To Vanessa's astonishment, the doorknob barely turned before falling still.
No push. No retreat.
Silence.
Peter remained on the other side of the door like a ghost, invisible but present.
Vanessa stood frozen in the darkness, her back pressed against the wood, heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. Every nerve screamed for release, her fingers clamped tight around the dagger's hilt. Yet... the confrontation never came.
After a few agonizing seconds, the only thing she heard was retreating footsteps.
He left.
Vanessa's knees buckled as her breath exploded from her lungs in a tremble. The dagger slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor. She collapsed beside it, palms trembling, body slick with sweat despite the cold.
Tears welled in her eyes—not from relief, but from the knowledge that she'd been seconds from doing something irreversible.
And now... she had another chance.
---
Minutes later, Vanessa stood at the garage, strapping tools into a makeshift harness—a pickaxe and shovel bundled together with tape, slung across her back with a loop of old rope.
She returned to the second floor.
Her son's small body—wrapped with careful tenderness—was lifted into her arms one final time.
It was raining harder now, as though the sky mourned with her.
She laid him gently in the trunk of the car.
Louis's license had been suspended last month, and the sedan hadn't been touched since—but tonight, the engine roared to life, coughing defiantly into the storm.
She drove.
---
The forest road was almost invisible in the downpour. Trees bent and swayed under the wind's shrieking song, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the air.
Vanessa's headlights cut through the mist.
She knew this place.
She'd studied the maps, pored over the ancient local legends.
And she knew where to go.
After nearly thirty minutes, she reached a clearing—an overgrown depression ringed with jagged stones, half-hidden beneath a canopy of twisted oaks.
Dead leaves matted the ground like a shroud.
Vanessa stumbled from the car, drenched instantly. Rain soaked through her clothes, plastering hair to her face, but she didn't care.
This was the place.
This was the spot.
She dragged the body from the trunk, wrapped in the tarp and blanket, then collapsed to her knees, gasping for breath.
With blistered palms, she dug.
The rain softened the soil, making it easier, but also turned it into sludge. Her shovel carved through the wet earth, flinging mud behind her.
When the pit was deep enough, she laid her son's body into it.
There was a moment of stillness.
Then she began to bury him again.
When it was over, Vanessa dropped the shovel, slumped forward, and rested her head on the muddy ground beside the grave.
"I'll bring you back, Terry," she whispered hoarsely. "Even if it kills me."
And with that, she dragged herself back to the car and drove off through the storm.
---
Unbeknownst to her, Peter had seen everything.
Hidden in the dense brush, rain trickling down the hood of his black coat, Peter emerged only after her taillights had vanished into the woods.
He stepped toward the fresh mound of earth.
His eyes narrowed.
So this was her plan.
She hadn't run away. She hadn't tried to cover her tracks.
She'd deliberately chosen this spot in the forest to rebury her son.
Why?
Was there something special about this ground? Some hidden ritual?
Peter knelt by the grave, placing a gloved hand on the wet earth.
That's when he felt it—a pulse.
A faint radiation. A strange frequency humming just below the surface.
He brushed aside the dead leaves and moss, revealing a faint green glow emanating from the disturbed soil.
Peter's brows drew together in concern.
He reached down—and pulled free a stone. Smooth, cold, and glowing green like liquid emeralds.
He held it up.
This wasn't ordinary meteorite debris.
This... this was Kryptonite.
---
The Next Morning – Patrick Farm
Warm morning light poured through the kitchen window.
At the breakfast table, Clark sat quietly, poking at his bowl of oatmeal.
Across from him, Adam had already downed his milk in a single gulp, energized as always.
"Dad!" Adam chirped, voice still cracking with excitement. "Can we go into town later? I saw someone flying a huge eagle kite. Can I have one too? I want to try flying it!"
Peter glanced over from the stove, amused. "You want to fly a kite in this weather?"
"It's sunny now!" Adam grinned. "And you could get me the string too. Please?"
Peter smiled faintly. "We'll see."
Then he turned toward Clark.
"What about you, Clark? Want one too?"
Before Clark could answer, Adam blurted out, "He's still sad about the funeral. He didn't even want to eat waffles this morning."
Peter looked more closely at Clark.
The boy's eyes were a bit puffy. He hadn't been sleeping well.
"What's on your mind, son?" Peter asked gently.
Clark paused, spoon hovering mid-air.
"I just... the funeral... it made me feel weird," he murmured. "Everyone looked so sad. It felt like... like it was pulling something out of me."
Peter sat down next to him.
"You're feeling empathy," he said. "That's what happens when your heart mirrors the sorrow of others. It's normal. Healthy, even."
Clark's gaze dropped. "But why does it feel like it's going to last forever?"
Peter rested a comforting hand on the boy's head.
"Because it feels heavy now," he said. "Grief comes in stages. First it's shock. Then sadness, heartache, mourning... and eventually, it becomes memory. It's like the colors of a rainbow. You don't see the change until the storm passes."
Clark nodded slowly.
Then frowned. "How long does it take?"
"For most people? Six months to three years."
Clark's face dropped in dismay. "Three years?!"
Peter chuckled. "That's for close family. You'll be okay, kid. The feelings will pass sooner than you think."
Just then, Peter reached into the drawer and placed a small lead box on the table.
"What's that?" Adam asked, eyes lighting up with curiosity.
Peter didn't answer.
Instead, he watched.
Adam immediately lunged for it and popped the lid open.
A green light flashed inside the room.
The stone inside pulsed gently.
Clark blinked—and suddenly recoiled in pain.
His chest tightened. His breath caught.
He felt like something inside him was being squeezed.
Adam picked up the glowing green stone. "Whoa! Clark, look—it's like it's alive!"
Clark reached out to take it, but the instant his fingers brushed the stone—
"Ahhh!"
He yelped, his hand jerking back, nearly knocking over his bowl.
The stone hit the table with a clatter—and Peter caught it midair with one hand.
Adam jumped to his feet. "Clark, are you okay?!"
Clark cradled his hand. "I—I don't know. It felt like it was burning me."
Peter, now certain, closed the lead box carefully and returned it to the drawer.
He looked at Clark with a serious expression.
This confirmed it.
The stone wasn't just a curiosity from space.
It was Kryptonite.
And Clark, still unaware of his true heritage, had just unknowingly shown his first reaction to it.
---
Closing Scene
As Peter cleaned up the breakfast dishes, his thoughts turned inward.
So far, he'd only had suspicions about Clark.
But now, there was no denying it.
The boy was Kryptonian. The arrival of this Kryptonite—buried with the body, emitting radiation in that forest—was no coincidence.
And Vanessa…
Why had she gone to th
at very location?
Was there more to this green meteorite than he realized?
Something was beginning.
Something dark, and alien, and old.
And Peter was right in the middle of it.
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