself involuntarily singing what he felt for her, or rather, the things he wanted to say to her.
"Even if all the tight escapes have clamped in, I just do not believe these golden lyrics should resonate with a soul so random.
A one-sided voice that screams so loud amidst the waves,
Time moves, but the pain never fades.
Hesitation is but one of many hells' gate, the helpless rabbits must run before it's too late."
Conveying his thoughts through lyrics, Kurian breathed out the words he truly wished to say — 'They must make a run.' Hesitating and staying here was nothing short of sitting atop a ticking time bomb.
But that was all it was — lyrics. Words trying to carry meaning through song. His chest rose and fell as he caught his breath and asked, "How was it? My singing?"
"Perfect," the woman said, embracing him with tears of joy glimmering in her eyes. But soon after, finding those words too be too personal, she asked, "How did you come up with those lyrics?"
"I felt you were sad," Kurian replied honestly. "I just thought maybe you wanted some freedom — like the one I wanted when I was tied up. I didn't like that."
At his words, the woman nodded, agreeing softly. "Yes, I hate this place, but…" She stopped herself before finishing.
"But what, Mother?" Kurian asked. He caught a flicker of hesitation in her eyes before she said, "Nothing. Let's sleep now — it's already late."
Though Kurian's stomach growled with hunger, he kept silent, understanding their financial situation must have been dire.
"Ah, wait — we haven't had dinner yet," she suddenly recalled as her own stomach rumbled. She hurried off somewhere, saying, "Wait here for a bit."
Kurian nodded and decided to wait, thinking, 'Maybe we're not too bad off.' Just as his ears adjusted from their earlier strain, he caught a faint sound — a low caw.
"A crow?" Kurian murmured, glancing toward the window. A crow perched outside was staring straight at their home. Their eyes met briefly, but the gaze lingered far longer than it should have.
*Shudder*
Goosebumps spread across his skin, and his hair stood on end as a cold dread crept through him — a sense of ominous foreboding, like a storm gathering in the heavens.
'It can't be... right?' A paranoid feeling of being watched crept up, just as he felt a sense of breathlessness, his mother's voice chimed in to stir him awake. "Kurian?"
"!!?" At her words, Kurian's body stiffened. He turned to see his mother watching him with quiet worry, her brows drawn in gentle concern.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly.
Kurian forced a small nod. "J-Just a bit tired from singing."
She seemed content with that answer, her features easing into a faint smile. "Today, we'll have meat," she said with a hint of cheer. "Lucky we managed to find some."
Kurian's gaze fell to the platter she set before him. A roasted bird, small and crisped at the edges, rested atop it.
Normally, he wouldn't have complained, nor given it much thought, but this was impossible to ignore. The bird on the platter was small, and on closer inspection, it measured about two fists — the exact size of a crow.
Instinctively, his eyes flicked to the window., and the crow that had been perched there moments ago was gone.
A chill rolled through him, settling deep in his gut. The air felt heavier, as though the night itself was warning him.
He didn't know what waited beyond the coming dawn, but one thing was certain — something ominous had already begun to stir.
To be continued...