Little Henry

Astram closed his book with a soft thud, making sure the bookmark rested perfectly between the pages, not a corner out of place. He placed it gently on the desk, adjusting his glasses absentmindedly. A slight blur caught his attention. With a sigh, he removed them, a white cloth already waiting in his hand. Each stroke against the lenses was deliberate, slow, as though polishing away not just the smudges but the flaw he despised most—his imperfect vision.

Without his glasses, the world dissolved into a blur of indistinct shapes and color, a hazy reminder that no matter how perfect he liked to believe he was, he was still tethered to the limits of his human form. He squinted at the lenses, holding them up to the light that filtered through the window, checking for even the slightest imperfection.

"Perfect," he murmured, satisfied at last.

He slipped them back on, pressing them higher up his nose with his middle finger, and closed his eyes momentarily, waiting for the lingering ache in his head to fade. When he opened them again, clarity returned, and he stood, heading toward the bookshelf with an effortless grace. His fingers trailed across the spines of the books, each title in its precise place, arranged by topic and then alphabetically by the author's name.

"I just love Vex-Lou's interpretation of mathematical theory," he mused quietly to himself, "though Justeen's works are easier to follow. Vex-Lou's drawn-out explanations always land in simplicity, but Justeen… he's more focused on practical application than pure conceptualization. And then there's Kuule… neutral, methodical. A balance between the two."

He slid the book back into its spot with a soft click, satisfied that everything was in order. His room, too, reflected this—everything meticulously arranged, nothing out of place. It had taken on an air of rigid functionality, just as he liked it.

Returning to his desk, he selected another volume, this time on human emotions, written by Lignis-Judge Kremwellion. A slight smile curled his lips as he flipped through the pages, settling on a chapter that piqued his interest—love. He inhaled deeply, as if bracing himself for a challenge, ready to dissect the human heart like one of his many equations.

"Little Henry? Where did you… woah! How did…?" A voice from outside, startled and confused, interrupted his focus.

Astram blinked, recognizing the voice as Stacia's. He had left the window open to let in the cool breeze, but now her words floated in, breaking the quiet.

He rose and moved toward the window, peering out to see her standing on the north side of the house, flustered.

"Where did all the weeds go? Little Henry, did you see where they went? They were just here a moment ago," she called, her voice tinged with bewilderment.

Astram narrowed his eyes, watching the scene unfold. He could see her pacing, her hands waving toward the now weedless garden bed. "Ridiculous," he muttered under his breath. "Weeds don't simply walk away."

Yet there she was, searching the ground as if the plants had uprooted themselves and fled.

Astram's gaze shifted from the ground to the sky, and his breath caught in his throat. Little Henry stood beside the maid, bundled in thick clothing fit for the prickly gardens, his innocent laughter filling the air. But above the treetops, something unnatural unfolded. Hundreds of weeds—two hundred or more—floated effortlessly in the sky, suspended in a way that defied all logic. They hovered just high enough to remain unseen by Stacia, who continued her frantic search for the missing plants below.

Astram adjusted his glasses, his expression hardening. This was no trivial occurrence. He looked down at Stacia, still scratching her head in confusion, while Henry, eyes closed, chuckled softly as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Mmm," Astram muttered, feeling a knot of suspense twist in his chest.

Without hesitation, he slapped his desk with a practiced precision, triggering a hidden compartment with a faint click. A narrow drawer slid out, revealing a single, ornate key. He grasped it quickly, moving toward one of his towering bookshelves. His fingers danced over the spines of the books as he pulled one out slightly, then another, repeating this pattern six more times. Seven books in total, each drawn halfway out. Finally, a satisfying click echoed through the room. From behind the books, a concealed compartment opened, seamlessly integrated into the design of the bookcase. Inside was a thick, worn notebook.

Astram slid it out carefully, returning the books to their rightful positions, deliberately rearranging a few to obscure the locking mechanism. With the notebook in hand, he sat back at his desk and dipped his fountain pen into the waiting inkpot. The cover of the notebook read one word: Family. He opened it, flipping past numerous entries until he found an empty page.

"Henry…" he thought, a sense of both awe and trepidation bubbling within him. "It's astonishing to think I'm already documenting such immense progress. The last entry was when he managed to move that fallen branch—impressive enough at the time. But today... today he levitated approximately 280 fully grown weeds across a distance of 25 meters. All with his eyes closed. His mind was completely at ease."

He scrawled the words quickly yet carefully, ensuring every detail was captured.

"There appears to be no limitation, no weakness, no sign of strain or maximum effort," Astram muttered to himself as he wrote, his hand pausing only briefly to think.

With that note completed, he flipped further into the notebook, landing on a section titled Weaknesses. His brow furrowed in concentration, his mind working over the possibilities. He knew the potential power Henry held—and the dangers that came with it.

"So far, they all share a single weakness…" His breath hitched. "Mara."

A chill ran through him as he scribbled the name, and he swallowed hard. Mara—always an unsettling presence—seemed to loom like a shadow over every one of them. He closed the notebook with a sharp snap and rose to his feet. Today would be the day, he told himself. Today, he would discover if Henry had a true weakness.

Astram positioned himself behind a wall, observing from the shadows as Henry played in the hallway. The boy, oblivious to any scrutiny, busied himself with his toys, arranging and rearranging them with the carefree joy only a child could possess. Hours passed since the incident outside, but Henry's behavior remained mundane—innocent, even. Still, Astram waited. He couldn't afford to miss a single clue.

Then, without warning, Mara entered the hallway. She moved slowly, her steps careful and deliberate, a stark contrast to her usual confident stride. Astram's eyes narrowed. Something was different about her today. She approached Henry's playing space cautiously, her gaze fixed on him, as though she, too, sensed something unusual beneath the surface.

Astram held his breath, feeling the tension in the air thicken as the two drew closer.

"Little Henry, it's time for supper," Mara called out, standing several meters away, her voice echoing faintly through the hall. Henry, absorbed in his toys, gave no sign that he had heard her.

"Boom!" he hissed, as his small hands sent a toy knight crashing into a line of blocks, his laughter bubbling up afterward.

Mara's expression tightened with impatience. She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the polished floor. "Sir Henry, your supper is ready," she repeated, this time adding a forced softness to her tone—something completely out of character for her.

"Sir?" Astram whispered to himself, narrowing his eyes. The honorific was unusual enough, but the gentleness in Mara's voice was even more alarming. He dipped his pen quickly, his hand flying across the page in his notebook. Something was wrong—something he needed to document immediately.

From his hiding spot, he peeked again, watching as Mara closed the distance between herself and Henry. Her arm reached out, fingertips inches away from the boy's shoulder, but before she could make contact, her body froze.

Astram's pen hovered over the page, his pulse quickening as he observed the scene. Mara stood there, her arm suspended in midair, her entire body seized with an unnatural stillness. Her face contorted as she tried to move, her limbs trembling, but every attempt to step forward failed. It was as if an invisible force held her in place.

"S—sir Henry!" she stammered, her voice strained, her body jerking slightly in every direction but forward.

Henry, still seated on the floor, remained completely unaware of the struggle behind him, his eyes fixed on his toys, engrossed in his make-believe battles. He hadn't even turned to acknowledge Mara's presence.

Mara's knees buckled. She stumbled back a step, then sank to the floor in defeat. Sweat trickled down her forehead, and she took a deep, shuddering breath before rising to her feet once more. Her trembling hands smoothed out her uniform, and she forced a brittle smile.

"Very well, child! As you wish. Pardon me, Sir Henry," she said, her voice shaky, but with an edge of forced dignity. She turned sharply on her heel and walked back down the hallway, her movements stiff and unnatural, as though still shaking off whatever invisible grip had held her moments before.

"Impossible!" Astram thought, his mind racing as he hunched behind the wall, scribbling furiously in his notebook. Every oddity about Henry and Mara's interaction ran through his thoughts. This can't be happening, he scrawled in the margins, his pen pressing deeper into the paper as his hand moved swiftly.

"Little Henry, it's time for supper!" A soft voice rang through the air, cutting through Astram's concentration. He paused, recognizing it immediately—Stacia, not Mara.

He glanced out cautiously from behind the wall, catching sight of Henry turning eagerly toward her.

"—sia!" Henry's cheerful cry filled the space as he rushed to Stacia's side, his small arms wrapping around her in an affectionate embrace.

Astram's eyes narrowed. He muttered, "Interesting," and quickly jotted down more notes. The boy's reaction to Stacia was joyful, effortless—so different from the tension he had observed with Mara. It was a stark contrast he couldn't ignore.

As he dipped his pen into the ink to continue writing, the air grew heavy around him. He froze. A chill swept over his skin, a deep unease setting in like the stillness of a graveyard at night or the eerie silence of a mist-covered field. The presence behind him was unmistakable.

Mara.

Her looming shadow stretched across the floor, draping over Astram's hidden spot like a cold shroud. He could feel her presence before he even saw her—a dense, oppressive weight that made his spine stiffen.

"Hello, you," she spoke in a low, authoritative tone, her voice sending an icy shiver through the room. "It's time for supper."

Astram dared not move, his pen momentarily frozen above the page. Her voice held a weight that left no room for argument. 

Swallowing hard, he stuffed his notebook under his arm, hiding the notes he had so carefully written. Sweat beaded on his brow, but he kept his movements quiet, deliberate.

"Yes, ma'am," he responded, standing slowly, his body tense as he straightened up from his crouched position behind the wall.