Chapter 8: The Whispers of a Future

The night enveloped the Langlois household in a soft calm, only interrupted by the occasional creak of the floorboards and the incessant ticking of the wall clock. Victor rested in his small bed, a narrow second-hand wooden frame that Paul had painted light blue a few months earlier. The yellow blanket, knitted by Colette, now slightly frayed at the corners, covered him up to his chin. His eyes, wide open in the dim light, stared at the ceiling where shadows danced, projected by the headlights of the rare cars passing on the street.

Through the thin wall separating his small room from the living room, he could hear the muffled voices of his parents. Élise and Paul were still awake, too excited by the events of the day to sleep. Victor strained his ears, catching snippets of their animated conversation.

— Can you believe it, Paul? said Élise, her voice trembling with emotion. He wrote his name! At 3 years old! I could barely hold a pencil at that age.

Paul replied in a calmer tone, but Victor could sense a hint of disbelief in his rough laugh.

— Yeah, it's something. I asked Michel at the garage, his kid's 4 and can't even recognize the letters. Our Victor, though, he's something else.

Élise fidgeted – Victor heard the sound of a chair being moved, followed by the clink of a cup being set on the table.

— And when he read that book... she continued. His voice, Paul, it was so clear. He sounded like a schoolboy, not a baby.

Victor smiled inwardly, a subtle grin in the darkness. He had orchestrated that moment carefully, revealing just enough to amaze them without overdoing it. Talking early, walking fast—that was one thing—but reading and writing at 3 years old? That was a masterstroke. He knew this would mark their minds, laying the groundwork for his image as a "prodigy" with them, and soon, with the outside world.

In the living room, Paul coughed, a sound that betrayed both his fatigue and his enthusiasm.

— Do you think we should do something? he asked. Maybe take him to see someone? A teacher, a doctor?

— A doctor? repeated Élise, surprised. Why a doctor? He's not sick, he's... special!

— I know, I know, replied Paul, a little defensive. But it's not normal, is it? I mean, in a good way. Maybe a specialist could tell us what to do, how to help him.

Victor felt a mix of amusement and annoyance. A specialist? He didn't need a psychologist or educator to tell him what he already knew. But he had to let his parents navigate their confusion.

Élise sighed, and Victor imagined her face, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her hands nervously gripping the edge of the table.

— Maybe we could enroll him in school early, do you think? she said. There's a preschool nearby, the one where the Dupont kid goes. Maybe they'd take Victor, even if he's young.

— Hmm, grumbled Paul. We'll have to see. But if he's already reading, he'll be bored with kids who can barely draw stick figures.

Victor mentally agreed. Paul was right – preschool would be a waste of time for him. He already knew the basics, and much more. But he would have to go, to build that façade of a child prodigy that would open doors for him later. He imagined the teachers, those overwhelmed women with soft voices, staring at him wide-eyed as he read full sentences while the other kids struggled with the alphabet.

The conversation between his parents gradually faded, replaced by the sounds of dishes being put away in the sink. Paul mumbled something about getting up early for the garage, and soon the creak of the floorboards signaled their departure to their bedroom. Victor heard the door close gently, and then silence settled in, deep and familiar.

He turned his head on his pillow, a flat cushion Élise had sewn with an old patterned fabric. The room was small, cluttered with a plastic toy chest and a pile of clothes he had already outgrown. The smell of aged wood and damp wool filled the air, mingling with the soap Élise used to wash his clothes. It was a simple, narrow world, but it was his for now.

He thought back to that day—the crumpled sheet he had written on, the picture book he had read effortlessly, the wonder in his parents' eyes. Their reaction had been perfect, exactly what he wanted. Élise, with her overflowing pride, already saw him as a rising star. Paul, more pragmatic, was trying to understand, to channel this unexpected talent. They didn't know that this was just the beginning, a drop in the ocean of what he had planned.

Victor closed his eyes, letting his mind wander. These three years had been sweeter than he'd thought. He remembered Élise's laughter when he had walked for the first time, stumbling toward her with a determination she took for enthusiasm. He saw Paul again, one winter evening, teaching him to stack wooden blocks, amazed when Victor built a perfect tower in seconds.

But now, at 3 years old, he was moving into a new phase. Reading and writing were weapons, tangible proof of his head start. Soon, he would ask for more complex books, pencils, maybe even an old computer Paul could pick up from the garage. He already knew the years ahead – the rise of the internet, the first stirrings of social media, economic crises. Every step would be calculated, every talent revealed at the right time.

A noise pulled him from his thoughts. The door to his room cracked open, and Élise's silhouette appeared in the doorway. She was wearing her worn bathrobe, her hair loose and falling over her shoulders. She tiptoed toward him, probably thinking he was asleep, and leaned over the bed.

— My little genius, she whispered, her voice trembling with contained emotion. What are we going to do with you, huh?

She gently stroked his hair, a familiar gesture that left warmth on his forehead. Victor remained still, pretending to be asleep, but he felt something stir within him—not weakness, no, but a silent acknowledgment of what she represented. She left as quietly as she had come, closing the door behind her.

Victor opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling again. The night was deep, but his future already shone brightly in his mind. He had laid the first stone today, and soon, the whole world would know what he was capable of.