The dim room smelled faintly of burning candles and dried herbs. A single oil lamp flickered on the bedside table, its glow painting golden shadows across the cracked wooden walls. Outside, rain hammered the tin roof in a steady roar that drowned out the rest of the world.
Inside, only one sound truly mattered. It was the deep, strained breathing of a woman fighting to bring life into the world.
"Almost there. One more push." The midwife knelt between her knees, her hands already stained with blood, her forehead beaded with sweat. Her voice stayed calm, though a tremor sat under it.
The young mother, barely in her twenties, gripped the damp bedsheets until her knuckles turned white. Her hair clung to her cheeks, heavy with sweat. Each breath came like a climb up a steep hill. Each push felt like scaling a mountain. But she did not scream. She held on, saving her strength for the final moment.
With one last, desperate cry, she bore down. The bed frame creaked under her. Then it happened.
A slick, squirming infant slipped into the midwife's waiting hands, wet with blood and coated in a milky film. A sharp, startled wail cut through the room as the baby breathed for the first time. The wet slap of small limbs against the midwife's palms rang louder than it should have in the quiet house. The young mother's eyes went wide, a mix of terror, relief, and awe filling her face.
"It's a boy," the midwife said, her tired face breaking into a smile that reached her eyes.
She clamped and cut the cord that had joined mother and child. The faint snip echoed in the still room, followed by the splash of water poured into a basin. Steam rose faintly from the warm water, carrying the sharp, clean scent of boiled herbs.
Instead of the usual method, the child's grandmother, an older woman with sharp eyes and calloused hands, began washing the newborn in a warm herbal mixture. Her fingers moved with practiced care, wiping away the blood and film until pale skin showed underneath. She hummed a low, wordless tune, the kind that seemed to belong only to grandmothers.
But she was not finished. A second pain gripped the young mother, sharp and sudden. She gasped, back arching off the bed.
"There's another one coming," the midwife said, her voice sharpening with focus. "Stay with me now."
The young mother groaned, sweat sliding down her temple, her hand grabbing for anything to hold. She found her husband's coat, left folded on the chair beside her, and clutched it instead.
Minutes passed like hours. Then, with a final push and a cry that scraped her throat raw, the second child arrived. Smaller. Quieter. A soft whimper instead of a wail.
"A girl," the midwife announced, cradling the tiny form. She wiped the baby's face gently, and the infant blinked, her small mouth opening in a yawn rather than a cry.
The grandmother finished washing the first baby and wrapped him in a thin cloth. "Thank you. Please, give him to me," the young mother whispered, her voice trembling, her arms reaching out even before the cloth settled around him.
The midwife placed the boy gently into her arms. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.
The baby's eyes fluttered open just long enough to catch the lamplight before he let out a small sigh and nestled against his mother's chest. Tears welled in her eyes, not only from the pain, but from something deeper, something that pressed against her ribs like a held breath finally released.
"He's so small," she murmured, brushing a thumb over his cheek. "I bet he will be handsome when he grows up. Just like his father."
The older woman let out a dry, quiet laugh as she began washing the second baby. "Yes. He does look like him."
Then, in a voice so low it nearly drowned beneath the rain, she muttered, "If he even has a father."
No one seemed to hear it.
No one except the baby himself.
So this is my mother. Are we already abandoned?
Yes, those small blinking eyes belonged to someone who had lived before. A soul born again into flesh still warm from the womb.
This will do, the infant thought, and something like calm settled over him despite the chaos of the room.
"Ma'am, what name should we give him?" the midwife asked, gathering the soiled linens into a basket.
The young mother looked down at her son, her voice quiet but steady. "Vaughn... Vaughn Labre."
The midwife nodded, then lifted the second baby, now clean and wrapped in faded pink cloth. "And her?"
"Althea," the mother said softly, reaching out with her free arm to pull her daughter close as well. Now both children rested against her chest, one on each side, their small chests rising and falling in uneven rhythm. "Althea Labre."
"All right. I will go call Larz," the midwife said, rising and stepping toward the door.
The door creaked open, and a small barefoot boy peeked in, a child of about six, his eyes wide with curiosity. The midwife smiled at him on her way out.
"Those are your baby brother and sister, Larz," she said warmly.
The boy blinked, then frowned, stepping closer to the bed to peer at the two bundles. So we are four now, Vaughn thought silently from within the swaddle.
Then the door slammed shut with a bang that made the lamp flame jump.
"Mom!" the boy groaned. "This baby is so noisy!"
The young mother chuckled despite her exhaustion, the sound rough but genuine. "And you were not, when you were born?"
She pulled her children closer, rocking them gently as Larz stomped in mock protest around the small room, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor.
It was loud. It was messy. But her hand found Larz's head as he passed, resting there until he slowed, and for a moment the whole room seemed to breathe together.
The rain eased by dawn, leaving the tin roof dripping in slow, steady drops. The scent of wet earth drifted through the gaps in the window frame, mixing with the last traces of burnt candle and herb.
Vaughn lay swaddled against his mother's chest, her heartbeat filling his small ears. It was warm, steady, nothing like the chaos of his last life.
So this is it, he thought, staring up at the pale wooden ceiling. A new life. A new start. Let's hope it is worth the trouble.
A loud thump startled him. Larz had crouched at the foot of the bed, poking at Vaughn's tiny foot as though inspecting some strange creature he had found in the yard.
"Careful," their mother murmured, her voice still weak. "He is not a toy, Larz."
"But he is so small," Larz muttered, squinting at him. "Are babies supposed to look like wrinkled potatoes?"
Vaughn's face stayed blank, but inside, he sighed. Wonderful. My first critic is six years old.
A faint whimper rose from the basket beside the bed. Althea stirred, her small face scrunching before settling again. Her dark hair, still slightly damp, clung to her scalp in soft curls.
"Ah, your sister is awake," their mother said, reaching over to lift her. Her tired face softened further at the sight of her daughter's tiny yawn.
Althea's fingers curled in the air, searching for something to hold. Vaughn watched her closely. She was small, quiet, unassuming. But something about her felt heavier than her size suggested, like still water hiding a strong current underneath.
"He does not cry much," Larz noted, arms crossed. "Not like her. Wait, she stopped too." He jerked his thumb toward Vaughn.
"That is because she is gentle," their mother said, mock stern. "You should try being gentle too."
Vaughn studied his sister's calm, even breathing. She may be quiet now, he thought, but the quiet ones are often the ones worth watching closest.
The sound of boots on wet ground carried through the walls. The door creaked open, letting in a draft of cold morning air that smelled of rain and mud.
A tall man stepped inside, his black coat damp, droplets sliding from the hem onto the floor. His sharp eyes swept the room before landing on the two newborns.
"Father," Larz said, straightening at once.
The man's gaze lingered on Vaughn a moment too long before shifting to Althea. He crossed the room and stopped beside the bed.
"They are both healthy?" he asked, his voice low and heavy.
"Yes," their mother answered carefully. "Thanks to the midwife. And your herbs."
His expression did not soften, but his hand reached out, brushing lightly over Althea's small head. He hesitated before touching Vaughn, as if weighing something in his mind, then rested his palm briefly against the boy's chest.
Vaughn felt the touch, steady and firm, and for a moment it seemed the man's eyes were searching for something hidden beneath his skin.
Then the hand withdrew.
"I will speak with you later," the father said to his wife, his tone unreadable. He turned toward the door, then paused. "Larz, watch over them."
"Yes, Father."
When the door shut behind him, Vaughn caught a glimpse of his mother's face. Soft, but shadowed, like sunlight passing behind a thin cloud.
That man carries something heavy, Vaughn thought. If he is my father, this family will not be simple.
Beside him, Althea's tiny hand brushed against his. Vaughn turned his head toward her. Her eyes stayed closed, but for the briefest moment, her lips seemed to curve into the faintest smile.
Whether it was real or only a trick of the lamp light, he could not say.
Outside, the rain had stopped completely. But inside this house, something had only just begun.