The fluorescent hospital lights cast a pale glow, but inside that delivery room, everything shimmered with warmth. Claire Knight gritted her teeth through another contraction, sweat dampening her brow, her breaths sharp and trembling.
Thomas sat beside her, fingers laced tightly with hers, whispering encouragements through the lump in his throat.
"You're doing amazing, Claire. He's almost here. Just one more—"
Then came the cry. Raw. Fierce. A sound that shattered the world they had known and built a new one in its place.
Claire collapsed back against the pillows, tears springing to her eyes. The nurse gently laid the squirming newborn on her chest.
Claire stared, awestruck. "He's… he's perfect."
Thomas choked out a laugh, brushing a trembling hand through the baby's soft hair. "He's here. Our little miracle."
The nurse smiled. "Do we have a name?"
"Alexander Leonard Knight," Claire whispered, the name tasting like promise and legacy.
Thomas nodded. "After my father and her favorite Renaissance man," he added with a grin.
They held each other then — not just as husband and wife, but as something new: a mother, a father, protectors of a soul they already loved more than themselves.
The next five years were the happiest of their lives.
Claire left her illustration studio to be a full-time mother, transforming the house into a colorful haven of murals and imagination. Thomas started coming home from school earlier, bringing little science kits and building blocks like they were gifts from Olympus.
They didn't just raise Alexander — they cherished him.
He was curious from the start, always staring at things too long. Claire would catch him watching the birds outside the window with a look far too serious for someone in footie pajamas.
At two years old, Alexander had his first true moment of brilliance — though it wasn't obvious at first.
Flashback
"Okay, sweetheart," Claire said, sitting at the kitchen table, baby monitor on her hip and alphabet book open in front of them. "This is 'A'. 'A' is for apple."
Alexander blinked once, nodding. "Apple."
His voice was small but clear. Claire beamed, pride blooming in her chest. "That's right! Let's try a few more."
The phone rang from upstairs
Claire sighed. "Ugh, it's probaly your father. Hang on, honey, I'll be right back."
Upstairs, the phone rang. Claire answered the phone and talked for a minute. Still, her heart tugged her back toward the kitchen.
She rushed down fifteen minutes later, dreading the crayon-scribbled walls or spilled juice she might find.
Instead, Alexander sat exactly where she left him — but the book was now flipped ten pages ahead.
"M… Mountain. N… Nose. O… Octopus," he whispered, fingers brushing each word.
Claire froze in the doorway.
Alexander looked up at her, face lighting up. "Mama! The letters make sounds. Like talking puzzle pieces!"
Her breath caught. "How did you…?"
He smiled, as if the answer were obvious. "You showed me a few. I figured out the rest."
Claire knelt beside him, hugging him tightly, overwhelmed by love and awe. "You're incredible, baby."
"Does that mean we get more books?" he asked, eyes wide with hope.
She laughed through tears. "As many as you want."
That night, Thomas tucked Alexander in under his astronaut-print blankets and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Dad," Alexander said suddenly, "why does the moon move but the stars stay still?"
Thomas blinked, then smiled slowly. "You know… I'm going to enjoy not being the smartest person in this house anymore."
Alexander giggled. "You're still the best at pancakes."
Thomas kissed his forehead, then walked out with his heart too full to speak.
As the years passed, their love deepened with every new discovery.
Alexander never threw tantrums — but he would stare silently into space when something puzzled him, as if rearranging the universe in his mind. Claire sometimes found her own illustrations in his hands, improved — subtly but undeniably — with pencil strokes no toddler should know.
At five, he built a pulley system to hoist snacks from the kitchen to his bedroom. At six, he corrected Thomas on a math problem. At seven, he began writing strange symbols in a notebook that neither parent understood — though both kept it like a treasure.
There were nights Claire and Thomas lay awake, whispering about him.
"Do you think he's… gifted?" she'd ask.
"I think he's something the world hasn't seen before," Thomas would say, equal parts proud and afraid. "And we just have to make sure the world is kind to him."
They didn't know that their son had once died in another life — or that the mind of a detective, the soul of a creator, and the instincts of a predator now lived beneath their roof.
All they knew was that they loved him with everything they had.
And that love, more than anything, would shape the man he would become.