Labor came early, eight weeks too soon.
The doctors called it a "miracle" that the baby survived with barely any complications. But Constance knew better. Aiden wasn't fragile. He wasn't struggling to live.
He knew the way back.
When they placed him in her arms, her breath caught.
His eyes were open, too wide for a newborn. He didn't cry much. He just stared.
At her.
And then at Jaiden, who was sitting on Ray's lap in the corner of the room.
Jaiden stopped playing. His tiny face wrinkled in confusion. Then fear.
He whimpered.
Aiden didn't blink.
In the first Months, Ray noticed it too, eventually.
"Is it just me, or… is he really quiet? Like, too quiet?"
Aiden didn't babble. He didn't gurgle. But his eyes followed everything. Especially Jaiden.
He watched him.
When Jaiden learned to walk and toddled past Aiden's crib, Aiden's hand would always reach out, just slightly. Not to grab. To touch. To remind.
And sometimes, Jaiden would trip for no reason.
Once, he screamed and ran from the room, shouting,
"Tell him stop looking at me!"
Ray brushed it off. "Siblings, I guess."
But Constance didn't guess. She remembered the womb.
Jaiden remembered too.
The Dream Returns
That winter, Constance dreamed of the garden again.
But this time, only one child stood beneath the tree, Aiden.
The old woman was gone.
Aiden turned to her, now a small boy with knowing eyes.
"You promised," he said.
"Promised what?" she asked, trembling.
"That I'd come back. That this time… I'd finish it."
She woke up sweating. Tears down her face.
Aiden was in her arms, sound asleep. But his small hand gripped her nightgown tight.
As if he'd heard her crying from the dream.
By Age One
He spoke.
Not words, but names.
"Ma."
"Jaiden."
"Dead."
Constance froze the first time she heard it.
"Dead?"
Aiden looked at her. Smiled.
She didn't tell Ray. She couldn't.
But from that day on, Constance kept both boys close, too close. Watching for signs.
Because Aiden had returned. But he hadn't come empty.
He brought the past with him.
And the past… never forgets.