The five year old sat alone in the garden, his hands folded neatly in his lap as the afternoon sunlight filtered through the hedge maze behind him. Damien Thorn did not fidget, nor did he speak. He simply watched.

A red ball—glossy, untouched—rested beside his polished black shoe. He hadn't moved it in nearly ten minutes. A sparrow landed on the stone birdbath nearby, and for a moment, the air held its breath.

Damien tilted his head.

The sparrow shrieked, wings flaring—and then, without reason, it darted off with a panicked flutter, feathers drifting to the grass in its wake.

He blinked slowly, gaze following the bird until it vanished. His lips parted, just barely, as if amused by something invisible. A shadow shifted behind the hedgerow, but he didn’t look at it. He didn’t need to.

The silence returned.

Mrs. Baylock, his nanny’s voice rang out from the hall behind the French doors. "Master Damien, it’s time to come inside now."

He didn’t answer. Not with words. He only stood, brushing imaginary dust from his neatly pressed coat. As he turned toward the house, the wind stirred—just once—and every dog in the distance began to bark.

Damien smiled.