Chapter 7: The Rhythm of Days

Time, in this new life, moved at a pace that was both agonizingly slow and deceptively swift. Each day stretched endlessly, filled with the monotony of infancy, yet the weeks seemed to blur together, marked only by the subtle changes in my body and the world around me. I was growing—slowly, painfully—but it was not enough. Not yet.

The mornings were always the same. I would wake to the sound of Eleanor's voice, soft and melodic, as she moved about the room. Her footsteps were light, almost hesitant, as if she feared disturbing the fragile peace of the early hours. The room was dim, the faint light of dawn filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows across the walls.

"Good morning, my little one," she would say, her voice a gentle murmur as she leaned over the crib. Her face was the first thing I saw each day, her eyes warm and her smile tender. She would lift me carefully, her hands cradling my head, and hold me close to her chest. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat was a constant, a reminder that I was not alone.

William was usually gone by then, his absence marked by the silence that filled the house. He left early, often before the sun had fully risen, and returned late, his presence a fleeting shadow in the evening. But on the rare mornings when he was still home, I would hear his voice, low and steady, as he spoke to Eleanor.

"Do you need anything before I go?" he asked one morning, his tone practical but not unkind.

Eleanor shook her head, her arms tightening around me. "No, we'll be fine. Just… be careful, William."

He nodded, his expression unreadable, before leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. "I always am."

The exchange was brief, but it lingered in my mind. There was something unspoken between them, a tension that I could not yet understand. It was in the way Eleanor's eyes followed him as he left, the way her hands trembled slightly as she held me. It was in the way William's shoulders seemed to carry an invisible weight, his movements deliberate and measured.

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The Rhythm of Routine

The days followed a predictable rhythm, a pattern that I quickly came to recognize. After William left, Eleanor would feed me, her hands gentle as she adjusted the bottle to my lips. I hated the helplessness of it, the way I had to rely on her for even the most basic needs, but there was no other choice. My body was still too weak, too uncoordinated, to do anything for itself.

Once I was fed, Eleanor would place me in a small, padded chair near the window, where I could watch the world outside. The view was limited—mostly trees and the occasional bird—but it was enough to hold my attention. The world beyond the window was a mystery, one that I was determined to unravel.

Eleanor would then set about her daily tasks, her movements efficient but unhurried. She cleaned the house, her hands moving with practiced ease as she swept the floors and dusted the furniture. She cooked, the scent of bread and herbs filling the air, and tended to the small garden outside, her hands stained with soil as she planted and weeded.

Throughout it all, she talked to me, her voice a constant presence in my life. She told me stories—some real, some imagined—and sang songs in a language I did not yet understand. Her words were a comfort, a reminder that I was not alone in this strange new world.

"You'll grow up so fast," she said one day, her voice tinged with both pride and sadness. "Before I know it, you'll be running around, causing trouble just like your father."

I wanted to respond, to tell her that I would do more than that—that I would grow strong, that I would protect her—but the words were trapped in my mind, my voice still useless.

The inability to communicate was perhaps the most frustrating part of this new existence. My mind was sharp, my thoughts clear, but my body refused to cooperate. I could not speak, could not gesture, could not even cry in a way that conveyed anything beyond basic needs. It was maddening.

Eleanor, of course, did her best to interpret my cries and movements. She seemed to have an innate sense of what I needed, whether it was food, sleep, or simply comfort. But there were times when even she could not understand, when my frustration boiled over into helpless tears.

"Shh, it's alright," she would whisper, her voice soothing as she rocked me gently. "I'm here. I'm here."

Her words were a balm, but they could not erase the anger and helplessness that simmered beneath the surface. I wanted to scream, to demand answers, to tell her that I was more than this fragile, helpless creature. But all I could do was cry, my voice a pathetic whimper that only added to my frustration.

William's presence in the house was sporadic, his comings and goings marked by the sound of the door opening and closing. When he was home, he was often quiet, his movements deliberate and his expression unreadable. He spent much of his time cleaning that strange metallic object, his hands moving with practiced ease as he disassembled and reassembled it.

I watched him closely, my curiosity piqued by the object. It was unlike anything I had seen in my past life, its purpose a mystery. Was it a weapon? A tool? I could not be sure, but the way he handled it suggested it was important.

One evening, as he sat by the fire, cleaning the object once more, Eleanor approached him, her expression hesitant.

"Do you think it's safe?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

William glanced up, his eyes meeting hers. "It has to be," he said simply. "For his sake."

Eleanor nodded, though her worry was evident. She glanced at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of love and fear, before turning back to William. "I just… I don't want him to grow up in fear."

"He won't," William replied, his tone firm. "I'll make sure of it."

The exchange left me with more questions than answers. What were they protecting me from? What danger lurked beyond the walls of this house? I did not know, but I was determined to find out.

As the days turned into weeks, I began to notice small changes. My body was growing stronger, my movements more coordinated. I could lift my head for longer periods, my hands grasping at the air with newfound determination. It was progress, slow but steady, and it gave me hope.

Eleanor noticed it too, her smile widening as she watched me. "You're getting so strong," she said one evening, her voice filled with pride. "Just wait, my little Arthur. The world will be yours one day."

Her words were a promise, one that I clung to as I lay in the crib each night, my mind racing with thoughts of the future. I did not know what awaited me, what challenges I would face, but I was determined to meet them head-on.

For now, though, I was just a baby. A helpless, fragile baby.

But I would not remain so.

Not forever.