The pull led me back to San Myshuno.
Not the noise, not the crowds — just the park.
I didn’t know why it was always this place.
I didn’t want to think about it too hard.
The fountain glowed under the streetlamps, the benches half‑shadowed, the air carrying that same quiet heaviness I remembered without remembering.
Something in my chest tightened the moment I stepped onto the path — a faint echo of something old, something I couldn’t name.
Jaycee Wylie was sitting on one of the benches, shoulders hunched, hands wrapped around a cup of something warm.
She looked like she’d been there a while.
She didn’t seem surprised when I approached.
Just tired.
“Mind if I sit?” I asked.
She shook her head, sliding over a little.
I sat beside her, letting the quiet settle.
The pressure inside me eased the moment I was close — not gone, but softer, like it had been waiting for me to arrive.
“You’re out late,” she said.
“So are you.”
She gave a small, humorless laugh.
“Couldn’t sleep. Too much noise in my head.”
I nodded.
I knew that feeling too well.
We talked — nothing important.
Nothing deep.
Just enough to keep the air moving while that instinctive tension coiled low in my ribs, steady and insistent.
And she kept talking.
She kept me there.
She didn’t pull away.
Jaycee shifted closer without thinking about it.
Her voice softened.
Her breathing slowed.
The moment opened because she opened it.
The force inside me wrapped around the space she’d given — loosening something I’d been holding too tightly for too long.
I let myself lean into it.
Not fully.
Not blindly.
Just enough to stop fighting.
The intensity built fast — faster than I expected — until it was almost too much to sit still.
Jaycee’s eyes flicked toward the observatory at the edge of the park.
“That place is open all night,” she murmured.
Before I could think, she was already standing.
I didn’t remember rising after her.
I just knew she was moving — steady, certain — and I followed.
She walked ahead of me, not rushing, not hesitating, just leading with a quiet certainty that made everything feel inevitable.
The observatory door clicked shut behind us.
The air inside was warm, close, humming with the same urgency that had been clawing at me since I left the Hollow — but now it had direction.
Her direction.
There was no slow build this time.
No careful testing of boundaries.
Jaycee crossed the room first, breath catching, body angling toward me like she’d already surrendered to whatever this was.
It was immediate.
Intense.
Urgent in a way that felt less like choice and more like inevitability — the moment swallowing everything else.
When it was over, the world felt too quiet.
Jaycee leaned against the wall, catching her breath.
I stood a few feet away, trying to steady mine.
The pressure inside me had eased — not gone, but quieter.
Satisfied, for now.
I didn’t stay long.
I couldn’t.
The instinct didn’t fade when I left the observatory.
It eased, yes — loosened its grip — but it didn’t let go.
Not fully.
Not enough.
The night air hit me as I stepped outside, cool and damp, the city just beginning to stir with early‑morning movement.
I stood there for a moment, breathing, waiting, hoping the quiet would settle something inside me.
It didn’t.
The hunger rose instead — sharp, sudden, urgent.
Not the slow ache I could ignore.
Not the manageable edge the plasma pouches dulled.
This was different.
Immediate.
Instinctive.
I followed it without thinking.
Down the path.
Across the street.
Toward the steady heartbeat of a woman starting her morning before the sun had fully risen — reflective vest, thermos in hand, heading toward the subway entrance.
She looked up when I approached, startled for a breath, then softening in that way people sometimes did when the instinct brushed against them.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Just… open.
She didn’t step back.
She didn’t turn away.
She let the moment settle.
I didn’t speak.
I didn’t need to.
It was quick.
Urgent.
A release of pressure I hadn’t realized was building behind my ribs.
When it was done, she blinked, disoriented for a heartbeat, then kept walking, none the worse for it.
I watched her disappear down the stairs, my own breathing uneven.
The hunger had quieted.
But the instinct…
The instinct was still there.
Not as sharp.
Not as demanding.
But present.
Persistent.
I wasn’t going home like this.
I couldn’t.
I slipped into the event center nearby — the one that stayed open for overnight staff and early‑morning vendors.
The bathrooms were empty, the lights humming softly overhead.
I washed my hands.
My face.
My neck.
Let the water run until it went cold.
It wasn’t enough.
The pressure inside me was still there, coiled and restless, refusing to settle.
I turned toward the tub in the corner — deep enough to soak in, meant for long shifts, not for what I needed.
But it was water.
And water helped.
I climbed in naked, the cold hitting me all at once, sharp enough to steal my breath.
I sank down until the water closed over my shoulders, until the chill bit into my skin, until the noise in my head dulled to something I could almost ignore.
I didn’t look toward the mirror.
There was nothing there for me to see anyway.
For a moment, I just stayed there — palms flat against the porcelain, head tipped back, eyes closed — trying to find the center Lilith had helped me reach hours ago.
It didn’t come.
A faint tug pulled at me again — not violent, not urgent, but insistent enough to keep me moving.
Back toward the city.
Back into the dark that was slowly giving way to dawn.
I exhaled, long and shaky.
Then I stood, water streaming off me, clothes heavy against my skin.
I didn’t check the mirror.
Didn’t check myself at all.
Didn’t think to.
I dried my hands.
Straightened my shirt as best I could.
Stepped back out into the waking streets.
I wasn’t going home until it stopped.
And it hadn’t stopped.
Not yet.
I wandered for a long time after leaving the event center.
Through the Fashion District.
Across the bridge into the Spice Market.
Down streets that were just beginning to wake, vendors setting up stalls, delivery trucks rumbling past.
The instinct was faint now — a thread instead of a fist — but it still tugged at me every time I slowed down.
I kept moving.
Eventually, the thread shifted direction, pulling me toward the Arts Quarter.
The sky was turning pale at the edges, the city stretching awake around me.
That’s where I saw her.
Katelin Strange.
She was leaning against the railing outside the gallery, scrolling through her phone, hair pulled into a loose knot, paint smudged on her wrist like she’d been working all night.
She looked up when I approached.
Her eyes widened just a little — not fear, not surprise, just recognition of something she couldn’t name.
“You look like you need to sit down,” she said.
Her voice was warm.
Steady.
Inviting in a way that made the tension inside me tighten, then ease.
I didn’t argue.
We talked for a moment — small things, nothing that mattered.
She watched me with a kind of curious softness, like she could sense the frayed edges I was trying to hold together.
Then she said, “My place is right upstairs. Come on.”
She stepped away from the railing first.
She led the way.
I followed her without question.
Not because I couldn’t think.
Not because I didn’t know better.
But because she had opened the moment, and the instinct wrapped itself around that opening with the same quiet inevitability it had all night.
Her apartment was small, bright, cluttered with canvases and half‑finished sculptures.
She closed the door behind us, and the pressure inside me surged — not sharp, not overwhelming, just enough to make my breath catch.
It didn’t take long.
It didn’t need to.
When it was over, I stood by the window, looking out at the city as the first real light of morning touched the rooftops.
Katelin was already half asleep on the couch, curled under a blanket, peaceful in a way I couldn’t reach.
The instinct had quieted.
More than before.
More than after Jaycee.
More than after the urgent feeding.
Maybe it was enough.
Maybe.
I needed to go home.
The baby was coming soon.
Lilith needed me.
The girls needed me.
Lucian needed me.
And I needed to be there — not drifting, not unraveling, not pulled in a dozen directions I didn’t understand.
I slipped out quietly, closing the door behind me.
The city was fully awake now, sunlight catching on the glass towers, the streets filling with people starting their day.
I took a breath.
The instinct was faint — barely there.
For the first time all night, I felt like I could walk without being dragged.
So I headed home.
Back to the Hollow.
Back to Lilith.
Back to the life I was trying to hold together.
Before the baby came.
Before anything else could break.
By the time I reached the Hollow, the sun was fully up.
The house was quiet in that early‑morning way — soft, warm, lived in.
I could feel Lilith somewhere upstairs, steady as always, her presence like a low hum under my skin.
I followed it to the nursery.
She was already there with the girls.
Thalia was fussing, half awake, reaching for her with that sleepy insistence she always had.
Selene was louder, angrier — her cries sharp enough to cut through the room.
Lilith looked up when I stepped inside.
She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t need to.
She handed Thalia to me first, but Thalia reached for her instead, so Lilith shifted and took her, settling the baby against her shoulder with practiced ease.
I moved to Selene.
“Hey,” I murmured, picking up the bottle. “Come on, sweetheart.”
She turned her head away.
I tried again.
She pushed at my hand with surprising strength for someone so small.
“Selene,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s just me.”
She cried harder.
Lilith glanced over, brow furrowing.
“Mateo,” she said gently, “you’re still in your dark form.”
I froze.
I hadn’t even realized.
I looked down at my hands — the faint shadowing along my skin, the sharper lines of my fingers, the subtle glow in my eyes.
I’d been like this since I got home.
Since before I got home.
No wonder Selene was scared.
I stepped back, closed my eyes, and let the shift happen — the darkness pulling inward, softening, settling until I felt like myself again.
When I opened my eyes, Lilith was watching me with that steady, knowing look she always had.
“Try now,” she said.
I lifted Selene again, slower this time.
She hesitated — a small, uncertain sound — then relaxed just enough to take the bottle.
Her breathing steadied.
Her little hand curled around my shirt.
Her eyes fluttered half closed.
Lilith exhaled, relief softening her shoulders.
But she didn’t smile.
She could feel it — the same thing I could feel.
I was calmer.
More centered.
More myself.
But not enough.
Not fully.
Not the way I needed to be with the baby coming any day now.
Lilith shifted Thalia to her other shoulder, watching me with quiet, measured concern.
“You’re better,” she said softly.
“But you weren’t gone long enough.”
The words weren’t an accusation.
They weren’t even a warning.
Just the truth.
And the truth settled heavy in my chest as Selene drank quietly in my arms.
The instinct was faint now — barely there.
But it wasn’t gone.
Not yet.
By the time the girls finished their bottles, the house felt calmer.
Not quiet — the house was never truly quiet — but steadier.
Lilith shifted Thalia to her other shoulder, humming something soft under her breath.
Selene had gone heavy in my arms, her tiny fingers still curled in my shirt.
Lionel appeared in the doorway, hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, looking like he’d been up for hours already.
“How’s Lucian?” Lilith asked.
Lionel smiled, tired but proud.
“He’s doing well. Talking up a storm. And he can dance now — really dance. Still throws tantrums when he’s left alone, but we’re working on it. Hopefully we’ll have that sorted before his birthday.”
Lilith nodded, relieved.
I felt something warm and sharp twist in my chest — pride, guilt, longing, all tangled together.
When the girls were settled back in their cribs, I stepped into the hallway, needing a breath, needing space, needing… something.
That’s when I saw it.
The pipe organ.
The one I’d always wanted to learn.
The one I’d walked past a hundred times without touching.
The one that had always felt like it belonged to someone steadier, someone more disciplined, someone who wasn’t constantly fighting himself.
I stopped in front of it.
My hands hovered over the keys.
For the first time, I sat down.
The bench creaked softly under my weight.
The keys were cool beneath my fingers.
I pressed one — just one — and the note rang out low and full, vibrating through the room, through my chest, through the parts of me that still felt frayed.
I tried another.
Then a third.
Clumsy.
Uncertain.
But real.
Behind me, I felt Lilith before I saw her.
She could feel it — the difference.
I was calmer.
More centered.
More myself.
But not fully.
Not enough.
Not yet.
Still, she watched me play those awkward, halting notes like they meant something.
Like they were a promise.
Like maybe this — sitting here, trying, choosing something instead of being dragged by it — was the first step back.
I kept playing.
Lilith stayed in the doorway, listening.
And for the first time since the instinct began, the house felt like it was holding its breath with us — waiting to see who I would be when the baby arrived.
I kept playing — slow, uneven notes that didn’t sound like music yet, but felt like something I could hold onto.
Something steady.
Something mine.
Lilith had gone to check on the girls and Lucian.
Now she stood in the doorway again, arms folded loosely, watching me with that quiet, steady hope she never said out loud.
The house felt different with her there — warmer, calmer — like the air itself was trying to help me find my footing.
What I didn’t see was the small shape at the edge of the room.
Lucian.
He had followed Lilith all the way down the long staircase, past the living room, following some instinct I didn’t feel, didn’t sense, didn’t turn around for.
He stopped just behind the bench.
Waiting.
Waiting to be chosen.
Waiting for me to look back.
Waiting for me to see him.
I didn’t.
I kept playing.
Lilith’s breath caught — just a little — when she noticed him.
She stepped forward, soft and careful, not wanting to startle him.
“Lucian,” she whispered.
He looked up at her, eyes sad and tired, then back at me, hopeful in a way that made something inside her twist.
I still didn’t turn.
Lilith crouched and lifted him gently into her arms.
He clung to her immediately, his little hands fisting in her shirt, his body relaxing only once he was held.
She carried him upstairs, back to his room, settling into the rocking chair with him curled against her chest.
His breathing evened out slowly, the tension leaving his small body as he drifted into sleep.
She stayed with him while he slept.
And downstairs, I kept practicing, unaware of the small heartbreak I’d left sitting on the floor behind me.
Unaware of the way Lilith watched me later, her hope tempered with something quieter, something heavier.
Unaware of how close I’d come — again — to repeating the very thing I’d spent my whole life trying not to become.
My son asleep upstairs, waiting for the day I finally turn around
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