The months flowed by in a strange routine of heavy silences and worried glances. In his new life, Kris Caldris was growing up within a family that, despite all their efforts, couldn't penetrate the mystery he represented.
Borel Caldris was a man with broad shoulders and calloused hands, forged by years of labor in the surrounding forests. A lumberjack by trade, he had established his family in a comfortable house on the outskirts of town, far from urban bustle. Their dwelling, though modest, breathed with the warmth of a loving home: solid wood furniture that he had carved himself adorned the rooms, and the scent of freshly cut wood shavings often floated in the air. A single servant, Lira, a middle-aged woman with a warm smile, helped Beatrice with household tasks.
Beatrice, his mother, was Borel's complete opposite—delicate and refined, with chestnut hair she always wore braided and green eyes filled with natural gentleness. She spent her days caring for Kris with a devotion that bordered on obsession, as if trying to compensate for something invisible.
But despite all the love surrounding him, Kris couldn't bring himself to let go. The scars from his past life, the abandonment by his first parents, the icy loneliness of his final months—all of this formed an invisible barrier between him and this new family who loved him sincerely.
When Beatrice took him in her arms to rock him, he remained rigid, unable to completely relax. When Borel came home in the evening and approached his crib with a tired but tender smile, Kris instinctively looked away. It wasn't cruelty—it was fear. The primal fear of being abandoned again, of being a burden once more.
"He never cries," Beatrice often murmured to Lira, her brow furrowed with worry. "Even when he falls, even when he gets hurt... it's as if he feels nothing."
Lira, who had helped raise several children in her life, nodded knowingly. "Every child is different, Lady Beatrice. Perhaps he's just... stoic."
But deep down, she shared her mistress's concerns. This little boy with eyes too mature for his age had something troubling about him.
Kris, for his part, observed everything with the acuity of an adult trapped in an infant's body. He noticed how his mother tensed when he didn't respond to her cuddles, the fleeting disappointment that crossed his father's face when he didn't babble like other babies. This involuntary distance he maintained hurt them, and this realization only worsened his guilt.
I'm hurting them,he often thought, just like with my first parents. I'm doomed to cause suffering to those who love me.
The months passed this way, in this delicate dance where love collided with invisible walls. Kris grew physically—his first steps, his first teeth—but remained strangely silent. At four months old, the age when children in this world generally began to babble and speak their first words, he had yet to make any significant sound.
It was Borel who finally voiced what they were all thinking.
"We need to call Jacob," he declared one evening, after watching Kris play silently with his wooden toys. "Something's not right."
Beatrice nodded, tears in her eyes. "I... I'm afraid he might be... different. That there's something we don't understand."
"Jacob will know," Borel assured her, placing a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder. "His magic will reveal if there's a problem."
Doctor Jacob arrived the next morning, carrying his worn leather bag and his usual benevolent expression. He was a middle-aged man with graying hair and the gentle hands of one who had devoted his life to healing. His reputation as a healer extended far beyond the borders of their modest town.
"So, show me this little fellow," he said with a smile as he approached the crib where Kris lay.
Kris, sensing the stranger's approach, withdrew even further into himself. His adult mind recognized a medical situation, and all the painful memories from his past life surged to the surface—the constant examinations, the doctors' compassionate looks, the inevitable death sentence they always ended up pronouncing.
"He never cries," Beatrice explained, her voice trembling. "Even when he gets hurt. And he doesn't speak at all, when at his age..."
"Let me examine him," Jacob said, rolling up his sleeves.
He placed his hands on Kris's small body and closed his eyes, concentrating. A golden glow, almost imperceptible, emanated from his palms—healing magic that coursed through the child's body, probing every organ, every nerve ending.
Kris, lost in his painful memories and instinctive rejection of the situation, noticed nothing. His mind had retreated to a dark corner of himself, where neither pain nor hope could reach him.
After several minutes, Jacob reopened his eyes and withdrew his hands.
"Physically, he's perfectly fine," he declared, and Beatrice sighed with relief. "All his organs are functioning normally, his nervous system is intact. There's no medical problem."
"But then, why...?" Borel began.
"Sometimes," Jacob said, packing away his things, "certain children are simply... different. More contemplative. That doesn't mean there's a problem. Give him time."
Before leaving, he turned to Borel with a compassionate look.
"By the way, how are your mana circles doing since last time?"
Borel nodded calmly. "They're fine. No particular changes since last time."
Jacob nodded approvingly. "Good. That kind of injury can be unpredictable, but if you're not feeling anything abnormal..."
"I know," Borel cut him off. "Thanks, Jacob."
After the doctor's departure, the house seemed to regain some semblance of normalcy, but the underlying tension remained. Kris continued to grow in this cocoon of anxious love, aware of the pain he was causing but unable to free himself from his own chains.
The seasons rolled by. Summer gave way to autumn, then to winter. Kris learned to walk, to hold his spoon, to play with the toys his parents offered him with such hope. But words still wouldn't come.
It was on a spring morning, as he approached his first birthday, that something changed.
Kris was sitting on the kitchen floor, watching his mother prepare breakfast. Beatrice was humming softly, a melody she often sang when she thought he wasn't listening. There was so much resigned sadness in her voice that Kris's heart tightened.
Borel entered the kitchen, still carrying the fresh scent of the morning forest on his clothes. He approached Beatrice and placed a tender kiss on her cheek.
"Good morning, my dear," he murmured.
"Good morning," she replied with a tired smile. "You left early this morning."
"Trees don't cut themselves," he joked gently. "And I love the forest's calm at sunrise."
Then he turned to Kris and crouched down beside him, as he did every morning.
"Good morning, my son," he said with that smile full of love and hope that broke Kris's heart.
And suddenly, something gave way in the little boy's chest. Perhaps it was the fatigue he read on his father's face, or his mother's melancholy, or simply the weight of all these months of silence that had caused suffering to the two people who loved him most in the world.
He thought of Ah-ran, of her pure and selfless love. He thought of his first parents who had abandoned him out of weariness. And he realized that Borel and Beatrice weren't them. They were there, every day, despite his silence, despite his distance. They loved him unconditionally, without expecting anything in return.
Maybe... maybe he could trust them.
Raising his small hands toward Borel's kind face, Kris opened his mouth and spoke, in a clear and distinct voice, his first word:
"Papa."
The silence that followed was deafening. Borel froze completely, eyes wide. Beatrice dropped the spoon she was holding, and the metallic sound echoed in the motionless kitchen.
Then, seeing the tears rising in his father's eyes, Kris turned toward his mother and added, with a small smile—the first genuine smile he had offered since his rebirth:
"Mama."
It was as if a dam had burst. Beatrice rushed toward them, kneeling beside her husband, and both surrounded Kris with their trembling arms. For the first time since his birth, Kris didn't stiffen. On the contrary, he nestled against them, finally feeling that family warmth he had forbidden himself to experience.
"My baby," Beatrice sobbed, covering his face with kisses. "My little boy..."
Borel, tears streaming down his cheeks, held his family close.
"I knew it," he murmured in a voice broken with emotion. "I knew he was special. My son... my wonderful son..."
In his parents' arms, surrounded by their unconditional love, Kris finally felt the walls he had erected around his heart begin to crumble. It was a beginning—fragile, hesitant, but real.
Lira, drawn by the sobs of joy, appeared in the kitchen doorway. Seeing the scene, she brought her hands to her mouth, eyes bright with emotion.
"NEKO be praised," she murmured. "Our little angel has finally found his voice."
And for the first time since his rebirth, Kris Caldris allowed himself to hope that maybe, this time, he could be happy.