Chapter 3 — Growing Up Different
By the time Arin was two years old and speaking in full sentences, it had become impossible to pretend that he was developing normally.
He walked steadily now, his balance no longer uncertain, and his words came easily simple, sometimes clumsy, but always deliberate. He did not chatter without reason, nor did he repeat himself endlessly the way other children his age often did. When Arin spoke, it was because he had something to say.
The house had grown used to Pokémon coming and going.
Some stayed only a few days, injured or exhausted, brought home by his father after patrols. Others remained longer, recovering slowly before being returned to their habitats or transferred to Ranger facilities. None of them were treated as possessions, and none of them behaved as if they were.
Arin noticed everything.
One afternoon, a small, skittish Budew lingered near the doorway, its tiny body trembling as it let out a soft, breathy "beu…" sound, ready to bolt at the slightest movement. Arin crouched several steps away, his hands resting loosely on his knees.
"It's scared because it can't see the exit," he said quietly. "If it runs, it gets stuck."
His father, who had been preparing a bowl of food nearby, paused. "You think so?"
Arin nodded. "If it knows where to go, it won't panic."
They moved the bowl slightly, clearing the path to the door.
The Budew let out another quiet call, this one softer, and its leaves stopped trembling. It relaxed almost immediately.
His father watched the change carefully, then looked back at Arin. "Good call."
Arin smiled, small and satisfied, and went back to watching.
That was how most days went.
Arin didn't demand attention from Pokémon, and he never tried to touch them without permission. He spoke to them the same way he spoke to people calmly, plainly, as if expecting to be understood.
"Don't stand so close," he told a restless Shinx once, faint sparks crackling along its fur as it let out a sharp, irritated "Shi!" "You're loud right now, and that makes you think you have to bite."
The Shinx growled once, stamping a paw, then hesitated as Arin took a step back himself. After a moment, the sparks faded, and the Pokémon let out a low, uncertain chirr before sitting down.
When his mother heard him speak, she froze for a moment, watching from the other room. The Shinx flicked its ears, then settled.
Her expression tightened not with fear, but with something closer to uncertainty.
Later that evening, she knelt beside him as he drew at the low table in the living room. The page was filled with uneven sketches: the same Pokémon drawn twice, once surrounded by jagged lines, once without.
"What are these?" she asked gently.
"He gets loud when people move too fast," Arin replied, tapping the first drawing. "That's when he bites because he's scared."
"And this one?"
"If everyone waits, he doesn't need to."
She studied the page longer than necessary. "You think about this a lot."
Arin shrugged. "It helps them."
She smiled, but the worry didn't quite leave her eyes.
His father's Pokémon were always nearby.
An Altaria often rested along the edge of the room, wings folded, humming softly under its breath. When Arin sat beside it, it lowered its head without being asked, letting out a gentle trill as he leaned against its feathers while he worked on his drawings.
A Spiritomb remained more distant, its Keystone secured and watched closely, low murmurs echoing faintly from within. When Arin passed by, the voices softened, though his father never allowed him near for long.
Dusknoir was different.
It rarely showed itself fully, lingering instead where the light faded. It did not hover over Arin or follow him openly, but whenever Pokémon were present, it positioned itself so that nothing could reach him unnoticed. Sometimes its single eye glowed faintly, and nearby Pokémon fell quiet without understanding why.
Arin never acknowledged it directly, but he was aware of it all the same.
His mother noticed that too.
At first, she kept glancing toward the shadows whenever Arin sat with Pokémon nearby, her body tense despite herself. Over time, she began to recognize the pattern. Dusknoir never moved unless something else did. Never interfered unless necessary.
It wasn't guarding Pokémon.
It was guarding Arin.
"Does it always do that?" she asked one day, watching as Dusknoir released a low, hollow sound that resonated through the room.
His father nodded. "It does. I didn't ask it to."
That answer unsettled her, but it also reassured her more than she expected.
One evening, after Arin had been put to bed, she finally voiced what had been weighing on her.
"He doesn't play like other children," she said quietly. "He doesn't pretend. He doesn't get bored."
"He's still young," her husband replied, though his tone suggested he understood the concern.
"I know," she said. "I'm just worried he's skipping something. Like he's already thinking too far ahead."
Her husband considered that. He thought of the Budew that no longer trembled, the Shinx that calmed when Arin spoke, of the way his own team accepted the boy without hesitation.
"I think he's just paying attention," he said at last. "And I don't think that's something we should take away from him."
She didn't answer immediately.
The next day, Arin sat on the floor with a young Shellos, curled in on itself and making a soft, wet gurgling sound as it nudged the food away. Arin pushed the bowl slightly closer, then stopped.
"Not yet," he said. "You're still nervous. If you eat now, you'll feel sick."
The Shellos hesitated, then let out a quiet "shll…" before taking a cautious bite.
Arin nodded to himself. "That's better."
From the shadows, Dusknoir remained still.
His mother watched from the doorway, her worry easing just enough to let something else take its place.
Understanding.This wasn't something Arin was forcing.It was something he was learning.And that made all the difference.