Smallville had always been quiet, the kind of place where days rolled by like lazy clouds over golden fields. But for ten-year-old Clark Kent, nothing felt quiet anymore.

It started small—literally. A football caught midair without thinking. A fall from the barn roof that should’ve broken something but didn’t. Whispers at school about how he was “weird,” how he never got hurt, how he could run faster than anyone else. Clark didn’t know what was happening to him. All he knew was that the more it happened, the more he felt like a freak.

There were nights he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands like they didn’t belong to him, wondering why he wasn’t like the other kids—why the world felt louder, sharper, heavier. Some nights he cried, not because it hurt, but because he was scared it never would.

But every time fear crept in, every time he thought about running away or hiding for good, there was always a knock at his door.

Jonathan Kent, strong and steady, would sit beside him, arm around his shoulder. “You’re not a freak, son. You’re just… special. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Martha Kent, warm and gentle, would kneel in front of him, brushing the hair from his eyes. “Whatever you are, whoever you become, we love you. That’s what matters most.”