MistNovel - Read Web Novel Stories & Fiction Online

"Mom! Where is my ridiculously heavy backpack?" Ryan's voice carried from his chaotic bedroom, bright and demanding in the way only six-year-olds could manage.

"Exactly where you left it, my love." Emma flipped a pancake expertly, smiling. Their morning routine was choreographed chaos, a dance of efficiency and affection she had perfected over years of single motherhood.

Coffee for her, chocolate milk for Ryan. Lunches packed, permission slips signed, shoes miraculously located.

Ryan appeared in the doorway, swinging the overstuffed backpack onto his shoulder with casual ease that always gave her pause. The bag was heavy, but he handled it as if filled with air. He attacked his breakfast with enthusiasm, chattering about a school field trip, then paused mid-bite.

"People cannot really lift cars, right, Mom?"

"Right, sweetheart." Emma agreed, though she saw a brief, unnerving flicker of amber in his dark pupils, there and gone in a heartbeat.

The color reminded her of last week, when he had grown frustrated with a stubborn Lego piece. She had watched, stunned, as the small plastic block suddenly shattered in his hand with a faint crackle, leaving a red mark on his palm that faded with impossible speed.

He was different. The quiet worry that lived permanently in her chest grew louder each day.

After Ryan left for school, a notification chimed on her phone. The monthly deposit from the H.M. Foundation had arrived, as reliable as sunrise. It had been their lifeline since a lawyer appeared at her door five and a half years ago, when she was pregnant, grieving, and drowning in her grandmother's medical bills.

The offer had seemed like a miracle: a generous payment from an anonymous benefactor who wished to support single mothers.

Desperate, Emma had accepted, though part of her always felt the weight of unseen strings.

A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts. She opened the door to find Henry Martin, pristine in a tailored suit and holding a brightly wrapped present. His smile was as polished as his expensive shoes.

"Good morning, Emma. I was in the neighborhood and wanted to drop this off for the birthday boy."

"His birthday is not for two weeks, Henry." She smiled despite herself.

"I know, but I am traveling for work and could not bear to miss it." He stepped inside with the easy familiarity of someone who had been doing so for years. He claimed to be the foundation's representative, a charming and constant presence in their lives.

"Actually, I am glad I caught you alone." He said after she poured him coffee. "I have a job opportunity I think you should consider."

He showed her a listing on his phone for a private chef position at a prestigious estate on the outskirts of Crestwood. The salary was extraordinary, nearly triple what she earned now.

"You are incredibly talented, Emma. You deserve this kind of opportunity. Let me help you."

"Why?" The question escaped before she could stop it. It was the question that had haunted her for years. "Why do you really help us, Henry?"

An unreadable expression flickered across his handsome face before being smoothed away. Some deep, old pain she could not interpret.

"Because I believe everyone deserves a chance at a better life. And because I believe in you."

Emma wanted to refuse, to cling to her hard-won independence. But she thought of Ryan, of the strange incidents becoming more frequent and alarming. She thought of the call from his teacher last month, asking why Ryan had told her that a storm was coming on a perfectly sunny day, moments before a freak downpour drenched the playground.

They needed stability, and this job could provide it.

"I will do the interview."

Henry's smile widened, reaching his gaze for the first time. "Perfect. I will arrange everything."

After he left, Emma stood at her window and watched his sleek, black luxury car pull away. This felt too perfect, too orchestrated, like pieces moving on a board she could not see.

But desperation was a powerful motivator.

As Henry turned the corner, out of her sight, his warm expression hardened into cold, sharp calculation. He picked up his phone and made a call, his voice low and devoid of its earlier charm.

"It is done. She will be there next week."

A voice on the other end asked a question Emma could never hear.

"None. She still does not know who the father is."

"Good. Keep it that way until I say otherwise."

Henry ended the call and drove away, his face a mask of satisfaction.

That night, Ryan woke from a nightmare. Emma held him as he trembled, his body temperature unnaturally high, almost feverish.

"I dreamed about a big house with woods," he whispered, still half asleep. "And there was a man there with amber eyes just like mine. He was calling me, Mom. He was calling my name."

Emma's blood ran cold. Ryan had never had dreams like this before. Never mentioned eyes, the color of his own strange flickers. And somehow, with absolute certainty, she knew this dream meant their carefully built life was about to shatter into pieces she could never put back together.

The man in Ryan's dream was real.

And he was coming for them.