October 30th, 2032.
Almost six years had passed since the birth of John Xentras.
Time in Valoria seemed to move differently for the Xentras family.
The city progressed, scientific discoveries continued, yet inside that elegant residence on the eastern hill, the air always felt… silent.
At that age, children usually laugh, cry, play, or ask endless questions.
But John was different. He didn't laugh, didn't cry, and showed no curiosity about the world around him. He simply observed everything with a calmness that did not belong to a child.
His eyes—pale red, almost metallic—were always alert, analyzing every movement around him, as if trying to understand something that others could not see.
Camila, his mother, tried to convince herself that his behavior was temporary; that perhaps he was just a quiet child.
Romeo, on the other hand, found comfort in believing that his son had inherited the analytical mind of the Xentras.
But the doctors didn't say the same.
"Your son is… special," they would often repeat.
A phrase that brought no comfort—only unease.
And so, between incomplete diagnoses and unanswered theories, little John grew up in a world that never truly understood him… nor he, that world.
Until that day.
The day something completely changed the Xentras' routine.
⸻
That morning, the sky was gray, covered by heavy clouds that threatened rain.
Camila had spent the entire night in her study, reviewing medical reports. The sound of the keyboard was the only thing that filled the house—besides the soft footsteps of Romeo preparing breakfast.
John, as usual, sat in the living room, staring out the window. He didn't play with his toys. He didn't speak. He only watched as the wind moved the leaves of the trees.
Camila came down the stairs, exhaustion written on her face. Romeo tried to smile at her, but she looked away.
They had argued the night before. Once again, about John.
"I can't keep hearing the same thing, Romeo," she said quietly as she poured herself a cup of coffee. "My parents are right. There's something about him… that isn't right."
"Camila, he's just a child," Romeo replied gently. "He needs time, not judgment."
"Time?" she repeated, almost mockingly. "How much more? It's been six years, and I don't even know if he sees me as his mother."
John listened from the living room. He didn't turn his head or show any reaction.
But something inside him—something that had long been asleep—stirred for the first time.
Camila set her cup down abruptly.
"I can't stand that empty look, Romeo. I just can't…" her voice trembled. "I can't love something that doesn't respond."
A cold silence spread through the house.
Romeo wanted to speak, but the words got trapped in his throat.
And then they heard it.
The faintest, most unexpected, most impossible sound.
A sob.
John was crying.
Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, yet his face remained motionless, expressionless. There was no sadness, no fear, no pain… only tears, falling as if they didn't belong to him.
The dining room clock stopped.
The lights flickered.
And a cold wind swept through the house, as if the entire building were holding its breath.
Camila stepped back. Her cup fell to the floor, shattering into pieces.
The air grew heavy—almost solid—and for a moment, both adults felt an indescribable pressure on their bodies, a force that seemed to emanate from the child himself.
Then, the crying stopped.
The air lightened.
John wiped his tears with the sleeve of his shirt and turned back to the window, calm, as if nothing had happened.
Camila couldn't move.
Romeo, instead, approached his son slowly.
"John…" he whispered, afraid to break the silence.
The boy turned his head slightly.
Romeo gently placed John's head on his shoulder and stroked his hair.
"It's alright, son… those were just meaningless words," he whispered, trying to comfort him.
For the first time in six years, John had cried.
⸻
A few months passed after that day—a day that would forever mark them both.
One afternoon, Camila decided to pick John up from his academy herself.
Children rushed out of the building, overflowing with energy—laughing, shouting, running to their parents while calling out "Mom!" or "Dad!" with bright smiles and open arms.
In the midst of all that noise, John walked quietly, showing no surprise or joy at seeing his mother. He simply approached her to do what he had been taught: to hug his parents whenever he saw them.
Camila returned the gesture, but her gaze drifted for a moment. The embrace felt… empty.
Once in the car, the engine started, and the scenery began to move past the window. Trying to break the silence, Camila began the kind of conversation any mother would have with her son.
"So, how was your day, sweetheart? Did you make any friends?" she asked, hoping for a response that might warm the air between them.
John, showing no emotion, pulled a few sheets of paper from his backpack—his grades.
All perfect.
"It went fine," he said calmly. "Friends? I don't really know… everything was the same."
Camila looked over the grades and smiled faintly, but that expression quickly faded, replaced by worry.
"I see… Grades are important, but remember to keep your father's charm alive."
Her smile returned—but this time, it was forced.
John only nodded and turned back to the window, watching the world pass by—distant, indifferent.
The silence returned, wrapping around the car once more.