Chapter 5: The Not So Normal Toddler

(Flashback)

(Amelia POV)

Amelia had long accepted that her child was not normal.

At eighteen months old, Audrey should have been waddling around on unsteady legs, babbling nonsense, and generally making life difficult for her. He should have been running into furniture, shoving everything he found into his mouth, or—heaven forbid—eating dirt.

Instead, Audrey sat in the middle of their small living room with the posture of a tiny, meditative sage, his chubby hands resting on his knees, his unseeing crimson eyes fixed on nothing and everything all at once.

He was *thinking*.

And that was terrifying.

Amelia leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with a mix of amusement and mild concern.

"Sweetheart," she called, her voice carrying the natural softness of a mother but edged with the crispness of someone who had spent years learning to command attention.

Audrey didn't flinch, but his tiny head turned slightly in her direction, as if measuring the space between them through sound alone. His mouth quirked up in a way that was distinctly smug.

Amelia narrowed her eyes. *Smug.* An *eighteen-month-old* should not be capable of smugness. And yet, there he was, looking for all the world like he was about to negotiate a trade agreement.

She sighed and walked over, the wooden floor creaking slightly under her steady, graceful steps. She moved with practiced ease, the kind that came from years of discipline. Amelia had never been the kind of woman to rush or stumble—her movements were deliberate, controlled. Even now, as a mother, she carried herself with quiet power, like a lioness in a den of cubs.

Audrey, of course, was her only cub. But he was enough of a handful to count for three.

She crouched beside him, brushing a gentle hand over his dark, feathery hair. "What are you doing, my little owl?"

Audrey exhaled through his nose—a slow, deliberate breath. "Listening," he said.

Amelia blinked. His voice was still high and soft, the voice of a toddler, but the way he *spoke*—the *intent* behind it—was too mature.

Her child wasn't normal.

She *knew* that.

But moments like this still caught her off guard.

"What are you listening to?" she asked, brushing her fingers over his chubby cheek.

"The house," he answered simply. Then, as if that wasn't cryptic enough, he added, "It breathes."

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "The house breathes?"

Audrey nodded sagely, his tiny hand patting the wooden floor. "Creaks when you move. Wind makes it sigh. Birds on the roof make it tickle."

Well. That was unsettlingly poetic.

Amelia sighed and pulled him into her lap, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "My little philosopher," she murmured.

Audrey accepted the affection with the patience of someone who knew resistance was futile.

She ran her fingers through his hair, thinking. His awareness of his surroundings was unnervingly sharp. Most toddlers relied on their sight to navigate, but Audrey... he *felt* everything. Every sound, every shift in the air, every vibration in the floor.

It was both fascinating and—if she was being honest—a little scary.

He was adapting. Fast. Too fast.

At eighteen months, he should have been struggling with his blindness, bumping into things, crying out of frustration. But instead, he was sitting here, analyzing the world like some tiny philosopher-warrior.

Amelia didn't believe in fate. She had fought too hard for the life she had to leave things up to destiny. But when she looked at her son—her impossibly perceptive, eerily calm, *clearly not normal* son—she couldn't help but feel like something bigger was at play.

And she had no idea if that was a good thing.

*The Great Escape*

The first time Audrey escaped from his crib, Amelia had assumed it was a fluke.

The second time, she reinforced the crib.

The third time, she sat and *watched*.

And what she saw should not have been possible.

She had tucked Audrey in as usual, his small body wrapped snugly in a blanket, his breathing slow and steady. She had kissed his forehead, whispered a soft goodnight, and left the room.

Five minutes later, she heard a faint *thud*.

By the time she rushed back in, Audrey was already out.

He stood on the wooden floor, one tiny hand pressed against the crib as if measuring the distance between it and the wall. His bare feet barely made a sound as he adjusted his stance, tilting his head slightly—listening.

Then, like a tiny *assassin-in-training*, he turned toward the door.

Amelia cleared her throat.

Audrey froze.

There was a long, weighted silence. Then, ever so slowly, he turned his face toward her, crimson eyes wide with manufactured innocence.

"...Mama?" he tried.

Amelia crossed her arms. "You want to explain to me how you got out?"

Audrey's mouth opened, then closed. His little brain was *working*.

Finally, he settled on, "Fell."

Amelia arched an eyebrow. "You *fell* out of the crib? And landed perfectly on your feet?"

Audrey hesitated. Then nodded.

Amelia sighed. "Audrey. Sweetheart. Lying is bad."

Audrey seemed to take a moment to absorb this information. Then, after deep contemplation, he said, "Yes, Mama."

She narrowed her eyes. He was *absolutely* still lying.

Still, she wasn't about to argue with an eighteen-month-old. Instead, she picked him up, ignoring how he immediately went limp in an attempt to make himself harder to carry.

"Nice try," she muttered, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He huffed in defeat.

*Little Warrior*

It didn't take long for Amelia to realize Audrey had *patterns*.

For one, he didn't like chaos. He always sat in the same spots, always faced the door when they were in a room, always took the same number of steps to get from one place to another. It was a system, one he used to navigate a world he couldn't see.

But it was more than that.

One evening, she found him in the yard, his tiny feet planted firmly in the grass, his chubby arms extended slightly for balance.

She watched, heart hammering in her chest, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, testing the ground.

Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his arms—one slightly forward, one tucked close to his chest.

It was a *stance*.

A toddler was *assuming a stance*.

She barely breathed as he pivoted slightly, his expression one of deep concentration. He lifted one leg—slow, steady—held it for a second, then set it down again. Testing. Adjusting.

It was subtle, but undeniable.

Audrey wasn't just learning to walk.

He was *training*.

Her child was training himself to *fight*.

Amelia pressed a hand over her mouth, torn between laughter and a sudden, aching *fear*.

Because if Audrey was doing this now—at eighteen months old—what would he become in a few years?

The answer, she suspected, was something extraordinary. And possibly terrifying.

She stepped forward, the sound of her approach making him stop mid-motion.

"Mama?" he asked, his voice still soft, still small.

She knelt, pulling him into her arms, pressing her cheek against his.

"You are going to change the world, little owl," she whispered.

Audrey simply tilted his head, as if considering her words.

Then he smiled.

And Amelia?

Amelia just held him tighter, praying that when that change came—when his path truly began—he would never have to walk it alone.