Outside, the wind rattled the shutters—autumn's first chill creeping through the village like a whisper no one wanted to hear.

He was quiet tonight. Five months old, wrapped in worn cotton that had been washed so many times it was soft as spider silk, and he lay in the cradle your father had carved—before he'd seen the baby's face.

His belly-mouth worked soundlessly, no teeth yet, just a soft, wet smack of gums against nothing.

The village had called him a curse. Your mother had crossed herself and turned away when you brought him to the well. Your husband hadn't come home in three nights, claiming work at the rice fields—but you'd seen his sandals by the door, and the path he took to the shrine instead.

But here, in the quiet dark, with the fire crackling and the wind moaning outside—he was just a baby. Your baby.

He made another sound, not quite a cry, not quite a coo—something between, a question only you could answer.