Chapter 3

  ? Happy Birthday ?

  Montivara Mountains - Afternoon

  Alex stood, staring at the door, jaw tense.

  He turned to his parents—his breath shallow, chest rising and falling in confusion and panic. "Hey! What is this about?! Who is he?!"

  Elena tried to hold him tighter, arms wrapped protectively around his shoulders—but he pulled back just enough to look at her.

  Gilbert watched his son from across the room, a deep, gnawing sorrow hollowing out his face. "Answer me! What was this about? Where is he taking me?!"

  "Don't worry," Elena tried to soothe him, "He's not taking you anywhere. I won't allow it."

  She turned toward her husband, trying to steady her voice with false certainty. "Right, Gilbert?"

  But Gilbert's fists were clenched. Tears stained his face, but he wouldn't wipe them. He wasn't looking at either of them—he was staring through the floorboards, as if something far beneath was pulling him under.

  Elena saw it: the look she'd feared since the knock on the door. The look of defeat.

  Gilbert forced the words out. "Of course not. He won't lay a hand on Alex."

  Elena turned quickly to Alex, brushing his hair back as if she could protect him by just holding him tighter. "See? Nothing to worry about, my boy. Everything will be alright."

  But Alex looked at them both—his mother's trembling, his father's silence—and something inside him crumbled. "Please... talk to me."

  Gilbert finally spoke—voice low, like a confession pulled from a wound.

  "We never told you... because we thought we'd never have to."

  He walked toward his son and wife, and in his gaze flickered the memories of a lifetime: the day his boy was born, the day he married this woman, the joys this village had given him—and the darker memories he longed to bury, secrets he prayed his son would never need to know. Now that boy stood before him, his mother’s eyes in his own, wide with fear and worry—not only for himself, but for them as well.

  "We weren't born in this village. We came here to hide. We were from the capital—Portenzo City— your mother and I."

  He let the words sink in, and remembered the one man that highlights those bad memories and just came to revive them again.

  "And he... Dominick... he was part of our past. A dangerous part."

  "...Criminals?" Alex muttered.

  "They're worse than that," Elena whispered, her voice breaking. "Your father used to be a doctor. He treated the worst of them—people with blood on their hands. He tried to do good... but they don't let you leave."

  “So... Why would they come looking for him now?” Alex asked, his voice tight with desperation, hungry for answers.

  “Because they’re twisted,” Elena replied, her body trembling with anger and grudging fear. “They never forget. They never forgive. We did nothing… and yet, they came.” Her voice began to crack under the weight of it all.

  Gilbert closed his eyes, as if trying to block out her pain—his own pain. "Elena... I have to do this"

  The mother gasped.

  "Do what?" Alex asked sharply.

  "I'm going with him. It's me they want. Not your mother. Not you."

  Alex's eyes widened in horror, imagining the house empty without his father—the mornings without his familiar scoldings, the hikes up the hills that he had once groaned through, the picnics in the sun that he had complained about but secretly loved. A hollow ache spread through him as he realized how much life would feel smaller, quieter, and lonelier without those moments he had taken for granted.

  Gilbert forced a small, fake smile. "Don't worry, young man. I'll go and talk to them. It'll be fine and they'll leave us alone."

  He paused—just for a breath. "But... if I don't come back, for any reason... take care of each other, alright?"

  "Absolutely not!" Elena grabbed his sleeve. "There has to be another way! There has to! You said we'd never go back—you said—!"

  "This is all my fault," Gilbert whispered. "He's right. I brought this on us... Let me fix this."

  He stood there for a second —just a second—his shoulders stiff, lips pressed thin.

  Then his breath hitched.

  A shallow gasp, like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

  "Gilbert?" Elena called.

  He stumbled back a step. Hand clutched his chest—tight, sudden. His fingers twitched like they were trying to grasp something that wasn't there. He blinked fast, eyes unfocused.

  "I—" His voice thinned. "I just need a second..."

  Gilbert's legs buckled. He dropped to one knee, then to both—hands now pressed to the floor, his whole frame shaking.

  He was gasping, hard, erratic. His face drenched in cold sweat.

  "This is on me— everything is on me—"

  Elena knelt beside him, one hand to his cheek, the other trying to steady his arm. But he wasn't looking at her. He wasn't looking at anything.

  His breath spiraled now, rapid and shallow, chest rising in sharp jolts. The panic took hold like a vice.

  "Panic—he's panicking. My dear—! You're safe. You're safe, it's over—"

  But it wasn't. Not for him. His body trembled violently, and then— He collapsed. Fainted, like a cord had been cut. His body fell to the floor, limp.

  "Father!" Alex was at his side in a second, hands gripping his shoulder. "He's not breathing right—move—help me turn him, Mother—"

  They rolled him gently onto his side. Alex checked his pulse—relieved to find it still beating, fast but steady.

  Elena's hand trembled on his forehead. "He hasn't had an attack like this in years..."

  Alex stared down at his father's pale face, every wall in his heart crashing down one by one. This wasn't just fear. It was collapse. Trauma dragging him under like a tide.

  And suddenly—sickeningly—Alex realized: His father was never going to survive going back.

  Not to them.

  Not to him.

  An hour had passed since the panic attack.

  Gilbert is laying unconscious in bed, breath shallow, brow glistening with fevered sweat. His face was pale, his body limp beneath the worn blanket. A candle flickered nearby, casting shadows across the room.

  Alex sat beside him, elbows on his knees, watching his father’s chest rise and fall. Elena stood a few feet away, arms crossed tightly, her gaze fixed on her husband—but her mind was miles away.

  A long silence stretched between them.

  “Mother.”

  Elena turned slowly. Exhaustion lined her face, but her eyes sharpened at his tone.

  “Don’t say it.”

  The son's hands fidgeted at his knees.

  “I’ll go.”

  The words she had dreaded.

  “No. This is not up for discussion.”

  The reply came at once, firm and final.

  Alex rose his voice, desperate, begging for an alternative.

  “Then what—just throw him to them? Look at him, he can’t even stand!”

  Elena was still observing Gilbert's condition, but at the same time... was afraid of looking into her son's eyes, afraid that one look might make her even consider letting him go.

  “You don’t know who these men are—”

  “I don’t have to.” The boy paused, taking a slow, steadying breath. “Trust me. I’ll keep my head down. I’ll do what they ask. And I’ll come back.”

  Her expression shifted—not softened, just heavier.

  “Alex...” Her voice cracked, carrying both warning and fear. She shook slightly, as if trying to physically brace herself against the weight of his words.

  The son flinched. Not at the volume, but at the pain beneath it.

  “Once you enter their world… there’s no coming back,” she said softly, but her words were steel. “I can’t let you go in there. Not you.”

  “Please. Don't push. No means no.”

  Elena looked back at Gilbert and laid a hand on his cheek, a quiet reminder that she was still here.

  “When your father wakes… we run again.”

  Alex knew there is just... nowhere to run to.

  “Run where?”

  “ALEX—!” Elena snapped, not being able to hear another single word.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  But—

  “Shh…”

  Elena froze at the way it came—gentle.

  Not a boy rebelling, but a son protecting.

  “Let him sleeeep.” Alex whispered, shoulders drawn together as he braced himself for the shouting. But all his concern and worries... were on the man laying unconscious on the couch.

  She stared, taking in his stillness, his quiet resolve. Who wouldn’t be terrified at the thought of living among criminals, warned endlessly by their parents? Who would willingly accept separation from a loving father and caring mother at his age? Yet here he was, shushing Elena with a careful tone, mindful of his father’s rest. The sight crushed her more than she expected—the child was protecting his parent when he should be fearing for himself.

  “Mother.” Her son turned to her. “What do you see when you look at me?”

  Elena hesitated, looked at him, trying to figure out what he means by the question.

  “You’re... a boy, Alex.”

  “I know that.” A soft, playful chuckle.

  “But what else do you see?” His voice held a quiet, unshakable resolve. “Am I lying? You always told me you could tell when I lie."

  "So tell me, Mother. Am I lying when I say I’m coming back?”

  Elena tried to answer… but nothing came.

  “See? I’m telling the truth.” His smile widened, steady but gentle. “Let me do this. For all of us.”

  Alex’s eyes held a quiet determination, calm yet unyielding, the weight of his choice settling over him like a mantle he refused to cast off.

  “For you, for Father, and me.”

  A long silence stretched between them. Elena stared, lips parted, trembling. Her mind and heart warred at the sight of her son offering to shoulder what no child should bear.

  “No…” she whispered, shaking her head, a sob catching in her throat. Her shoulders hunched forward, body folding inward as the words escaped.

  “Please.” He reached out slightly, but only with his eyes, pleading, as if offering her strength she couldn’t see yet.

  Then—

  Tears slipped down her cheeks as she folded her arms over her chest, trying to hold herself together. Her hand covered her mouth, as if to stop the words from escaping. She wanted to chain him to the house. She wanted to go herself. Anything.

  But then she saw his pleading expression—she understood.

  His eyes said it all.

  Finally—

  “…Go… Pack…”

  A whisper, barely audible.

  But the boy heard it.

  Alex rose slowly. A tear ran down his cheek as he looked at her one last time, then quietly slipped out of the room.

  Dominick stood on a rise just outside the village, a cigar burning slowly between his fingers. The mountains stretched around him, jagged and immovable, their peaks catching the hard light of day. Below, the village sat quiet and small, the houses clustered like stones scattered by hand.

  He drew in a lungful of smoke, held it, and let it drift out in a slow stream. For a while he watched the place in silence—the steady roofs, the narrow lanes, the way it seemed untouched by the dirt and noise of the city. Peaceful, yes. Almost too peaceful.

  When the cigar burned down, he dropped it to the ground, crushed it under his boot, and adjusted his hat. Time was up. He started down the path toward the village.

  The houses grew clearer as he walked, their walls patched but sturdy, their yards neat. People had already stopped what they were doing, standing still with buckets or tools in hand, their eyes fixed on him. The weight of their stares followed him from one step to the next. Stronger than in the city, sharper, but he didn’t care.

  Up ahead, a few villagers moved door to door, knocking quietly, trading words he couldn’t quite hear. Dominick’s eyes flicked to them, registering every movement, every exchange, before shifting back to the road.

  He kept walking.

  Alex stood with his pack slung over one shoulder. His clothes were clean, his face composed, but his eyes—tired and heavy—carried the weight of everything he was leaving behind. A short distance away, Elena stood near the doorway, hands clasped tightly in front of her.

  None of them spoke.

  They just looked at each other.

  There was no wave. No nod. Just silence stretched thin between them, sorrow drawn out like a thread about to snap.

  Then came noise. Distant at first—shouting, voices rising.

  Elena frowned. "What is going on?"

  Alex stepped to the window and peeked outside. "It's the villagers."

  The mother and son opened the door and stepped out. A crowd had gathered between the cottage and the dirt road, blocking the black carriage and the two dark horses beside it. Dominick stood next to the carriage, calm as ever, hands in his coat pockets. His eyes swept over the crowd without concern. Farmers, mothers, old men with canes—some held rakes, others sticks. One woman gripped a frying pan. Their faces were pale, but they stood together, fear be damned.

  "Back off!" Uncle Ruth shouted.

  "Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of!" someone else yelled.

  "We'll tear you apart if you touch this family!" another villager cried.

  Dominick stood like a statue, his eyes tracing every movement with a cool, indifferent precision that hinted at both amusement and contempt.

  Then, slowly, he turned and walked to his carriage.

  The villagers murmured. A few even cheered.

  "He's leaving!" An old man called out.

  "Damn right! We scared him off!"

  But Elena didn't join in their relief. Her face had gone white.

  Dominick came back. This time, he was holding a shotgun—long, polished, and far too casual in one hand.

  "Stop it, Dominick!" Elena cried.

  He didn't answer. He simply raised the barrel and fired into the sky.

  The blast echoed across the hills.

  Birds scattered from the trees.

  The villagers flinched.

  Then silence.

  Dominick lowered the shotgun and pointed it toward the crowd. No words. Just waited. The villagers flinched, some backing away a few steps. But most remained. Their faces were pale, drawn tight with fear. Yet still—they stood. Pitchforks. Shovels. Rakes. One held a cooking pan. None of them were truly armed. But none of them moved.

  Dominick exhaled. A long, slow breath.

  A ripple of tension passed through the villagers. Murmurs. Sharp gasps. One older man took a bold step forward, mouth opening to shout. A boy raised his arm, fingers curled around a rock.

  Dominick's eyes narrowed. His finger tightened slightly.

  "DOMINICK! NO!" Elena cried.

  Then—

  "Everyone, stop! Please!" Alex shoved his way forward.

  His voice was rough, worn—but steady. The villagers turned, confusion flashing across their expressions.

  "I'm going with him," Alex said. "It's okay."

  A ripple of gasps ran through the crowd—shocked whispers, hurried questions, and wide-eyed stares. Faces turned toward one another, confusion and fear written in every line.

  "Where is he taking you, Alex?" uncle Ruth cried.

  "This is a dangerous man, son! He has a gun!" another old man shouted.

  He moved past them now, standing between the villagers and Dominick. He raised his hands, nervously, shaking... but talking peacefully. "This is... only temporary," Alex said, voice ringing out. "I am coming back."

  Then Elena's voice came again, quieter now, but firm. "Let me speak with him."

  Dominick just gave a single nod, without looking her way.

  The crowd parted for her like mist around a ship. She moved slowly, each step deliberate, until she stood before her son.

  Her voice was low… but it carried the weight of thunder. "Listen to me, Alex."

  "That man— he’s not just dangerous."

  "He’s a devil."

  "Survive. That’s all I ask."

  Her hands gripped his.

  "No pride. No heroics. Survive—and come home."

  She looked up at him, and her breath caught.

  "Just remember... you're not alone."

  Alex took her hands in both of his. His eyes were clear.

  "Understood," he said softly.

  Elena stared at him. For a long moment, she said nothing.

  Then, barely above a whisper—"Oh, God... you're already not a child anymore."

  "Finally you get it." Alex grinned.

  He stepped away from her. Turned toward Dominick. One last glance behind him—at the crowd, at Elena, at home—and he walked to the waiting carriage.

  Dominick hadn't moved. He stepped aboard first without a word.

  Alex was about to follow when—

  "Gilbert!" Elena gasped.

  Alex spun around.

  The man was at the doorway of the house, barely upright, one arm clutching his chest, the other holding the frame like a lifeline. He looked like he shouldn't be standing. But he was.

  Alex rushed toward him. Elena was already there, supporting him.

  Gilbert tried to push them away with a weak hand. His voice came rough and broken.

  "Why..." he said, letting out a cracked laugh.

  "Why, Alex... Why are you—"

  "Always there... before me... just like the chores..."

  Alex choked back a sob. The words were almost a joke, but beneath the humor lay admiration, guilt, helplessness, and above all— shame.

  Gilbert's smile faded as he fumbled into his pocket. With trembling fingers, he pulled out a small, round wooden token, with a bear shape carved in it, and pressed it into his son's hand.

  "Happy birthday, Alex..." he rasped.

  The boy's eyes widened. Elena put a hand on her mouth...

  “Your mother… she got you a cake… we were supposed to celebrate…” His breath hitched as he looked at his son, almost pleading to be scolded, to be insulted, even to be struck. “But look at me… helpless… as always…”

  "I crafted this for you... a lucky charm," Tears kept running Gilbert's face.

  "How... pathetic of me." He gave a weak laugh. "Not much of a present, right?"

  "NEVER SAY THAT!"

  Alex's voice rang out.

  Sharp.

  Fierce.

  For the first time in his life, Alex raised his voice at his parents—and the entire village froze.

  Even Elena stared, wide-eyed.

  "Don't say that again... ever." Alex said, breath trembling. "That you're pathetic. You or your gift."

  "Don’t ever make light of it."

  He clutched the token to his chest.

  "If I lose this, I lose myself."

  Then...

  The boy pulled them both into a hug.

  For a long moment, they held each other like time could be stopped—if only they held tight enough.

  The villagers wiping at their eyes. Mothers were hanging on their children. Old men and women sobbing. None of them could handle the sight.

  Except Dominick who just watched from the carriage, stone faced.

  Alex finally released his parents, stepping back just enough to press their faces into his memory one last time. He drank in their features, memorizing every line, every expression, before finally turning his gaze toward the villagers.

  "Uncle Ruth! Sella ! Benno ! Jori ! Everyone! Thank you!" His voice cracked, but he forced a smile.

  “Come back, you damn show-off!” Benno screamed, though his fists clenched tightly at his sides betrayed more than anger—beneath the bravado, he secretly looked up to the boy, too proud to admit it even to himself.

  “We will play next time, Alex!” Jori added, tears streaking his cheeks. He kicked at the dirt, his voice wavering with regret. He wished he hadn’t teased him or called him names—seeing him now, stepping into the world so fearlessly, he realized he was everything he had ever wanted to be.

  Sella stood apart, silent, tears streaming down her cheeks. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, her heart twisting with the ache of a feeling she had never dared to voice.

  Alex turned, walking toward the carriage, and climbed up beside Dominick without sparing him a glance. He paused for a heartbeat, one foot braced on the step, and looked back. Faces blurred in the distance—sad, tearful, frozen in stillness.

  “Hey!” he shouted, forcing a grin through the ache in his chest. “This isn’t a funeral!” His voice cracked just slightly, but he didn’t let it linger.

  He waved energetically. “Come on! Give me some cheers! Waves or something!”

  A hush fell.

  Then, slowly, a child lifted a tentative hand. An old woman chuckled through her tears, shaking her head. Another man raised both arms, calling back a small, shaky cheer.

  Alex’s grin widened, a spark of warmth cutting through the heaviness.

  "He better come back in one piece, you freakin' tall blonde bastard!" someone yelled at Dominick.

  "We're keeping your spot at the harvest table!" another added.

  "Take care, Alex!" another kid shouted.

  Everyone in the village loved this kid... The laughter mixed with cries. Dozens of hands waved now, some trembling, some strong.

  Elena stood still, lips pressed together, trying not to break. "He really grew up when I wasn't looking", she thought.

  Alex waved wildly, smiling as big as he could. "I'll see you all later! Take care!"

  He held on to the sound of their voices, the rising noise, the warmth. He gave them hope—even if he had to lie to himself to do it.

  Then, one by one, the village slipped away. Trees thickened along the road, obscuring the path, and soon even the roof of the farmhouse vanished. Goats in the pasture froze in the distance, people waving faintly, the edges of their figures softening into the haze. Each familiar sight—the barn, the fences, the dusty lanes—was swallowed by the horizon, leaving only the ache of memory behind.

  Alex’s hand slowly dropped to his side, wind tugging his hair. It struck him then how much he had taken for granted—the hikes with his father he sometimes grew bored of, the farm work he carried out with love yet routine, the way his mother’s soup warmed him on cold evenings, her playful high-fives. Even the creak of his own mattress, the comfort of his room, all of it—gone. Just like that.

  The smile faded.

  A tear rolled down his cheek.

  Then another.

  He didn't make a sound. He didn't wipe them away. He just breathed, quiet and steady.

  Beside him, Dominick said nothing. But his eyes flicked once toward the boy at his side.

  Behind them, in the now-empty house, Gilbert collapsed against Elena.

  "He... he's just a boy..." he sobbed.

  Elena caught him. Held him. Her voice was calm—but trembled like something cracking deep inside.

  "He will be fine," she said. "We raised him well."

  Her hands clenched tight.

  "They won't corrupt him."

  "They won't reach him."

  "They won't harm him."

  Her voice steeled.

  "Our boy won't lose."

  Gilbert looked at her, eyes red, his chest tight with raw, aching pain.

  But the certainty in her voice—spoken as if carved into stone—made him nod. He believed her.

  And as they stepped into the house, Elena’s strength finally gave way. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, shoulders convulsing with quiet sobs.

  He was gone.

  The house felt hollow, stripped of warmth and life, emptier than Gilbert had ever known. Every familiar corner seemed to mourn his absence.

  Far ahead, on the road bathed in fading sun, Alex sat in silence. The token gripped tight in his pocket. The wind cool against his face.

  He didn't look back.

  But he didn't forget.

  And thus began his journey, in a completely different world.

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