I've made it!
I've achieved the first step toward success.
After discovering, thanks to Alton, that I had been born into a new world, I decided I wouldn't let this opportunity go to waste.
A new life in a new body. A body that looks masculine. All I need to do is make it as muscular as Alton's.
And today, I've taken my first real step toward success: I can crawl without effort!
Now I can crawl all around the room. Though I still can't stand up but going down the stairs might no longer be impossible…
I'm two months old now, and I've discovered that my hair is green. I hope I don't carry the dominant bloodline of Shirley… that would be dangerous.
Since I sleep on a set of laid-out leather pieces, surrounded by a long leather bump, my first challenge was crawling over that bump.
It took me forever. But once I got past it, I felt a sense of freedom and started crawling everywhere.
Sometimes I even tried doing pushups…
Yes, I won't complain. I still can't lift myself; I barely have a scrap of muscle.
After I finished today's crawling session, I rolled onto my back.
From the sunlight, I think it's around noon.
I lifted my soft hand, noticing the cloth sleeve full of patches.
Yes—after I completed my first month of life, they finally removed that cloth diaper I'd soaked endlessly and gave me some ragged clothes instead, with a sponge-lined cloth underneath acting as a diaper in this medieval era.
Lately, my curiosity about this world has grown. I searched for any clues—books, signs, anything.
But sadly, I found nothing.
My clothes are old and brown, and at first they made me itchy. Every time I sneezed, Shirley wiped my face with a warm, damp cloth—until even my face started reacting to that.
I'm not sure if I feel comforted or terrified by that soft, warm cloth.
I looked toward the window and smiled.
I'm getting used to life here.
I closed my eyes and took a nap.
Shirley's Perspective
I'm terrified.
Rory is five months old now, and what's happening with him, I don't think, is normal for any other baby.
Yes, I'm scared that Rory might be sick.
And I'm not saying that based on some wild fear—I noticed my child acting strange when he was just three months old.
That night, the house was colder than usual—winter was near, and my fear for Rory grew with it.
After feeding him, I laid him down on his leather bed and watched him sleep for a few minutes before covering him with a leather blanket.
Nights in my house are quiet, but during winter, the whistling wind starts to creep in. Our home is so worn down that the strong winds easily find their way through the cracks, making sounds like that.
I looked at the attic window—its leather patch nailed tightly, holding against the wind.
As I stood, I looked at the wall-mounted candleholder beside the cupboard.
The candle was lit, emitting a soft cherry scent.
I hope Rory grows to love peaceful scents like his father.
I licked my fingers and extinguished the candle, then went down to my room.
I found Alton fast asleep beside me, and I closed my eyes.
But soon, a strange creaking sound woke me.
A rhythmic creaking—as if someone were crawling above. And in the attic, there's only Rory.
I got out of bed and gently opened the door, stepping on my toes to avoid any noise. I slowly left the room…
Then I froze in place, both hands clutching my heart.
In the kitchen… something was crawling.
A tiny shape like a kitten… but it wasn't a kitten. It was my baby.
RORY!!!
Rory was in the kitchen!
I had no idea he could go down the stairs.
No! There's no way he came down the stairs on his own—he's barely the height of a step and a half!
But…
I stood there silently, tense, sweat trickling down my forehead, fingertips fidgeting nervously.
What do I do?
I took a step to pick him up, but stopped when I saw something even stranger.
Rory pushed his chest up from the ground with both hands, then lowered it back down as if he were doing pushups.
No!
Rory was doing pushups!
Clean and steady pushups as if he were a professional.
My eyelids trembled, my lips froze in shock.
I didn't know what to say… or what to do.
In the end, I decided to go back to bed and cuddle up to Alton like he was a pillow, hoping everything I just saw was only a dream.
The next day, I started watching Rory with a new perspective.
Wherever I placed him, he wouldn't stay still—he moved around like he was searching for something.
I also noticed he showed no interest in the things other village kids loved—like dolls or bugs.
I tried talking to Alton about it, but he just brushed it off with a line that irritated me:
"You're too obsessed with Reo. You wake up three times a night just to check on him. Don't worry, he's normal. And even if he's weird… I mean, he's our kid, right?"
True, it's not shocking that Alton's son would mature quickly. Alton himself was never ordinary… and maybe I was not either.
I appreciated Alton's confidence in Rory, but… how could I not be afraid for him when we let him sleep alone at such a young age?
And Alton wouldn't care—his confidence in our under-one-year-old son overshadowed my fears.
And his comfort didn't comfort me.
So, I decided to be sure.
One night, I left Rory sleeping in the attic.
This time, I didn't go back to Alton—I hid beneath the stairs… and waited.
Half an hour passed, and the loneliness gnawed at me. That idiot Alton slept like a baby—he only cuddles me and fools around in the mornings.
I knew he was hunting in the forest a lot lately, but whenever he saw me, he was relaxed. It stirred up my bottled-up frustration.
And lately, he didn't even listen to my complaints. I didn't know how to release this tension anymore.
Damn you, Alton.
Before I realized it, I was crouched with my face buried in my knees, barely holding back tears.
My mind was a storm of thoughts. One of those thoughts was that I wanted to live at my mother's home.
But Alton would never agree to that, and I knew it well.
But Rory… Rory needed a better environment in which he could grow.
I feared I couldn't provide that for him.
My thoughts spiraled until I heard the attic door creak.
I shuddered!
It's happening again!
Something was crawling quietly above…
Then the soft sound of tiny feet touched the first stair.
Rory's tender feet! He's handling the cold stairs alone!
My eyes sparkled proudly, and moments later, tears began to fall.
I'm so stupid.
I covered my mouth with my hand to stifle any sound.
Step by step, the sound of tiny feet came closer…
Each footstep was slow and careful, as if he were trying not to make a sound.
I could hear his faint panting—like he was pushing himself hard.
Step by step…
Eventually, he reached the ground floor, and his steps padded away into the kitchen.
I got up from under the stairs and slowly peeked into the kitchen.
And there was my little boy, doing pushups again.
Lifting and lowering his chest, panting softly.
The cold floor didn't stop him.
The creaks of the house didn't scare him.
And I… the fool…
I felt both terrified and proud, and I didn't know what to do.
I didn't know what to do, but… I had to do something.
"Rory…" I whispered, eyes fixed on my son, my hands clutching my chest. "Are you alright, my little one?"
Just as I spoke those words, one of Rory's hands slipped mid-pushup, and he landed face-first, hitting his nose.
The boy began to cry.
And I found myself scooping him into my arms, rubbing his nose with my hand to warm it. It wasn't a hard fall, but for a baby, it must've hurt.
"It's okay, my love, it's okay," I whispered.
It was the first time I'd ever seen Rory cry… but no tears came out.
He only whimpered with his eyes shut.
"Do you crawl in your sleep, sweetheart? It's okay… Tonight, you'll sleep next to me."
I said that, and the moment I finished, Rory opened his eyes in alarm, just for a second—then shut them again.
"What's wrong? Did I ruin your mood?" I chuckled. "Or did I interrupt your midnight training?"
He didn't answer—he kept his eyes closed.
Maybe Rory was a strange child who understood what I said, or perhaps he had no idea what he was doing.
But his green hair was a trait he inherited from me, and his eyes too…
Rory is my son
I gave birth to him. And he's Alton's, too, the strangest man in the world…
It's okay if Rory was strange. It's OK if he's different.
I kissed Rory on the lips—a kiss to warm and protect him when no one else could.
And before I knew it, I found myself heading to Alton, looking at him from outside the bed, fast asleep with the blanket wrapped tight around him…
Caught between my thoughts, my fears for Rory, and my longing for my mother.
"Ughhh," I groaned in frustration. "Why are you always so calm?"
I climbed into bed, yanked the blanket off him with one hand, and wrapped it around me and Rory together…
Then shut my eyes.
And if Alton woke me up from the cold, I would beat him up.
Before sleep took me, I opened my eyes to look at Rory lying next to me.
His head rested on my arm, eyes wide open, staring into mine with a strange sparkle, like emeralds.
"Are you afraid to sleep, Rory?" I whispered.
"You never cry while you're awake, you know? Only in your sleep.
I wake up several times a night just to hold your hand during your nightmares.
Most babies don't get so many nightmares…
But you're not just any baby…
You're our son…
And a nightmare or two is okay."
Sleep tried to pull me under, but Rory still stared at me with shining eyes.
I held him tighter against my chest.
"A nightmare or two is okay, my love… I'm always here."
Then Rory's eyes closed.
And I noticed Alton on the other side of the bed… smiling.
That man never had many emotions, but he had so much love for me and Rory.
And that was enough.
I closed my eyes… and drifted to sleep.
Several months later:
Rory was now eight months old.
With every passing day, he seemed to understand the world more and grew even more curious.
Today was Sados—the sixth day of the week—and Alton's day off.
I can hear him playing with Rory on the living room's couch while I chop salad in the kitchen.
"Shirley," Alton called. "Reo's about to say his first words!"
The moment I heard him, I froze and turned toward the living room, knife in hand.
I ran in and stood by the couch in an instant—knife over my heart, eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Ahh—" Rory tried to form words.
"Papa? Papa??" Alton echoed. Then added jokingly, "Say Papa, or your mom will stab me with the knife."
"Alton!" I yelled. "Don't teach Rory about such things!"
Then I looked at Rory. "Sweetheart, say Mama. Ma… ma…"
"He'll say Papa."
"No—Mama!"
"Ahh—" Rory tried again.
"Quiet! He's about to speak!" Alton shouted.
And with all the excitement, I could no longer see anything in the world except Reo.
My eyes watched his lips, my heart pounding fast.
"Ah… Uh…" Rory struggled, like he was lifting weights.
"Ah- ah wat boak…"
Huh???
…
HAAAAH!!!!
Silence filled the room.
My mind went blank. I had no words.
But Alton broke the silence.
"Did he just say 'Papa'?" he asked sarcastically.
"No… I think he said he wants… a book."
"Huh… ha," Elton paused, his calm tone blurring sarcasm and surprise. "Is that normal?"
"…I don't know."
Maybe … Rory—my Rory—was a genius baby.