Chapter 7: The Prodigy Child

The September sun of 2004 bathed the small Langlois house in a soft light, filtering through the now slightly faded floral curtains. Victor Langlois, aged 3, was sitting on the worn rug in the living room, surrounded by an organized chaos of plastic toys and old magazines left lying around by Paul. His brown hair, a little too long, fell in messy strands across his forehead, and his sharp, deep brown eyes scanned the world with an intensity that was anything but childlike.

Three years had passed since that first night in the folding bed, a time that had slipped by both too slowly and too quickly for Victor. His body had grown, transforming from a dependent infant into an agile little boy, but his mind, that of a 49-year-old man from 2050, had never stopped spinning. These years had been a time of adaptation, observation, and moments of tenderness with his family.

From the first months, Victor had exceeded all expectations. At six months, when babies his age could barely coo, he had articulated his first words – "mama" and "papa" – with a clarity that had startled Élise. She had laughed, amazed, thinking it was a coincidence, but Victor had continued, adding "yes" and "no" before his first birthday. By 10 months, he was already walking, his steps confident, in stark contrast to the clumsy falls of the other neighborhood children. Paul, initially skeptical, had eventually joked, "We have an Olympic champion at home!"

These early feats filled his parents with pride, but also a slight perplexity. Élise spent hours talking to him, singing songs, convinced that he understood everything. Paul, more down-to-earth, simply shrugged and said, "Our Victor's special." Colette, during her regular visits, would nod with a knowing smile, repeating, "This little one has something in his head."

Victor, for his part, played along with a calculated precision. He knew he had to stand out, but not too quickly, to avoid raising suspicion. Speaking and walking early were plausible feats for a gifted child, so he had held back his other talents, waiting for the right moment to reveal them. But these years hadn't been just a facade. Despite his adult ambitions and detachment, he cherished every moment spent with his family.

He remembered the winter mornings when Élise would bundle him up in Colette's red scarf – always too big, always scratchy – to go watch the snow fall in the garden. She would laugh as she watched him stumble through the powdery snow, his little boots leaving messy tracks. Paul, returning from the garage, would sometimes join them with a snowball he would gently toss at Victor, triggering bursts of shared laughter.

There were also the summer afternoons when Colette would come with a basket of cherries picked from her garden. She would sit on the couch, knitting a new useless blanket, while Victor, at two years old, amused himself by stacking the pits into perfect pyramids. She would watch him with a mix of amusement and curiosity, muttering, "You're too serious for your age, you." Élise, in the kitchen, would be baking a pie, and the sweet scent would fill the house, a fragrance that stayed etched in Victor's memory as a rare moment of peace.

But at 3 years old, Victor decided it was time to move on to the next step. Over the years, his parents had accumulated newspapers and picture books – old car magazines for Paul, romance novels for Élise. One day, while he was alone in the living room, he took a pencil left on the table and began writing on a torn page from a magazine: simple words, "house," "sun," "Victor." He had been reading for months, secretly deciphering the headlines Paul left lying around, but he had kept this skill hidden until now.

That morning, as the sun rose in the sky, Élise entered the living room with a pile of clean laundry. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Victor, sitting cross-legged, a pencil in hand, and a sheet covered with awkward but legible letters in front of him.

— Victor? she said, her voice trembling with disbelief. What… what are you doing?

He looked up at her, placing the pencil down with a calculated nonchalance.

— I'm writing, mom, he replied calmly, his voice clear and confident for a child his age.

Élise dropped the laundry, which spilled onto the floor in a silent mess. She knelt beside him, taking the sheet in her trembling hands. The words were there, irrefutable, written with a precision that far exceeded what a 3-year-old should be able to do.

— But… how? she stammered, her eyes flicking from the sheet to Victor.

He shrugged, a gesture he had perfected to seem natural.

— I looked at the books. It's easy.

Élise stood frozen, her cheeks flushing with emotion. She picked up a picture book from the table – a farm story with simple words – and handed it to Victor.

— Read this, then, she said, almost as a challenge.

Victor took the book, opened it to the first page, and read aloud: "The cow eats the grass in the field." His diction was clear, without hesitation, far beyond the babbling expected from a child his age.

Élise put a hand to her mouth, stifling a cry of surprise mixed with joy. She jumped up, running to the kitchen where she had left the phone.

— Paul! she yelled, picking up the receiver. Come home quickly, you won't believe this!

Victor watched her bustle around, a discreet smile on his lips. He had anticipated this reaction – the surprise, the disbelief, then the overflowing pride. A few minutes later, Paul's Peugeot screeched to a halt in front of the house. He stormed in, still in his work overalls, his glasses fogged from the rush.

— What's going on? he asked, out of breath.

Élise handed him the sheet and the book, her eyes shining.

— Look at this. He knows how to write. And read!

Paul took the sheet, frowning as if doubting what he was seeing. He sat heavily on the couch, staring at Victor, who remained calm in the middle of the rug.

— Read this to me, he said, pointing at the book, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Victor repeated the sentence with the same ease, even adding a small smile for good measure. Paul let out a nervous laugh, running a hand through his dark hair.

— Good God, Élise, we've got a genius under our roof!

Élise knelt to hug Victor, laughing and crying at the same time.

— My little prodigy! I knew you were special, I've always known!

Victor let himself be embraced, feeling the warmth of his mother and the familiar scent of her floral perfume. Paul joined them, placing a clumsy hand on his shoulder. For them, it was a miracle, an unexpected source of joy. For Victor, it was another step in his plan – proof that he could shape his destiny right now.

That night, as he lay in his little bed – no longer a crib, but a child's cot they had bought second-hand – he listened to his parents' excited murmurs through the wall. They were talking about him, what he could become, school, maybe even a future they had never dared to imagine. Victor closed his eyes, satisfied. He was 3 years old, and already, the world was starting to open up to him.