Two years had vanished since that thunderous night at the hospital.
The tiny, fragile infant had transformed into a small, energetic two-year-old. He still carried that shock of snow-white hair, and those liquid-gold eyes still had a habit of making strangers stop in their tracks. On the surface, he was the picture of toddler innocence—round cheeks, a curious tilt to his head, and a penchant for getting into trouble.
But occasionally, when the room went quiet, his expression shifted into something far too weighted, far too deliberate for a child who hadn't even mastered his ABCs.
That morning, the boy sat cross-legged on the plush living room rug. A low coffee table stood before him, and atop it sat a tall glass brimming with fresh, pulpy orange juice.
The boy stared at the glass, then slowly turned his head to look directly at the air beside him, as if addressing an invisible companion.
"Well... it has been two years already," he said, his voice carrying an unnerving clarity. He rested his chin in a dimpled hand, looking bored. "You're probably wondering how a baby declared clinically dead ends up complaining about a nap schedule."
His golden eyes blinked, reflecting the morning sun. "Like... the mechanics of how I came back? The 'Resurrection'?"
He paused, a flicker of something ancient and dark crossing his features. He had died. He remembered the cold, the silence, and the transition. Yet, here he was, breathing.
Suddenly, he waved a dismissive hand, a gesture far too weary for a toddler. "Ah, we can talk about the metaphysics later. For now..."
He turned his focus back to the table. His brow furrowed. "I want that juice."
He stretched his arm out. His fingers wiggled in the air, but the glass was a good six inches beyond his reach. He wasn't tall enough. He wasn't fast enough.
He squinted, his golden eyes narrowing until they were mere slits of burning light. He focused every ounce of his will on the condensation-slicked glass.
Slowly—agonizingly—the glass moved.
It didn't just slide; it shuddered. Then, with a smooth, silent glide, it began to travel across the wood toward him.
The boy's eyes widened. "Oh? So the muscles of the soul still work, even in this tiny body?"
The glass gained momentum, skating toward the edge. But as it reached the very brink of the table, the boy's concentration wavered. He was, after all, still physically two.
*Slip.*
The glass tipped. Gravity took over where his mind left off.
**CRASH.**
The glass shattered into a thousand glittering diamonds, and a tidal wave of orange juice painted the floor.
The boy froze, his hand still outstretched. "...Ah. Calculation error."
The silence lasted only a heartbeat. Then, panicked by the impending evidence of his "crime," he scrambled toward the mess, his tiny feet *patter-pattering* against the floor. But before he could even attempt a clumsy cleanup, a pair of hands scooped him up from behind.
"Hey! Stay back! You'll cut yourself!"
His mother held him at arm's length, her eyes darting from the shattered mess to the middle of the table, then back to the boy. She looked genuinely baffled. "How did this even fall? It was right in the center."
She looked him in the eye, searching for a sign of a guilty toddler-tantrum. "You didn't touch it, did you?"
The boy went perfectly still in her grip. He looked at the orange juice, then slowly rotated his head to meet her gaze. He let his lower lip tremble just a fraction—a masterclass in manipulation.
"I... don't know," he murmured, his voice small and sweet.
His mother sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders. "I swear, it's like we have a ghost in this house. Kids these days... you're going to be the death of me."
She carried him away, calling out for a mop. The boy looked back over her shoulder, watching the juice soak into the rug. His lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk threatening to break through his facade.
He simply turned back around, rested his head on her shoulder, and went back to pretending that he was just a normal, thirsty little boy.