Euryale's POV
Silas had discovered the joy of chasing chickens.
They were harmless, fat little birds that wandered near the garden. Salah never minded them—he said they kept pests away and made good eggs—but to Silas, they were thrilling mysteries with wings.
Each morning, the moment he spotted one, he let out a squeal of excitement, toddling across the yard on unsteady legs, arms flailing for balance. The chickens scattered with indignant squawks, and Silas would stumble after them, laughing until he fell over in the dirt.
Xena would watch from the porch, shaking her head. "You're going to owe me three bath times today," she'd call with a grin.
And me? I followed quietly behind him, always close enough to catch him when he fell, but never too close to stop the adventure.
He didn't know how protected he was. That was the point.
Life had settled into a rhythm.
Mornings were soft. The sun streamed in through open windows, and Xena hummed as she stirred the pot for breakfast. Salah brought in water from the well and checked on the garden. I usually swept the porch or helped Silas into his small boots, though he often took them off just to feel the dirt under his feet.
He was a curious child.
He liked shiny things, like copper spoons and beetles. He liked to tug on my hair when I carried him. He liked when I told him stories—not the kind from my old world, but the kind I made up now, about brave turtles and lost shoes and the moon that forgot how to rise.
He clung to me the most at night.
Sometimes, Xena would whisper, "He's always calmer when you're holding him. Like he knows you're something special."
But I wasn't sure what "special" meant anymore. I was just… here. A part of their days. A voice at the dinner table. A hand steadying Silas as he learned how to walk farther and farther each week.
And somehow, that was enough.
One evening, Salah built a swing from an old tree branch and thick rope. It hung beside the garden, creaking gently with the wind.
At first, Silas was unsure. He poked at it suspiciously, frowned when it moved. But the moment I lifted him into the seat and gave him a push, his shriek of delight echoed across the yard.
"Higher!" he yelled, though I barely pushed.
"You'll fly away if I'm not careful," I said, pretending to hold him with both hands.
He kicked his legs with joy, little fists clutching the rope. "Fly!" he repeated, as if he believed it.
Behind us, Salah laughed, and Xena rested her hand over her growing belly. She was glowing again—this time with health, not fever. The life inside her was making her stronger, not weaker.
Silas would soon have a sibling.
I thought I would feel something strange at the idea—a twinge of uncertainty or jealousy. But I didn't.
I only felt… proud.
This family, once quiet and tired, now bloomed like the herbs in Xena's window box. And I, once only a memory from the ocean's floor, was here to witness it.
Each night, I carried Silas to bed. He'd resist at first, wanting just one more story, one more swing, one more game with pebbles or spoons or socks. But eventually, his small body would surrender to sleep, head pressed to my shoulder, soft breath warming my neck.
"I'll be right here," I'd whisper, even though he couldn't hear me anymore.
And I meant it.
One afternoon, as Xena rested and Salah fished, I sat by the garden with Silas in my lap, watching the bees move lazily from flower to flower. He pointed at each one, fascinated.
"Buzz," he said solemnly.
"Yes, that's right. Buzz," I echoed.
He leaned his head against my chest and whispered something I couldn't quite understand. It didn't matter. The meaning was there in the weight of him, in the trust of his body pressed against mine.
I remembered what it was to feel alone—so deeply, endlessly alone, drifting in the deep ocean for centuries, untouched and forgotten. I remembered silence so vast it made my name feel like an echo.
But here, there was no echo. Only voices. Laughter. Growth.
At sunset, we all gathered on the porch. Xena rested in a chair, Silas curled against her, his thumb in his mouth. Salah leaned against the doorway with a cup of tea in hand.
And I sat on the step, arms around my knees, watching the sky turn golden.
None of us spoke much. We didn't have to. We simply existed together, sharing the quiet. The chickens clucked in the distance. The breeze rustled the trees. And somewhere inside the house, soup simmered.
It was nothing grand.
No banners or parades. No magic or power.
Just peace.
And that was everything.