Time pressed forward, relentless and unwavering. By now, Stephen was eight months old. He had grown stronger, his movements more deliberate, his awareness sharper. Crawling had become second nature, and though standing was still an elusive goal, he could pull himself up with determination that surprised even him.
The world continued to widen, its colors more vivid, its sounds more distinct. He found himself drawn to the little things—the texture of the grass beneath his fingers, the way the wind danced through the trees, and, most of all, the endless stretch of blue above.
The sun still reigned as his greatest comfort. His love for it had not waned. If anything, it had intensified. He had become a fixture in the backyard, bundled in soft clothes, soaking in the warmth with a contentment that left his family amused.
"He's part plant," Mark declared one afternoon, watching Stephen lay on the blanket, arms spread wide to embrace the rays.
Their mother chuckled, adjusting the sunhat perched on Stephen's head. "He just likes the warmth."
Mark scrunched his nose. "But why?"
Stephen wished he could answer. If he had the words, he might have said that it felt right. That the sunlight soothed something deep within him, something primal. Instead, he simply cooed in response, causing Mark to groan dramatically.
"Ugh, I can't wait till he talks."
_ _ ♛ _ _
Nights were different. The stars had become another fascination, though they lacked the sun's comforting embrace. When the house quieted and the air grew cool, he would stare up at them, mesmerized.
His mother had begun taking him outside before bedtime, wrapped in a blanket, whispering softly about constellations and distant places he didn't yet understand.
"See that one?" she said one night, pointing skyward. "That's Orion. One day, when you're bigger, we'll go to a planetarium and see the stars up close."
Stephen blinked, the words settling into him. He didn't know what a planetarium was, but if it meant more stars, more sky, he wanted to go.
Mark, ever curious, often joined these nighttime excursions, lying beside them, staring at the sky as if trying to decipher its secrets.
"Do you think Dad's been to space?" he asked one night, his voice quieter than usual.
Their mother hesitated before answering. "I think he's seen a lot of things."
Mark hummed, dissatisfied but unwilling to press further. Stephen, despite his limited understanding, sensed something in that pause. Something unspoken.
_ _ ♛ _ _
The weeks that followed brought change. His legs were stronger now, and though he couldn't walk, he could pull himself to his feet. The house had become an endless challenge, every surface something to be conquered.
His father had taken notice.
One evening, as Stephen gripped the coffee table, wobbling but determined, his father knelt beside him, watching closely.
"You're persistent," he murmured, eyes sharp, thoughtful. "That's good."
Stephen looked up at him, unblinking. There was something in his father's tone, something measuring. He had noticed it before—the way his father observed him, as if waiting for something.
Stephen didn't know what it was. But he had time to find out.
_ _ ♛ _ _
The backyard had become his domain. The garden, a place of exploration. Mark was still his constant, though his impatience had only grown.
"Come on," he huffed one afternoon, holding out a toy. "Just walk already."
Stephen, gripping the edge of the picnic table, gave his brother a look that needed no words.
Mark groaned. "Fine. Be a baby."
Their mother, listening nearby, laughed softly. "He is a baby, Mark."
Mark crossed his arms, pouting. "Yeah, but he's been a baby forever."
Stephen smirked internally. If only Mark knew how fast time really moved.
_ _ ♛ _ _
More and more, their father began joining them outside. He would sit on the porch, arms crossed, watching them play. At first, he only observed, but then he started engaging more. When Stephen would attempt to crawl across the grass, his father would lift him up, adjusting his stance, setting him down more firmly.
"You're learning fast," he noted one evening, holding Stephen's small hands as he stood, swaying but determined.
Mark ran up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Dad, when do you think he'll walk?"
Their father smirked. "When he's ready."
Mark groaned. "That's forever from now."
"Patience, Mark."
"I hate patience."
Stephen found himself enjoying these small interactions. He had feared his father at first—feared what he might be. But he was not some distant, unfeeling figure. He was present. He was trying.
_ _ ♛ _ _
The sun set, casting golden hues across the yard. Stephen sat in his mother's lap, watching as Mark ran circles around them. His father sat beside them, leaning back against the steps of the porch.
"You really like the sun, huh?" his father mused, glancing down at him.
Stephen blinked up at him, reaching out a tiny hand toward the fading light. His father chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You're going to be strong one day."
Stephen didn't understand the weight behind those words. But one day, he would.
For now, he simply basked in the warmth, safe in the embrace of his family.
And that was enough.
End of Chapter 4