The kettle whistled sharply, cutting through the quiet hum of the apartment

  Virgil looked up from the table, where a loose tangle of notebooks, school forms, and an upside-down spoon framed his breakfast. He stood, brushing crumbs from his hoodie, and crossed to the stove.

  “You forgot it again,” his twin sister, Lira, said from the couch, without looking up from her sketchpad.

  “I didn’t forget,” he replied, grabbing the kettle off the flame. “I was… letting it build character.”

  “That’s what you said about the last one you burned dry.”

  Virgil grinned. “And it learned from the experience.”

  Lira didn’t smile, not exactly, but the corner of her mouth lifted slightly. She had the same dark eyes he did, but hers held more clarity. More definition. She always looked like she was on the edge of asking questions no one else thought to ask.

  Their mother padded in from the hallway, tying her hair up with a bright red scarf. “Don’t tease your brother,” she said absently. “It’s not his fault he’s always been a little slow.”

  Virgil blinked. “Hey—”

  “Or forgetful,” she added, reaching for the cabinet above him. “Or easily distracted, or—”

  “Okay, okay! I get it.” He poured the water into the two chipped mugs waiting on the counter.

  “Be nice,” said a younger voice from the hallway.

  Twelve-year-old Callen walked in holding a blanket like it was armor, yawning wide enough to show all his molars. His feet made soft shuffling noises on the kitchen tile.

  “It's Saturday,” he mumbled, climbing into the chair across from Virgil’s abandoned cereal. “Why are you all yelling?”

  “We’re not yelling,” Lira said, flipping a page in her sketchbook.

  Callen dropped his head onto the table. “You are emotionally yelling.”

  Their mother ruffled his curls as she passed. “Drink something before you collapse dramatically.”

  “I am collapsing honestly,” he replied, not moving.

  The apartment was small, cluttered, lived-in. Plants leaned toward the windows like sleepy green children. A cracked wall clock ticked unevenly above a shelf stacked with old novels and dust-colored trophies. The furniture didn’t match and never had. The floorboards creaked. The heater worked when it felt like it. The ceiling light flickered if you asked too much of it.

  But the air was warm. Always warm.

  Virgil brought over the mugs—one to his mom, one for Lira—and sat beside his little brother, who’d only just started moving again now that cereal had been placed within reach.

  Their mother exhaled as she sat, sipping slowly. “We’ve got a clear day,” she said. “No appointments. No obligations. No fires to put out. I say we just stay in and rot like good citizens.”

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  “Speak for yourself,” Lira said. “I have artistic deadlines.”

  “You’re doodling.”

  “I’m designing worlds.”

  Callen peered up over his spoon. “Can I be in one of your worlds?”

  “No,” Lira said, not missing a beat.

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “Because you’ll eat it.”

  She glanced up just in time to see his spoon halfway to his mouth, and everyone cracked up at once.

  It was easy laughter. Natural. The kind you didn’t notice you needed until it filled the room.

  Virgil leaned back, soaking in the moment. These were the mornings he loved best. No rush, no pressure. Just them.

  He didn’t remember his father well—only flickers. The sound of boots by the door. The smell of cedar and engine oil. A deep laugh like thunder in your chest.

  He’d died when Virgil and Lira were six.

  Their mother had picked up the pieces and carried them all forward. Somehow.

  She was younger than most moms. Thirty, give or take a year or two. She worked from home fixing up old tech—anything with wires and a personality. She said machines had tempers, and she liked listening to them better than people.

  They all understood.

  Even Callen, who never met his dad, still said “goodnight” to the photo beside their mother’s bed.

  Virgil looked at it sometimes, too.

  Not often.

  But enough.

  Later that afternoon, the house settled into its usual rhythms. Rain moved in gently, pattering against the windows like distant applause. Lira vanished into her room to chase some last-minute sketch she couldn’t shake. Callen set up a comic-book fort behind the couch. Their mom spent an hour repairing the toaster that had been attempting murder all week.

  And Virgil sat by the window, notebook open, pen in hand, staring at the empty page.

  He wasn’t sure what he was trying to write. Something had been tugging at him for days—something heavy and wordless. Like the world was holding its breath and hadn’t realized it yet.

  He doodled instead. Lines became spirals. Spirals became waves. But the waves looked still on paper.

  Eventually, night came.

  Dinner was lazy—leftover soup and bread, eaten around the couch with a movie half-watched and half-ignored. Virgil lay on the floor, Lira upside-down in the armchair, Callen nestled between them like a worn blanket.

  It was late when they finally started moving again. One by one, yawning and stretching and wandering off to brush teeth and ask if laundry had been done.

  Virgil lingered in the hallway outside Lira’s room.

  Her door was cracked open, light spilling into the hall. He knocked once, lightly.

  “Yeah?”

  He pushed the door wider. “You awake?”

  Lira was cross-legged on the bed, pencil in hand. Her sketchpad rested on her knees.

  “When am I ever not?

  He smirked. “Fair.”

  She looked up. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just… felt like talking.”

  She moved over without asking, and he sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

  “You ever feel like something’s about to happen?” he asked, after a moment. “Like you’re standing on a ledge, but you don’t know what’s below?”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  Then: “Yeah. Sometimes.”

  He looked over at her. “You do?”

  She tapped her pencil on her knee. “You remember the night Dad died?”

  He hesitated. “Pieces.”

  “I had a dream that night. I didn’t remember it until a few years later, but… in the dream, I was holding a box. A wooden one. I opened it, and everything inside was burning. But it didn’t feel scary. It just… felt like it had to happen.”

  Virgil didn’t know what to say to that.

  She shrugged. “I think some part of us always knows more than it should.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Do you think we’re normal?”

  Lira smiled faintly. “Normal is just weird with better PR.”

  He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. I guess.”

  She bumped his shoulder. “You’re not crazy, Vir. You just feel things deeper. That’s not a flaw.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m never wrong.”

  He nodded slowly, not answering.

  He had always thought how weird it was that he had never had a dream before. But he had already gotten used to it a long time ago.

  Later, as the apartment drifted toward sleep, Virgil stood by his window again. The rain had stopped. The streets below were empty, except for a flickering street lamp and a cat watching the world pass.

  He glanced at the old wall clock.

  Midnight.

  He turned off the lamp, climbed into bed, and pulled the blanket up to his chest.

  Somewhere, far beyond memory, something ancient stirred.

  The river waited.

  ... And Virgil dreamt.

  Hi y'all I'm a new author looking to make my dream into areality so suggestions areextremely welcome.

  I'm also a student so I can't write daily but at least I should be able to fit writing five times a week into my schedule.

  Thanks people.