The dim room smelled faintly of burning candles and dried herbs. A single oil lamp flickered on the bedside table, its glow painting golden shadows across the cracked wooden walls. Outside, rain hammered the tin roof, a steady roar that drowned out the rest of the world.
Inside, there was only one sound that truly mattered—the deep, strained breathing of a woman fighting to bring life into it.
"Almost there… just one more push!" urged the midwife crouched between her knees. Her voice was calm but edged with urgency, her hands already stained with blood, her forehead beaded with sweat.
The young mother—barely in her twenties—clutched the damp bedsheets, knuckles white. Her hair clung to her cheeks, heavy with perspiration. Each breath came like a struggle up a steep hill. Each push felt like scaling a mountain. But she didn't scream. She was holding back, clinging to her strength for the final moment.
With one last, desperate cry, she bore down—
—and then it happened.
A slick, squirming infant slipped into the midwife's waiting hands, wet with blood and coated in a milky film. A sharp, startled wail filled the air as the baby breathed for the first time. The young mother's eyes widened, a mixture of terror, relief, and awe filling her gaze.
"It's a boy," the midwife announced, her tired face breaking into a warm smile.
She clamped and cut the umbilical cord—the lifeline between mother and child. The faint snip echoed in the quiet room, followed by the splash of water being poured into a basin.
Instead of the usual hospital method, the child's grandmother—an older woman with keen eyes and calloused hands—began washing the newborn in a warm herbal mixture. Her movements were steady and deliberate, as if performing a ritual she had done many times before.
"Thank you… please, give him to me," the young mother whispered. Her voice trembled, her arms reaching out.
The midwife wrapped the baby in a thin cloth and placed him gently into her arms. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still.
The baby's eyes fluttered open for just an instant before he let out a small sigh and nestled against his mother's chest. Tears welled in her eyes—not just from pain, but from something deeper.
"He's so cute," she murmured softly. "I bet he'll be handsome when he grows up… just like his father."
The older woman gave a dry, knowing chuckle. "Yes… he does look like him."
Then, in a voice so low it was almost lost to the rain, she muttered, "If he even has a father."
No one seemed to notice.
No one except the baby himself.
So… this is my mother.
Yes—those tiny blinking eyes belonged to someone who had lived before. A soul reborn.
This will do, the infant thought.
"Ma'am, what name should we give him?" the midwife asked while gathering the soiled linens.
The young mother looked at her son and smiled faintly, her voice quiet but steady.
"Vaughn. Vaughn Labre."
"All right. I'll go call Larz," the midwife said before stepping out.
The door creaked open, and a small barefoot boy peeked in—a child of about six, his eyes wide with curiosity. The midwife smiled at him on her way out.
"That's your baby brother, Vaughn," she said warmly.
The boy blinked, then frowned. "So we're three now, huh," Vaughn noted silently from within the swaddle.
Then the door slammed shut with a BANG!
"MOM!" the boy groaned loudly. "This baby's so noisy!"
The young mother chuckled despite her exhaustion. "And you're not?"
She pulled Vaughn closer to her chest, rocking him gently as the older child stomped around in mock protest.
It was messy. Loud. Imperfect.
But in that moment, it was enough.
---
The rain eased by dawn, leaving the tin roof dripping with slow, rhythmic drops. The faint scent of wet earth drifted into the room, mingling with the lingering aroma of burnt candles and herbs.
Vaughn lay swaddled in a soft woven cloth, pressed close to his mother's chest. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat filled his tiny ears—warm, calming, and nothing like the chaos of his previous life.
So… this is it, he thought, staring at the pale wooden ceiling. A new life. A new start. Let's hope it's worth the trouble.
A loud thump startled him. His older brother, Larz, was crouched at the foot of the bed, poking at Vaughn's tiny feet as though he were inspecting some curious animal.
"Careful," their mother murmured, her voice still weak. "He's not a toy, Larz."
"But he's… so small," Larz muttered, squinting at him. "Are babies supposed to look like wrinkled potatoes?"
Vaughn's newborn face stayed blank, but deep inside he sighed. Fantastic. My first critic is a six-year-old.
Before Larz could prod again, a faint whimper came from the basket by the bedside. Inside lay a second newborn, wrapped in a blanket of faded pink cloth. Her tiny face was peaceful, her dark hair still damp from the night before.
"Ah, your sister's awake," their mother said softly, reaching to lift the baby girl. Her tired smile warmed just a little.
Althea yawned, her delicate fingers curling as if in search of something to hold. Vaughn's gaze drifted to her face—small, quiet, unassuming. But there was a strange, almost unplaceable feeling about her.
"She doesn't cry much," Larz noted, crossing his arms. "Not like him." He jerked his thumb toward Vaughn.
"That's because she's gentle," their mother replied with mock sternness. "And you should be gentle too."
Vaughn blinked at his sister, taking in the faint rise and fall of her breathing. She might be quiet now… but I've learned the quiet ones can be the most dangerous.
The sound of boots on wet ground reached their ears. The door creaked open, letting in a draft of cold morning air.
A tall man stepped in, his presence filling the small room. His black coat was damp from the rain, and his sharp eyes swept over everyone inside before settling on the two newborns.
"Father," Larz said, straightening immediately.
The man's gaze lingered on Vaughn for a moment—too long—before shifting to Althea. Then he stepped closer to the bed.
"They're both healthy?" he asked, his voice low but carrying a certain weight.
"Yes," their mother answered, her tone careful. "Thanks to the midwife… and your herbs."
The father's expression didn't soften, but his hand reached out briefly, brushing his palm over Althea's small head. He hesitated when it came to Vaughn, almost as if debating something, before resting a hand lightly on his chest.
Vaughn felt the touch—steady, firm—and for a moment, the man's eyes seemed to search him.
Then it was gone.
"I'll speak with you later," the father murmured to his wife, his tone unreadable. He turned to leave but stopped at the door. "Larz, keep an eye on them."
"Yes, Father."
When the door shut, Vaughn caught a glimpse of his mother's expression—soft, but shadowed.
That man… Something is odd, Vaughn thought. And if he's my father, then this family's going to be interesting.
Beside him, Althea's tiny hand brushed against his. Vaughn glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, but for the briefest moment, he thought her lips curved into the faintest smile.
Whether it was imagination or not, he couldn't say.
Outside, the rain had stopped entirely, but in this story, something was only just beginning.