It rained the night he was born.

  Not a storm.

  Not a blessing.

  Just steady rain against a leaking roof.

  The hut was small. Mud walls. Wooden beams warped by time. A single oil lamp flickering as if unsure whether to continue living.

  Inside, a woman screamed.

  Outside, a man paced.

  He was not a warrior. Not a scholar. Just a laborer whose hands were cracked from carrying stone.

  He did not pray.

  He did not curse.

  He just listened.

  Each scream tightened something in his chest.

  The midwife muttered instructions. Cloth tore. Water boiled. The rain continued, indifferent.

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  “Push!”

  Another scream.

  Then—

  Silence.

  The kind that makes the heart stop.

  The father froze.

  The rain did not.

  And then—

  A cry.

  Thin.

  Weak.

  Alive.

  The father exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.

  Inside, the midwife wrapped the newborn in worn cloth. Blood cleaned. Lamp adjusted.

  The mother lay pale and trembling, sweat mixing with tears.

  “Is he—?” she whispered.

  “He is alive,” the midwife said.

  That was enough.

  The child was placed in her arms.

  He was small.

  Too small.

  His breathing shallow.

  His skin colder than it should be.

  The mother pulled him closer instinctively, as if warmth could be forced through love alone.

  For a brief moment—

  The baby stopped crying.

  His eyes opened.

  Not the unfocused wandering of newborns.

  Still.

  Silent.

  Watching.

  Lightning flashed outside.

  For that fraction of a heartbeat—

  Something dark coiled faintly beneath his skin.

  Then the thunder rolled.

  He cried.

  Loud.

  Fragile.

  Human.

  The mother smiled weakly.

  “Welcome,” she whispered.

  The father entered slowly, unsure where to put his hands.

  He stared at the child as if looking at something sacred and breakable at the same time.

  “We will name him later,” the mother said.

  Because in villages like this, names waited.

  They waited to see if the child would survive the first winter.

  —

  The rain continued through the night.

  Inside the small hut, three lives lay close together.

  None of them knew:

  The child carried weight older than his bones.

  But for now—

  He was only a son.

  And the world outside did not care.