[Season 1. Chapter 11: Oliver displays his intelligence and Lyra the older sister.]
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Oliver stood silently in the soft-blue room, his eyes scanning the walls, the bed, the quiet ceiling fan humming above. The room was nice—too nice. Clean, warm, lightly scented with something floral and unfamiliar. It didn't feel oppressive… but it felt temporary. Like a hotel room. Like a pause between places.
He didn't want to sit here.
Not like before.
So, with a sudden sense of restlessness blooming in his chest, Oliver turned to the white-painted door. But the handle sat far above his head, mocking him in its unreachable height.
He sighed through his small nostrils, glancing around the room, already calculating.
Then he saw it: the wooden chair near the desk.
He moved to it—his tiny legs waddling quickly—and wrapped his arms around one of its legs. It was heavy, but Oliver gritted his teeth and dragged it anyway. The sound of its legs scraped lightly against the floor, faint but deliberate. His small body braced itself as he pulled the chair near the door, then climbed up, balancing carefully.
One hand gripped the backrest for support. The other reached toward the doorknob.
Just as his fingers touched the cool metal—
> "Whoa there, buddy."
Liam's voice was amused, caught between surprise and laughter. He'd just stepped into the hallway and spotted Oliver mid-escape.
Oliver froze like a kid caught red-handed—but there was no scolding. Just a chuckle, a soft smile.
Martha followed from behind, her eyes wide with a mix of wonder and curiosity.
> "He dragged the chair?" she said, more to herself. "All the way to the door?"
Liam looked at her, still grinning. "He did. I've seen ten-year-olds who can't think that far ahead."
Martha stepped closer, hands resting gently on her hips.
> "That's… not normal. That's exceptional."
Oliver remained quiet, still standing on the chair. His face unreadable. The soft, childlike features belied the mental weight behind his gaze. Years of failure. Guilt. Observations. All trapped behind the round cheeks of a six-year-old.
> "You're a smart little guy, aren't you?" Liam said warmly, now kneeling by the chair and gently lifting Oliver down. "Trying to sneak off already, huh?"
Oliver looked at him, eyes flickering with emotion but his lips sealed tight. He was still adjusting to the softness in their voices… the lack of expectation.
> They don't know I'm not really six, he thought. They don't know I've lived through disappointment… or rejection… or the endless 'we'll get back to you' emails.
But still, there was something comforting in being held, in being caught—not punished—but protected.
> "You'll have your time to explore," Martha said with a warm smile, kneeling beside Liam. "But let's start with breakfast, alright? A full tummy makes for a brighter day."
Oliver nodded slowly.
Not because he was hungry.
But because it was easier than speaking the truth.
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Liam carried Oliver gently through the sun-warmed halls of the house, his arms steady and light despite the awkwardness of holding a six-year-old with the awareness of a grown man. The light filtering through the windows had that early morning hue—golden and sleepy, full of the scent of toast and something citrusy lingering in the air.
The hallway stretches in quiet elegance, bathed in soft golden streaks of light filtering through narrow windows or gently glowing sconces along the walls. The polished wooden floor gleams with each ray, reflecting a warmth that runs the length of the corridor like liquid sunlight.
As they turned the corner, Liam's voice rang softly:
> "There she is. Let's introduce you to your big sister."
Oliver blinked, the word sister bouncing oddly in his mind. Family, he thought. In this world too?
In the sunlit den, on a tan rug and beside a scattering of toys and books, Lyra Athens Woods was kneeling with quiet intensity. Her red hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, freckles dusted across her cheeks, and her focus was absolute as she carefully stacked smooth, wooden blocks into a spiraling pattern. It wasn't random play—it was calculated, architectural precision. Each piece placed deliberately, as if she saw things others didn't.
Oliver's sharp eyes narrowed, faintly impressed. She's good, he admitted inwardly.
As soon as Lyra noticed them, her emerald eyes snapped upward. She stood, brushing invisible dust from her knees and walking directly toward them with a confident stride that didn't match her ten-year-old frame.
> "So this is him?" she said, hands on her hips. "He's tiny."
Liam laughed and gently set Oliver down. The moment his feet hit the floor, Lyra was already in front of him, tugging at the soft fabric of his black and white sweater and brushing at his slightly tousled brown hair with scrutinizing fingers.
> "Your hair's all crooked," she muttered. "And your ears stick out a bit."
Oliver just blinked at her, unsure how to respond. She was taller, louder, and clearly used to being the center of attention. Her presence was like that of a cat inspecting a new kitten in its territory—half curious, half territorial.
Then, with a sudden smirk, she said:
> "You're kinda ugly, you know that?"
The words didn't sting. Not really. But they hit him with an unexpected awkwardness—like someone throwing a ball when you weren't ready.
Oliver remained quiet. Expression unreadable. His hands clutched lightly in front of him. Was this a test? A joke? Sibling banter? A weird Caelus version of affection? He honestly couldn't tell.
Lyra tilted her head, inspecting him like a scientist.
> "You're super quiet," she said, her tone shifting from arrogant to puzzled. "What's wrong with you? Do you not talk?"
Oliver finally looked her directly in the eyes. He thought about all the things he could say. About the job rejections. The weight of wasted potential. The truth of who he really was. How it felt to be alive and invisible for so long.
But instead, he said nothing.
He simply shrugged.
Lyra stared at him for a moment longer. Then—without warning—she turned on her heel and returned to her block tower.
> "Fine. Be weird," she muttered, sitting down. "Just don't mess up my structure."
Oliver quietly followed her with his eyes.
This world's strange, he thought. But maybe not stranger than the last.
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