Part V - The Phoenix in the Courtyard
The Phoenix faded into the evening glow of the courtyard, chalk dust settling like embers across the cracked concrete. Laughter lingered in the air, but the sun had dipped low, painting South Central in gold and shadow. Isaiah finally lowered his chalk-stained hands, small and trembling with exhaustion and triumph.
Inside him, the memories of a lifetime—the boards he had commanded, empires he had built, battles fought and won—retreated into silence. For Maria, he was just a three-year-old boy. For himself, he was both boy and titan, aware of the distance between them.
Maria appeared at the edge of the courtyard, her voice gentle, carrying the warmth and authority of someone who cared deeply. "Time to come inside, mijo," she called.
Isaiah's chest tightened. He nodded, slinging the empty shoebox over his shoulder, and turned toward her. The other kids waved, but he barely raised a hand. Inside, he cataloged every detail—the way her hair caught the evening light, the rhythm of her steps, the care in her tone.
Inside the House, the familiar smells of fried plantains and faint Pine-Sol greeted him. He kicked off his shoes and padded to his bedroom, Maria following close behind.
She knelt beside him, brushing damp hair from his forehead. "You did well today, mijo. You made them alive."
Isaiah sank onto his mattress, voice soft. "I… I can do more tomorrow, right?"
Maria smiled, unaware of the strategies and visions coursing through his tiny body. "Yes, mijo. Every day, a little more. But for now… rest."
He leaned into her warmth, small arms curling around her. The past, the empires, the power—he hid it all. What mattered now was learning, observing, feeling. Here, he could savor something he had never truly known: care, patience, safety.
Night settled over the house, stitched with shadows and gold. Isaiah pressed close to Maria, curling into her warmth, the rhythm of her heartbeat anchoring him. Slowly, sleep claimed him, carrying with it faint echoes of warriors, swirling auras, and endless stories from the courtyard.
When morning came, sunlight crept through the thin curtains, slicing the room into stripes of gold and shadow. Isaiah stirred beneath the covers, small hands gripping the sheets as the warmth of the room coaxed him awake. He blinked, orienting himself in the quiet glow.
"Mama… what's the date?" he asked softly, voice barely more than a whisper.
"It's… January twentieth… 1980, mijo," Maria replied, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead.
He murmured the numbers to himself, feeling the weight of history pressing inside, the spark of all he had once known still alive in his mind. Maria, of course, could not know. To her, he was just a thoughtful, quiet child.
She pulled him close, her arms steady and warm. "Your fire—your mind—it's alive. Even here. Even now."
Maria shifted slightly, settling Isaiah on her lap. The morning light pooled around them, warm and steady, carrying the faint smell of plantains from the kitchen. Isaiah's small fingers hovered over the blank sketchbook she placed in front of him, the pencil trembling slightly in his grip.
"Lean into me, mijo," Maria said softly. "Let's make them live together."
Isaiah nodded, careful not to let his voice betray the weight of a lifetime hidden in his tiny body. He rested his hands over hers as she guided the pencil. The movement was slow at first, hesitant, like learning a language he had forgotten.
"G-Goku… coming out of the woods… curious… exploring… small, but every step matters," he whispered, cheeks warming with shyness.
Maria smiled, pressing gently on his hands. "See? The ground can trip him… but he rises. You can feel that?"
He nodded quickly, imagining not just the figure before him, but the worlds he had once touched. His pencil moved with care, tracing twisting roots, shifting shadows, and sunlight falling through leaves. Each line carried weight and intention, though Maria could see only a careful, thoughtful child.
"B-Bulma…" Isaiah continued, voice barely audible, "she… not just tech… she thinks, moves, acts… alive…"
Maria guided his hand, tilting the pencil to adjust her posture. "Make her turn, noticing everything… curious. Alive, mijo."
Isaiah flushed, shyness knotting his chest, but he followed her guidance carefully, line by line. The story began to breathe in small motions—the tilt of a head, the curve of a foot, the way sunlight caught the edge of a cape. Maria's hands steadied him, but it was his spark, private and immense, that gave the figures life.
Hours passed with soft murmurs, the scratch of pencil against paper, and the quiet rhythm of morning filtered through their small apartment. Goku stumbled, rose, Bulma moved, Krillin learned courage, Pilaf schemed. Each stroke pulsed with imperfection and vitality.
Isaiah pressed his tiny hands to his chest, whispering softly, "They… they fall… they rise… they live."
Maria kissed his forehead, smiling without knowing the magnitude of the mind she held in her lap. "Because you fall… and rise… too," she murmured.
Isaiah nestled closer, curling completely into her embrace. Safe. Held. Home. And inside him, the spark of creation burned brighter than ever, ready for another day.