Hello, Sweetie.

Wild mint grew near the stream beyond the hill. Honeysuckle wound itself around old trunks. Somewhere nearby roses had escaped whatever garden they once belonged to centuries ago and now bloomed freely among the forest's edge. Bees hummed lazily from flower to flower, heavy with pollen. Dragonflies flashed like shards of sapphire over the water.

To Sylus, this was the scent of home.

He was small enough still that his cheeks retained their softness and roundness. His pale hair spilled across his mother's lap like fresh snow. Two tiny black horns curved from his head, scarcely larger than a fawn's budding antlers. Every now and then one would ache deep beneath the skin, and he would press his face against his mother's shoulder until the pain passed.

His red eyes were closed now.

One of his mother's hands rested in his hair. The other rested on her other thigh.

She was beautiful.

Sylus knew this because everything beautiful reminded him of her. The white lilies that bloomed near the lake. The silver moon. Winter mornings after fresh snowfall. Her hair fell past her waist in a river of white that deepened into crimson at the ends, as though sunset had settled there and never left. Great black horns swept elegantly from her temples, curved and polished like obsidian. Beneath her long skirts her scaled tail rested among the grass, dark and gleaming where sunlight touched it.

She was singing softly in a language Sylus did not yet understand. The sound of it made him sleepy.

Then suddenly she stopped.

The silence startled him more than a shout would have. Her hand froze in his hair.

A moment later her arm moved across him, shielding him against her side.

Sylus opened his eyes.

His mother was staring into the trees and the forest seemed to pause with her. Even the birds quieted.

Then came the sound. Branches snapping and footsteps stumbling.

A cry.

Not the cry of an animal.

From between the trees emerged a woman.

She looked so different from his mother that for a moment Sylus simply stared.

She was smaller, her figure slight beneath a rough woolen dress stitched by hand. An apron stretched tightly over the great swell of her belly. A faded shawl covered her head, though damp strands of dark hair had escaped and clung to her sweat-soaked forehead. Mud stained the hem of her skirts. Her hands trembled.

She took three stumbling steps into the clearing.

Then another cry escaped her. A terrible pain that seemed to seize her whole body. The woman fell to one knee and his mother was already moving.

"Sylus."

Her voice was calm. Always was. He looked up at her.

"Go to the lake, little dragon."

Her hand cupped his cheek.

"Stay there for a while."

Sylus hesitated then gasped when the woman cried out again.His mother was already hurrying toward her.

Obediently, he climbed to his feet.

He glanced back once.

His mother had guided the stranger against the willow tree. One arm supported her shoulders while the other brushed damp hair from her face. Worry clouded her features.

It was a look Sylus knew well.

The same look she wore when his growing horns hurt. The same look she wore whenever he woke from bad dreams. The same look she wore whenever he was sick. Seeing it directed at someone else felt strange.

The woman clutched at his mother's sleeve and pleaded through tears in the human tongue. His mother answered softly.Then Sylus turned and followed the familiar path to the lake.

The water rested in a hollow between hills, clear enough to reveal every stone beneath its surface. Reeds whispered along the shore. White swans drifted across the mirrored water. Above them clouds floated upside down in perfect reflection.

Sylus settled beneath a birch tree. He watched minnows dart between rocks,  sunlight glitter across gentle ripples. Eventually his eyelids grew heavy and the sounds of the forest wrapped around him like a blanket.

When he woke, the world had changed.

The sun had lowered toward the western hills, pouring honey-colored light through the trees. Shadows stretched long and blue across the ground.

The air smelled different now. Thousands of tiny white blossoms opened as evening approached, releasing their fragrance into the cooling forest. Their scent drifted upon the breeze like a promise that night would soon arrive.

Sylus rubbed his eyes. For a moment he forgot everything. Then he remembered the woman. He scrambled to his feet and the path back seemed longer somehow.

The forest had become golden. Leaves glowed like stained glass overhead. Birds sang their evening songs. Somewhere in the distance a brook laughed over stones.

When he finally reached the willow clearing, he slowed.

Something had changed there too. The crying had stopped, and with it the desperate pleading and sharp edge of fear that had filled the clearing earlier. Now the human woman rested against the willow's broad trunk, exhausted but peaceful, her body slack with relief. Tears still streaked her cheeks, though they no longer seemed born of pain. Her shawl had slipped from her head, revealing damp strands of dark hair plastered against her forehead. The clearing itself felt different, as though some great tension had finally loosened its grip and allowed the forest to breathe again.

His mother was smiling.

In her arms she held the smallest thing Sylus had ever seen. At first he thought it might be some tiny forest creature—a rabbit perhaps, or a squirrel wrapped in cloth. But then it moved. A tiny hand emerged from the blanket, impossibly delicate, its fingers curling weakly in the evening air. A human hand. Sylus blinked and stared. The child seemed impossibly small, impossibly fragile, its pink, wrinkled face scarcely larger than one of his mother's hands. Looking at it filled him with wonder. How could something so tiny survive in such a vast world of towering trees, rushing rivers, winter storms, and endless skies?

His mother looked down at the child as though she were holding a fallen star. The last golden light of evening touched her white hair, turning it luminous, while the scent of jasmine drifted through the clearing on the cooling breeze. Everything seemed hushed around her, wrapped in the gentle stillness that comes just before twilight. Then, in the soft language of humans, she spoke.

"May you be blessed with beauty, soft and bright,A quiet glow, not born of envy, but of light.May no heavens stir with jealousy above,For yours is the gentle, unassuming grace of love.

May you be loving, and deeply, wholly loved,A heart like a dove, by kindness moved.May every soul you meet hold you dear,And find in your presence a warmth sincere.

May peace crown your mind like a silken thread,And rest in your heart where your dreams are fed.May calm be your shadow, steady and near,A whisper of stillness through joy and fear.

May your body be strong, your spirit whole,Health in your breath and light in your soul.May each dawn greet you in radiant bloom,And life never darken your inner room."

The forest seemed to listen. Willow leaves stirred softly overhead, whispering against one another, while jasmine drifted upon the evening wind. Even the birds appeared to quiet for a moment, their songs fading into the distance as though they too wished to hear the blessing. Sylus stood motionless among the flowers, watching. He did not understand every word his mother spoke, but he understood the way she spoke them. It was the same tenderness she carried in her lullabies, the same warmth woven through her stories, the same gentle reassurance she offered whenever storms rattled the windows of their home and frightened him awake in the night. Every word was filled with love.

For a long while after the dream ended, Sylus did not realize he was awake. The memory lingered too vividly, refusing to fade the way ordinary dreams did. He could still smell jasmine drifting through the evening air, still see golden sunlight caught in willow branches, and still hear his mother's voice carrying softly through the forest, warm and gentle as a blanket drawn over cold shoulders. The sensation remained so complete that for several heartbeats he expected to open his eyes and find himself once more beneath that ancient tree.

Instead, he found darkness—not the darkness of a forest before moonrise, but the quiet darkness of a bedroom. The familiar weight of a blanket rested over him while the distant hum of the city filtered faintly through thick walls. Somewhere beyond the curtains, a streetlamp cast a pale glow that slipped through the edges of the fabric and painted silver lines across the room.

Sylus lay perfectly still. Years of habit kept him motionless during the first moments after waking. Beneath his pillow rested a gun, its presence as familiar to him now as his mother's hand had once been. That realization might have saddened him had he allowed himself to dwell on it, but instead he listened.

At first he thought the dream had not entirely released him. The voice was so soft, so gentle, so familiar that it seemed to belong to the memory itself. A whisper carried through the darkness, drawing his attention toward the other side of the bed.

There she was—his wife, his first love. Moonlight traced the outline of her face as she sat propped against the headboard. Her hair spilled over one shoulder in loose waves, and her gaze remained fixed upon the tiny bundle cradled in her arms.

Their daughter. Their newborn daughter.

The child seemed impossibly small against her mother's chest. Sylus had held her dozens of times already and still could not quite comprehend how something so tiny belonged to him. His wife lowered her head slightly and continued speaking, her voice scarcely louder than a breath.

May your eyes find beauty in all they see,

In the smallest of wonders, in sky and sea.

And may you awaken that beauty anew,

Bringing forth light in all that you do.

May you stand unbroken when trials appear,

With courage unshaken and heart sincere.

May no shadow linger, no fear remain,

For strength is your birthright through joy and pain.

May you be cherished, forever held near,

And find kindred souls who call you dear.

May love circle you, both tender and true,

A lifetime of hearts reaching back to you.

And as you grow beneath time’s gentle hand,

May grace walk beside you wherever you stand.

Silence followed, though it was not an empty silence. It was peaceful, the kind that only existed around sleeping children. Sylus remained motionless, his heart beating strangely as the words stirred something deep inside him—something old, older than memory and older than reason itself.

The dream lingered stubbornly at the edges of his thoughts. His mother's voice. The willow tree. The newborn child. The blessing. For a moment he wondered whether his sleeping mind had simply woven the dream from hearing his wife speak. Perhaps he had awakened halfway through her blessing and imagined the rest.

Yet the memory felt too complete, too detailed. He could remember the texture of the grass beneath him, the warmth of sunlight on his skin, the scent of flowers, and the shape of his mother's smile. Dreams did not feel like that. Dreams dissolved. This had remained, lingering within him like something remembered rather than invented, like a door briefly opening onto a place he had once known.

His wife carefully adjusted the blanket around their daughter. The baby stirred slightly before settling once more, and only then did Sylus finally move to adjust himself.

The sight struck him harder than he expected. Perhaps it was because he had spent so many years believing he would never have this. Perhaps it was because he had become so accustomed to violence that peace often surprised him. Or perhaps it was simply because His wife noticed his gaze and smiled, a small smile reserved only for him.

"There you are," she whispered.

"I've been here the whole time."

Her smile widened slightly.

"You were sleeping."

Sylus reached out and brushed his fingers against his daughter's tiny hand. The baby's fingers immediately wrapped around one of his, and his chest tightened. Such a small hand. Such a small person. Yet she already possessed the ability to undo him completely.

"That was beautiful," he said quietly, his voice rough from sleep.

His wife glanced down at the child.

"What was?"

"The blessing."

The smile returned to her face immediately.

"Ah."

He watched her for a moment before asking, "Where did you learn it?"

The question seemed simple, yet the answer that followed sent a strange chill through him.

"My mother taught it to me," she said softly.

The baby's tiny chest rose and fell beneath the blanket.

"And her mother taught it to her."

She gently smoothed a fingertip across the child's cheek.

"And before that, her mother taught her."

Sylus listened in silence, something inside him becoming very still.

"It has been passed down for generations," she continued. "A very long time ago, an ancient creature helped a woman from our family."

Her voice carried the tone people used when repeating old stories handed down through countless years.

"The creature blessed her newborn child."

She smiled faintly.

"And the blessing remained."

Sylus felt the room disappear around him. Not literally, but for a moment he no longer heard distant traffic or the hum of electricity beyond the walls. Instead, he heard willow leaves whispering in the evening wind. He smelled jasmine. He saw golden light. He saw a woman in a wool dress beneath an ancient tree, a newborn child wrapped in blankets, and his mother holding her gently.

The ache arrived without warning—sharp, deep, and ancient.

He had endured wounds that should have killed him. He had survived losses that would have broken lesser men. Yet nothing prepared him for that sudden ache because he recognized it immediately.

He missed his mother.

Not merely the memory of her. Not merely the dream. He missed the possibility of her. He missed the idea that somewhere in this vast world there might still exist a place where he was someone's child. Somewhere there might still be a hand willing to smooth back his hair when nightmares came. Someone who looked at him and saw neither soldier nor monster nor survivor, but only her little dragon.

The feeling struck so unexpectedly that he could scarcely breathe around it.

His wife must have noticed something in his expression because she shifted closer. She did not speak or ask questions. She simply moved near enough that their shoulders touched, offering comfort without demanding explanation.

Sylus lowered his gaze to their daughter. The child slept peacefully between them, unaware of the countless lives and centuries that had quietly converged around her cradle. An ancient blessing, an ancient memory, a forgotten forest, a lost mother, and a new one all seemed to exist together in that single quiet moment.

Outside, night settled fully over the city. Inside, beneath soft blankets and pale moonlight, Sylus sat beside the family he had somehow found after lifetimes of wandering.

And though the ache remained within him, it no longer felt entirely lonely. As he watched his daughter sleep, he found himself hoping that somewhere, beyond memory and beyond time, his mother would be pleased to know that her little dragon had finally come home.