The weeks crept by, slow and hazy.

A routine settled in—my parents bickered daily over who got to tuck me into the crib. Apparently, being the quiet baby made me the favorite. I didn’t cry unless I needed something. And even then, I kept it civil.

My sister?
Not so much.

If lungs were muscles, she was jacked. Morning, noon, and especially night—she wailed. Okay, maybe not nonstop, but it sure felt like it.

I made it my mission to observe, to listen. And over time, I started picking up on the basics of language:
Words. Tones. Reactions.

Names, too.
My mother: Agatha.
My father: Erik.
My sister: Calista.
And me… Kam.
Family name: Foraster.

The early weeks blurred into months.

Then came my first major milestone: crawling.
Fast crawling, to be exact. So fast, Mom didn’t have time to baby-proof anything.

Not that she had to worry—I wasn’t your average lamp-toppling toddler. I had standards. I used my newfound mobility to escape Calista’s ear-splitting shrieks. She was still confined to the crib while I made my great escapes into quieter corners of the house.

They say babies’ brains are like sponges.
Mine? Industrial-grade.

With the occasional assist from Mom’s baby books—when Calista wasn’t screeching over them—I was absorbing the local language at a remarkable pace. I could follow most conversations now, even if a few words still slipped past me.

Our house wasn’t big. Four rooms on a single floor. Built from dull grey bricks and aged wood, with steel frames reinforcing the windows. Nothing luxurious. From day one, it was obvious I hadn’t been reborn into wealth.

Dirt poor, actually.
Not that it was unfamiliar—my last life wasn’t exactly gilded either.

Outside, winter ruled. Snow blanketed the ground like a second skin. The cold bit through the air and into the walls, ever-present. Our white hair and pale blue eyes almost seemed designed for this world—like we were born from the snow itself.

In my old life, that kind of look would’ve taken hair dye and colored contacts. Evolution? Coincidence? Who knows.

Then came the big day.
My first birthday.

I’d been practicing something in secret—something big. I’d already taken my first steps a few days earlier, but today felt like the right time for my grand debut.

“Mama, look!” I chirped.

Even after a full year, the baby voice still made my skin crawl.

Agatha practically squealed. “Erik! Erik, get in here! Look at your son!”

My father stumbled in, still tugging his pants up. “Well, would you look at the little guy go!”

I toddled toward them, unsteady but determined, their faces lit up like I’d just brought home a trophy. They clapped. They laughed. They saw me.

And for a moment—just a fleeting one—I felt it.

Praise.

It wrapped around me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed.

So this... this is what it feels like to be wanted?

But of course, the moment didn’t last.

Calista, true to form, somehow managed to get a splinter and exploded into tears.

Spotlight stolen.

Thanks, sis.