As Johan’s influence spread like an invisible force throughout the town, the connection between him and his mother withered. Věra Černá had once tried to hold on to the illusion that she was his mother, that she could guide him, shape him, protect him. But that illusion was gone now. Johan did not need her. He had outgrown her in ways she could not comprehend. At first, she had tried to convince herself that this was normal. That children naturally became more independent. That it was simply the passage of time that made Johan pull away. But that was a lie. Johan was different. And deep down, Věra knew she had lost him long ago. Or perhaps, she had never truly had him at all. The house they lived in had become a prison, though Johan never saw it that way. Věra rarely left anymore. The walls felt tighter. The rooms felt smaller. And Johan… Johan moved through the house like a ghost, silent and ever-present, even when she could not see him. He came and went without explanation, never offering details about where he had been. She had stopped asking. What was the point? What good were answers when the truth was far more terrifying? She no longer scolded him, no longer tried to make sense of his actions. She had surrendered. Not because she wanted to. But because she had no strength left to fight. Věra had always avoided conversations about Johan with the townspeople. But that didn’t mean they weren’t talking. She could hear it in the way people hesitated before speaking to her. In the way their eyes lingered too long when she passed by. There were rumors. Whispers about her son, about the way he carried himself, the way people changed when they were around him. And then there were the more unsettling murmurs. The ones that spoke of his birth. The strange circumstances surrounding it. The storm that had raged through the countryside that night, shaking the very foundation of their home. The eerie silence when Johan had come into the world, the quiet cries and no desperate gasps for breath. Just stillness. The midwife who had been there had spoken of it once, years ago, after too much wine. "The boy never cried," she had whispered. "Not once. Just stared." As if he had already seen the world for what it was. As if he had already understood everything. Věra had tried to ignore these whispers. But she could not ignore the weight of them. Because deep in her heart, she, too, had wondered. Had Johan ever been a child? Or had he been something else all along? It was late when Věra found it. She hadn’t been looking for it. She hadn’t even known it existed. She had been searching through an old box, filled with remnants of a life that no longer felt like her own. And there, buried beneath the weight of forgotten memories, was a photograph. A single, faded image. A man, tall and dark-haired. His face was sharp, his expression unreadable. And his eyes. They were Johan’s. A chill crawled down Věra’s spine as she stared at the photo. She had never shown Johan a picture of his father. She had never spoken of him. And yet, here he was, staring back at her from the past, as though waiting for her to finally see him. Her hands trembled. She closed the box with a quiet snap, as if sealing something away. As if hiding the truth from herself. Věra sat awake that night, unable to sleep. The photograph haunted her. It sat heavy in her mind, pressing against her thoughts, filling her with an unease she could not shake. She had spent years convincing herself that Johan was simply different. That he had been born into unfortunate circumstances, that his coldness, his intelligence, his unnatural stillness were all explainable. But now, she was no longer sure. Was he merely a product of misfortune? Or was there something else? Something darker? She could not bring herself to ask him. She would not ask him. Because if she did, if she dared to confront him with that photograph, she was afraid of what he might say. Johan never spoke or even asked of his father. Most children, at some point, sought to understand where they came from. They asked about their lineage, their family, the pieces of themselves they could not yet comprehend. Johan did not care. He had no curiosity about his origins. No need to connect with something that had come before him. He only cared about what lay ahead. About what he could create. About the future he was shaping with his own hands. Věra no longer knew what to do. She no longer knew if there was anything to be done. Johan had slipped beyond her reach, beyond anyone’s reach. She had once thought she could save him. That if she just tried hard enough, she could pull him back from the darkness that had begun to consume him. But now… Now, she wasn’t even sure if he had ever been in the light to begin with. Perhaps he had always been this way. Perhaps the boy she thought she had loved had never truly existed at all. And perhaps, she had been living with a stranger all along. The next morning, Johan sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea. His posture was relaxed, his face calm, as if nothing in the world could ever trouble him. Věra watched him from across the room, silent. She thought of the photograph. She thought of the man with the cold, piercing eyes. And she thought of the boy who sat before her now. Her son. Or was he? Her lips parted, the question forming before she could stop it. But then— Johan looked at her. And she froze. His gaze was light, almost amused. As if he already knew what she was going to ask. As if he already knew everything. Věra closed her mouth. Turned away. And said nothing. Because in that moment, she realized something. It did not matter who Johan’s father was. It did not matter where he had come from. Because whatever he was, whoever he was, he did not belong to her. And he never had.