The Baker's son: "Joshua" (Chapter 2)
With multiple heartbeats trying their best to sync together…
I suddenly saw a rocky path beneath my feet.
But I didn’t want to move. Because the sky above me it's pulsating—twitching—shifting in time with thousands of heartbeats. Somehow looked mesmerising.
Then, it stopped.
And there was only one heartbeat left.
It echoed in the silence.
---
“Grandma Ro!! Grandma Ro!! My dad is making some delicious—”
The voice is like sunlight cracking through clouds.
Bright. Familiar. Distant. And then—silence.
Flashes of memory.
Voices, disjointed.
Laughter. Screaming.
None of them makes any sense.
Your body doesn't feel like your own. Your limbs stretch too far. Your skin is too tight.
The warmth of the afternoon has vanished, replaced by a cold, alien hum.
What is happening? Where am I?
The world jerks forward in broken frames—like an old film reel melting at the edges.
You're not in your body. Not fully.
The cottage’s garden fence sways in and out of vision. Its white wood flutters with shadow.
The wind smells of jasmine and dirt.
And something else.
Something ****.
Another flash. Gone.
“NYUN! No, no—please, not my baby—NYUUUN!”
Your vision pulses, blacking in and out to the rhythm of a heartbeat.
Slowly, you begin to make out the images as your focus sharpens.
“Nyun.”
Why... am I saying my name?
“Nyun.”
You try to speak, but your thoughts won't reach your tongue.
“NYUUN!”
Huh—what...?
That was my voice. Wasn’t it?
You’re looking at yourself.
“What are you doing spacing out like that? We’re going to the market early today, don’t you remem—?”
Your hands—her hands—reach out and wrap around the child before her.
And suddenly, you feel it—her worry, her relief, her fierce, trembling love.
Before you can process it, the world shatters again.
Time stutters. Skips. Jumps.
“Well, well, if it isn't Ro Madenza—Queen of Critique and Connoisseur of Sweet Things.”
Now you’re taller.
Stronger.
Your back is straight like a soldier’s spine.
“Savage, as always. But I’ll take the bruise with pride.”
No, wait—
That voice. Chief Mo?
Everything floods in at once—sights, sounds, sensations that don’t belong to you.
You’re unravelling.
Stop. Stop. Stop. This isn't me!
The voices blur. Then the laughter disappears.
And something else rises in its place.
First one.
Then two.
Then hundreds.
Tears trail down your cheeks as you chew the last bite of mooncake.
Your hands tremble. You stand.
Then you run.
“Nyun!”
Ro’s voice behind you, reaching—
“Stop!”
But it didn't belong to Ro.
It was Josh. Screaming at something...
And standing next to him—
It.
The thing was wrong.
Not just in form, but in presence.
It twisted his legs—a snap like dry branches—then flung him like a rag into a crumbling house.
Stone crashed.
Wood split.
Blood misted like a water balloon bursting across the garden.
Loud, heavy, sloshing —imitating what is supposed to be walking.
Then came the crunch.
It gnawed on his head, chewing through the skull like brittle shell.
What was left wasn’t a person anymore. Just meat.
And in that moment, something ancient looked through your bones.
Not of this world. Not meant for this world.
Your body began to tear.
You could feel every nerve peel back.
Your chest collapsed inward.
You felt your head last. Floating, somehow.
Arms.
Wrapping around what was left of you.
Not quite alive.
Not quite gone.
There was no strength left to cry.
And then—memories.
But… whose?
------------
The woods were quiet that night, the moon high and tender, spilling silver light through the canopy in scattered waves. At the base of an old tree—gnarled with age, hollowed in its middle—a child was crying.
She could not have been more than three. Her skin shimmered like frost kissed by starlight, pale and fine as pearl dust. Barefoot. Trembling. She clutched a handful of torn wildflowers like they meant something. Her cries echoed too clearly in the stillness, too soft and haunting for any wild creature to respond.
Then came the rustle of cloth—soft, deliberate steps pressing through leaf and moss.
A woman appeared from between the trees, tall and slender, draped in ceremonial robes that glimmered with faint embroidery of sunbursts and feathers. Her hair was pulled into a tight knot streaked with grey, her presence steeped in grace, like she had not walked into the forest but had always been there.
“Well, well,” she murmured, crouching slowly, hands held out as if approaching a wounded fawn. “Aren’t you an adorable little being...”
The child blinked up at her, startled into silence by the tone. But it lasted only a heartbeat before she cried louder—foreign language flooding out in babble, thick with panic.
“Oh, goodness me,” the woman chuckled, soft and amused. She scooped the child up with practiced arms and held her close. “There, there now. No one’s going to hurt you. I’ve got you.”
She hummed a lullaby, one the child had never heard before but understood as if it were written into her bones. The woman rocked her gently.
“I would love to be your mother,” she whispered, brushing curls away from the girl’s face. “But I’m far too old for that. A grandmother, perhaps? Yes... yes, that will do just fine.”
She tilted her head, smiling with sudden purpose.
Jin was the first soul to live beneath Ro Madenza’s roof, and she grew quickly. Ro taught her to speak, to count, to carry a basket and sort herbs by scent and root. Jin followed her everywhere—into the village, through the wildflower meadows, across stone bridges softened by age.
She was a strange child. Not strange in manner, but in presence. Villagers whispered that her skin seemed to glow in low light, that her hair never tangled no matter the wind. Some said she brought luck. Others watched their words.
She once found a baby bird tangled in nettle, its wing bent and its eyes wild with pain. She reached to calm it, but thorns caught her wrist—left a clean, stinging cut. The bird flailed into her hand, and a single drop of her blood fell onto its feathers.
The wing straightened. The bird blinked and stilled, whole again, as if fear had never touched it. Jin stared at her hand, then the bird, then hurried to let it go before anyone could see.
She told no one. Not even Ro.
But that night, she sat up long after the house had gone quiet, candlelight flickering against stone walls. She pricked her finger again. Watched the bead of blood shimmer in the air. Pressed it to a dried petal—nothing. A cracked seed—nothing. A bruised mint leaf—nothing.
From that point on, she practiced in silence.
She took injured insects gently from window sills, hiding them under her bed until she could test what her blood would do. A broken moth wing mended clean. A crushed beetle twitched, stood, and walked again. It terrified her. And thrilled her.
She began keeping a journal beneath her floorboards. Lists. Diagrams. Her own blood marked the margins. She noticed limits—wounds had to be fresh, the intent clear. One drop did little, two risked a strange dizziness. Her skin healed fast, too fast. She started bandaging fake cuts just to look normal.
There were nights she stood in front of the mirror, whispering: What am I? The mirror never answered.
When Nyun arrived—small, solemn, eyes too sharp for someone so young. The boy wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t meet her gaze. There was something primal in the way he shrank from her, as if he saw something others couldn’t. Jin tried to be kind, patient—but the boy never truly saw her.
She tried not to let it hurt.
Instead, she found joy in Joshua—the son of a new baker in town. He was her age, warm-hearted and open in ways Nyun had never been. Jin liked how his eyes lit up when she appeared. She liked the way he listened, really listened, even if they were just talking about pastries.
He was younger by a handful of years, though only Jin ever seemed to care.
She would follow Ro to town under the pretense of shopping, but always slipped away to Joshua’s father’s bakery. He’d wait for her with flour on his sleeves and a crooked smile. They never said anything aloud. They didn’t need to.
The older boys noticed. Jealous of Jin’s attention, of Joshua’s gentle ease, they teased him cruelly. On one such day, they cornered him—pushed him down, laughed as blood streaked his lip.
Jin arrived too late to stop it, but not too late to fix it.
She knelt beside him without a word, pricked her fingertip with a needle she always carried, and let a single drop of blood fall to his skin.
It shimmered like light through water.
Joshua gasped as the pain vanished, as warmth coursed through his limbs and the wound sealed itself as if it had never existed. The drop of blood evaporated into his palm, leaving no trace—except for the awe in his eyes.
“You can’t tell anyone,” she whispered, voice shaking.
“I won’t,” he said without hesitation. “Not ever.”
“I’ll protect you. Always.”
Blushing, Jin pulled away and ran to Ro, asking to go home.
She no longer cast a reflection.
Not in mirrors. Not in windows. Not even in puddles of water.
Terrified, she hid it. Pulled up her hood whenever she left the house, avoided glass, avoided Ro. She claimed she was cold. Claimed she wanted privacy. Ro worried—but not enough. She chalked it up to growing pains, the way elders sometimes do when they’re too tired to press.
Until the mooncake festival neared.
One morning, Joshua came knocking—muttering politely to Ro that his father was trying a new recipe and wanted her opinion. He didn’t mention Jin at all. Not once. But he lingered on the porch as Ro and Nyun left, pretending to tie his boot, fussing with his sleeve.
Only when their figures had disappeared down the path did he speak—softly, nervously.
“Jin,” he said, not looking at her. “You haven’t been visiting for months. I… I saved something for you.”
He opened his satchel and held out a wrapped pastry—still warm.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but… You don’t have to be alone in it.”
They sat on the steps, saying little. Jin didn’t eat the pastry, but she held it in her lap, grateful for the warmth of it. And of him.
Moments stretched—silent, breathless—as if time itself had paused to listen.
No words were spoken. None were needed. The things they’d both held back for so long hung in the space between them, fragile and trembling.
And when Jin kissed him, it was gentle and slow—like exhaling after holding her breath for years. Like touching something sacred.
They held hands and snuck into the town that afternoon, laughter caught between their fingers like the first drop of rain before a summer storm—uncertain, giddy, and light.
The festival hadn't begun, not truly. The town was in the thick of preparation: crates being hauled from wagons, signs hammered into place, the air full of shouted directions and the sharp clatter of wood on stone. Vendors bustled to set up their stalls, sleeves rolled and brows slick with sweat. Bright fabrics were being strung between posts, half-finished decorations catching in the wind like restless birds. The scent of flour, ink, and cut citrus drifted from open baskets.
Jin’s hood stayed low, shadowing the pale glow of her face, though her eyes stayed alert—soaking in every detail like a memory she was already losing.
Joshua walked close beside her, occasionally bumping her shoulder on accident, then on purpose. She didn’t move away.
They weaved through the workers, ducking through alleyways and dodging ladders. A man shouted after them once, mistaking them for loitering children, but they just laughed and kept running, slipping away like smoke.
In the square, a giant red banner was being lifted into place. It read:
Moonlight Always Finds Home.
The wind caught the corner and nearly dragged it from the ropes.
“Looks like a spell,” Jin murmured, eyes following the bold gold lettering.
“Maybe it is,” Joshua said. “Maybe that’s how they make the moon so big every year.”
She smiled faintly. “You don’t believe that.”
“I believe anything when I’m with you.”
The line should’ve embarrassed her—but it didn’t. Not coming from him. Not with the sun hanging low behind the rooftops and the scent of roasted peanuts drifting from a nearby shop.
They ducked behind the back of the bakery—Joshua’s father’s shop, its chimney coughing smoke—and Jin sat on an overturned crate, pulling her knees up and folding her arms over them.
“I don’t like being seen,” she said quietly.
“You’re with me,” he clarified. “No one else matters.”
He sat beside her. They listened to the hammering, the market carts squeaking over cobblestones, the birds startled from wires by all the noise. Somewhere a dog barked and someone shouted about broken lantern oil. Life moved in a rush around them, but in this small corner, they sat still—just for a moment.
“I miss when we were younger,” Jin said. “Back when... I didn’t worry so much. When you used to give me those half-burnt cookies your dad threw away.”
“They were special,” Joshua said. “Flavored with soot and desperation.”
She chuckled, then looked away, voice softening. “Do you think something’s wrong with me?”
His answer was immediate. “No.”
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“Because I don’t need to. I’ve known you since I was five. You’re still you. Whether or not you... changed”
The sky was beginning to settle—no stars yet, but the blue was deepening, the edges of town starting to blush with early dusk. People were lighting torches to work through the night. A few kids ran past carrying paper parasols—too early, too excited.
“I don’t want to be afraid of myself,” Jin said.
“Then don’t be,” Joshua replied gently. “Let me be afraid for you. That’s what I’m good at.”
She turned to him, startled by the kindness, by the certainty.
Soft. No fanfare. Just the warmth of his mouth, his hand cupping the side of her hood gently, like he was afraid she might vanish.
When they parted, she didn’t run.
“I still have secrets,” she whispered.
“So do I,” he said. “Mine’s that I’ve loved you since the first time you punched that boy for stealing my mooncake.”
She laughed again—a full sound this time—and tucked her face into his shoulder.
The world around them spun and hammered and prepared, but they stayed like that, hidden in the half-light of a town not yet dressed for celebration. And if Jin felt the tremble of something deeper beneath the cobblestones, something stirring in her blood like a thread pulled tight—she said nothing.
Breaking the silent warmth between them, Jin suddenly felt a prickling unease—like cold fingers tracing her spine.
“I should start heading home,” she murmured, pulling slightly away. “Before Ro and Nyun come back…”
Joshua held her hand tighter.
“Wait, let's... I’ll… I’ll walk you home.”
They slipped through the narrow streets as the last gold of the afternoon began to fade. The town still buzzed with pre-festival chaos—vendors shouting, carts creaking, banners half-hung—but it all felt distant now, muffled beneath an invisible veil.
A shadow stepped into their path, too clean, too polished for the dusty alley. Silken shirt, smug grin—Cayden Malrec, son of a local noble. A boy with more coin than conscience. Behind him trailed two of his usual dogs, faces slack with cruel amusement, hands resting on wooden clubs.
“Well, well,” Cayden sneered, eyeing Joshua with practiced disgust. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Jin’s body stiffened. She lowered her hood further, hiding her face. Joshua moved in front of her instinctively, teeth clenched.
Cayden’s voice curled like smoke. “Still clinging to her, are you, bakery boy? Don’t worry—I’ll take good care of her after you’re gone. A pretty girl deserves more than a rat in flour.”
The goons laughed. Jin’s hand trembled in Joshua’s. One of them shifted his club into both palms, not hiding the intent anymore.
“Leave us alone,” Joshua said quietly.
“Or what?” Cayden tilted his head. “You’ll bake me to death?”
Before they could react, one of the brutes lunged, wrenching Jin backward. A thick hand clamped over her mouth. Her muffled scream died behind his fingers as she struggled against his grip.
Joshua stepped forward—fists up, desperate, small. “Let her go!”
“You want her?” Cayden said, eyes gleaming. “Then fight for her. You common boys always dream of being heroes…”
The first blow knocked Joshua to the ground. Then another. Kicks, laughter, splinters of pain. Jin screamed behind the hand. Joshua coughed blood into the dirt.
“Stop it!” she tried to yell. “Please stop!”
The boy she loved—bleeding, bruised, breaking.
Her heart thudded so hard she could hear it in her ears. She wanted to help. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear them apart. She wanted—
The alley went still. Dust hung in the air like ash. Her captor froze mid-motion. And in that dead silence, something looked back at her.
It was not a voice—not really—but it spoke inside her, curling around the core of her being, flipping her inside out.
Jin didn’t nod. She didn’t need to.
The goon holding her exploded, reduced to ribbons of gore that painted the walls red. His blood flowed backward—into her—like smoke being inhaled. Her veins lit with something ancient and furious.
Or rather—it moved with her.
Tendrils of flesh, pulsing and wet, erupted around her like armor. The alley was too small now, her form too massive. The other goons screamed, but their cries ended in crunches and splatter. Bones shattered. Faces torn off mid-scream. Their remains fed the entity—her—a growing mass of human debris and rage.
She didn’t feel fear. Only justice. Only wrath.
He crawled, barely conscious, reaching for her ankle. Blood smeared across his fingers.
“THIS ISN’T YOU! PLEASE...” he sobbed. “STOP!”
The thing that was Jin turned.
It saw him, and it didn’t see him. He was a threat. A witness. A voice of reason trying to drown her fury.
The creature's form warped, tendrils writhing like worms in meat. Eyes blinked open across its hide—not hers—the faces of the dead still twitching, still screaming.
“Nothing,” the entity growled, “can stop me now.”
It seized Joshua by the leg and hurled him—flung like a rag doll into the street. He crashed through a home, rubble swallowing his body in a plume of dust and splintered beams.
Screams erupted as townsfolk noticed the monster for what it was. A living storm of gore, muscle, and hunger.
Joshua’s body crumpled into the debris like a discarded doll, arms twisted unnaturally beneath the shattered wood and brick. A blood smear trailed where his skull struck the edge of a broken beam. He didn’t move.
The creature—no longer Jin, not quite—paused.
Slowly. With terrible intent.
Each step split the ground beneath it. Flesh undulated like muscle being forced to breathe, slick with blood. From her form bloomed fresh tendrils—thick, glistening, hungry.
And everything in her path died.
A vendor trying to crawl away screamed as a tendril skewered his back, lifting him high before tearing him down the middle. His halves twitched once before being consumed—absorbed—by the thing wearing Jin’s grief.
A woman begging for mercy. A child reaching for his mother. A man with a butcher’s knife shouting curses—
Each soul fed her. Grew her. Their memories flickered for a moment in the mass, then vanished.
Standing over Joshua’s body.
What was once Jin looked down, and for a moment—just a moment—there was stillness.
Then she lowered herself to the rubble, clawed limbs curling around him like a grotesque embrace. The softest part of her body—once her face—hovered just above his.
Her jaw split far too wide, tendrils parting like petals as sharp, wormlike filaments burrowed into the soft flesh of Joshua’s skull. There was no blood left to spill, only fragments, tissue, memory. She fed on his thoughts as much as his matter—on the warmth he gave her, the promises they made, the innocence lost in the alley.
And when there was nothing left—
Across the wreckage, a small boy stood frozen. His wide eyes trembled but didn’t blink. He didn’t scream. He only stared.
You always hated that look.
That fear dressed as pity.
A tendril launched—so fast it blurred the world. It struck the child and unmade him. One moment he existed, the next he was mist and silence. No scream. No trace.
The cry tore through the chaos like thunder.
It knew that voice. Felt it down to its blackened core.
Her voice broke, heavy with horror.
“My boy…” she whispered, falling to her knees among the rubble.
Her hands trembled at her sides, empty, helpless.
Her voice cracked again, but louder now.
“What are you? Why are you doing this?”
The old woman sat crumpled in the dirt, shaking, her arms wrapped around what little remained of the boy.
His eyes were still open.
Ro’s mouth moved in broken sobs, whispering his name like a prayer no god was left to hear.
And Jin—whatever Jin had become—saw it.
The blood on Ro’s hands that wasn’t hers to carry.
It ripped from her in a raw, soul-flaying howl that shattered windows and cracked stone. The sky seemed to flinch. The buildings trembled. And then she moved again—wildly, blindly—with a violence that had no direction, only need.
Every life in her reach was taken—blasted apart, devoured, crushed beneath her limbs. Screams echoed off broken walls only to die before they could call for help. The streets ran red.
Not until the weight inside her buckled.
Not until her monstrous form sagged beneath itself, bloated with grief and rage.
And then, at last, she collapsed—a ruin of teeth and tendrils, quivering atop a pile of meat and silence.
Only a few minutes passed before she opened her eyes again.
--------------------
If you want a reminder of what to happen next here is Chapter 0
OOohweeewaawooo that was a Chapter eh? Incase you didn't read the one before
Anywy I'm heading to bed now and taking a break so I can recollect my thoughts.
Thanks for reading all of 4,572 words! Maybe some more below it =))
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