RIGHTEOUSNESS NOW AND FOREVER

A glimpse, just a glimpse, of a person.  No, a creature.  It was grey and wiry with a large skull and eyes of black.  

Terror, sheer terror, flooded her body.  It was a cascade of involuntary responses, each one preparing her for survival or surrender. Her sympathetic nervous system erupted into action, releasing a torrent of adrenaline and noradrenaline that transformed every cell into a weapon of self-preservation.  Her heart hammered against her ribcage, tripling its normal rate, forcing blood toward her large muscle groups while abandoning her extremities. Her fingers and toes grew cold and numb as circulation prioritized her core. Her blood pressure spiked, creating a sensation of pounding in her temples and ears.  Her breathing became rapid and shallow, then stopped altogether. Her diaphragm seized.  She was unable to catch her breath. Hyperventilation followed, leading to dizziness and tingling sensations as her carbon dioxide levels plummeted.  Her digestive system shut down entirely. Nausea rose as blood abandoned her stomach. Her bowels and bladder released involuntarily. Saliva production stopped, leaving her mouth cotton-dry despite terror-induced sweat pouring from every pore.  Her muscles flooded with glucose and tensed for action, creating trembling and shaking throughout her frame. Her body locked into a protective posture, frozen while but uncontrollably tremoring. Her vision narrowed into tunnel-like focus, while her peripheral awareness dimmed. Her hearing became hyperacute to the horrible moment at hand, while filtering out other noises entirely.  Cortisol surged through her bloodstream, heightening her alertness while simultaneously impairing her complex reasoning. Her time perception warped—seconds stretched into eternities while hours compressed into heartbeats. Her memory formation became erratic, creating gaps and hyper-vivid snapshots that would resurface unpredictably for years to come.  In the extreme horror, her body shifted from fight-or-flight into a third response: freeze. This parasympathetic rebound caused near-fainting, as her blood pressure suddenly dropped and her consciousness dimmed, her body's final attempt at survival.

The forest, meanwhile, conspired in its indifference. Every tree that might have hidden them had stood as a witness that would never speak. The vastness that had once felt like freedom had transformed into a tomb of green shadows and endless nowhere. Their voice, when they had found it, had disappeared into the canopy like smoke—swallowed by distance and leaves that had heard countless secrets and kept them all.

The dread hadn't been just in what was happening, but in the mathematical certainty of isolation. Kilometres stretched onward, populated only by creatures that followed different laws. Her absence wouldn't be noticed for hours, if ever. The trail she had carefully followed in had become meaningless when she was dragged through underbrush that sprang back, erasing evidence of their passage like water closing over a stone.  Time was well distorted. Minutes may have been hours while simultaneously racing past in a blur. The familiar had become unknown.  These same woods that had once offered peace held them in their green fist. Every shadow could have hidden help or harbored worse dangers.

Then.  Just as suddenly as it had begun, the light vanished.  

Mae was alone in the darkness.  Her mind reeled with confusion and fear like she had never known.  As she stumbled to her feet, she felt a strange sensation in her abdomen, a deep ache within. Ignoring the pain, she staggered through the woods, blood between her legs, her thoughts jumbled and chaotic. Just as dawn began to break over the horizon, Mae emerged from the forest, her face pale and her eyes wide with the realization of the greatest terror.  What had happened to her in those dark woods? She did not know.  She just stood on the edge of the forest, her heart pounding.  Her life was changed.

10:04 p.m..

Mae slipped through bus doors as a cluster of commuters pushed forward, her body moving with practiced ease behind an elderly woman fumbling with her transit card. The driver's eyes swept the mirror, but Mae had already melted into the press of bodies standing in the aisle. She gripped the metal pole as the bus lurched forward, carrying her toward Scarborough.  The neighborhoods shifted outside the smudged windows—storefronts gave way to housing projects, concrete towers rising like monuments to forgotten promises. Mae's reflection stared back at her from the glass, fractured by scratches and the blur of passing streets. She knew these routes, these territories marked by invisible boundaries that everyone understood but no one discussed.

Liz answered the door before Mae could knock, her frame filling the doorway in a way that hadn't existed six months ago. The curve of her belly pressed against a faded concert t-shirt, stretching the band's logo into something unrecognizable. At fourteen, Liz carried herself with a weight that had nothing to do with pregnancy, the careful posture of someone who had learned to navigate the world's judgment.

"Something happened," Mae said, the words spilling out before proper greetings could form.

Liz's arms came around her without hesitation, pulling Mae into an embrace that enveloped her in warmth and the faint scent of cocoa butter. 

Mae felt the sudden flutter against her ribs—a kick, a roll, some communication from the life growing inside her friend. The movement startled her, this evidence of something so complete and certain when everything else felt broken.  Mae pulled back to study Liz's face, searching for signs of the fear that should live there. Instead, she found eyes that sparkled with something Mae couldn't name, a light that seemed to emanate from some deep place of knowing. 

Liz's hand moved to her belly in a gesture that appeared unconscious, protective, her fingers tracing patterns across the stretched fabric.

"In the woods," Mae began, but the words caught in her throat.

Liz guided her to the couch, a worn piece of furniture that had absorbed countless conversations, confessions, and silences. 

The baby kicked again, and Liz smiled—not the performance of happiness Mae had expected, but something genuine that transformed her face entirely. 

Mae watched her friend's hand continue its circular motion, a rhythm that seemed to calm both mother and child.  The apartment around them told its own story of making do: mismatched furniture, a kitchen visible through an archway where formula samples stood in neat rows beside boxes of prenatal vitamins. Motherly posters covered one wall, their bright graphics and cheerful slogans at odds with the reality Mae understood—the looks, the whispers, the ways doors closed when they shouldn't.

Yet Liz glowed. 

The word came to Mae unbidden, this cliché she had dismissed as mythology until seeing it manifest in her friend's face. 

Liz spoke to her belly in soft murmurs, conversations Mae couldn't quite catch but recognized as intimate, necessary communication between two beings sharing one body.

Mae's own body felt hollow in comparison, emptied by whatever had happened among the trees. She watched Liz's contentment with something approaching wonder, this ability to find joy in circumstances that should inspire only dread. 

The baby responded to its mother's voice with another series of movements, a language Mae was only beginning to understand.

Liz's whispered reassurances washed over Mae like balm on broken skin, but Mae found herself turning toward the life that pulsed beneath her friend's hands. 

Words rose from some deep place within her, melody threading through them in lullaby as if her voice remembered songs she had never learned. "Magnificent, magnificent child," Mae sang, her voice catching on the words that seemed to pour from her chest without permission. The tune came from nowhere and everywhere—church hymns and playground rhymes, her grandmother's humming and the rhythm of her own heartbeat. "Grow strong, grow true, magnificent child, I sing to you."

Liz's breath caught, her eyes filling with tears that Mae recognized as gratitude rather than sorrow. 

The baby stilled beneath its mother's skin, as if listening to this first song from the world beyond the womb.

"You're going to be everything she needs," Mae said, the certainty in her voice surprising them both. She studied Liz's face, seeing strength in the set of her jaw, wisdom in eyes that had learned too much too soon. "The love in you, it's bigger than any bank account, deeper than anything money could buy."

Liz's hand found Mae's, their fingers intertwining as the baby resumed its gentle movements. Mae felt the truth of her words settle between them, solid and unshakeable despite the uncertainty that surrounded everything else.

"I can't go back," Mae said after a while, the admission falling into the space they had created. "I can't face my ma. Can't sit at that table and pretend nothing happened."

Liz squeezed her hand, her response immediate and unwavering. "Then don't. Stay here. We'll figure it out together."

The months that followed blurred together in a rhythm of survival and small joys. Mae watched Liz's body transform, her belly growing rounder and tighter while her face took on the otherworldly glow of creation. They shared the narrow bed, Mae's body curving around her friend's expanding form, both of them learning to sleep around the baby's nocturnal movements.  They ate dinner by the light of an old monitor that provided more comfort than entertainment, Mae's voice weaving through the apartment as she sang to the baby that kicked against her palm whenever she placed it on Liz's belly.  

October 2, 2050.  6:04 p.m..  Scarborough, Ontario, U.S.A.

Joe was a boy.  He appeared in Mae's life like morning light through venetian blinds: gradual, then sudden, then impossible to ignore. He worked the night shift at Sunnybrook Hospital, cleaning.  Their conversations began as whispered exchanges in empty corridors, words passed between them like secrets in the antiseptic silence.  He had big hands that moved when he spoke, painting pictures in the air of places he wanted to see, dreams that lived just beyond the next paycheck. 

Mae watched those hands as he described his plans to save money, to travel, to build something that mattered. 

When he touched her face for the first time, his fingertips traced her cheekbone with the same careful attention he gave to his words.  Their romance unfolded in stolen moments of shared cigarettes on the hospital's loading dock, walks through neighbourhoods where streetlights created pools of amber warmth, and late-night phone calls that stretched until dawn crept through the little loft's windows. Joe brought her flowers from the hospital gift shop after visiting hours ended, wilted carnations and roses that had lost their customers but at least retained their fragrance.

Mae discovered she loved the weight of his arm across her shoulders, the way he listened to her stories about the woods without asking questions she couldn't answer. 

He kissed her in doorways and bus shelters, his mouth warm against hers while the city moved around them in streams of headlights and hurried footsteps.

When her body began to change, Mae hid the transformation beneath loose clothing and careful positioning. She bound her breasts with ace bandages, wore Joe's hoodies that hung past her hips, turned away when he reached for her in moments of intimacy. The deception carved hollow spaces in her chest, but she told herself she would find the right words, the right moment, the right way to make him understand.

Joe's face went blank when he finally saw her in profile, the curve of her belly undeniable beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown. 

Mae watched realization move across his features like clouds across the sun—recognition, calculation, something like betrayal or fear.

He left without slamming doors or raising his voice, the absence of anger somehow worse than fury would have been. 

Mae found herself alone in the space with Liz, whose own pregnancy had progressed to the point where she moved like a ship navigating narrow channels, her hands pressed to her lower back.

9 p.m..

The park sat empty except for Joe and the joint that burned between his fingers, smoke rising into air that still held the day's heat. The last of the sunset painted the sky in colors that reminded him of Mae's skin, of the way light had played across her face when she laughed. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs while trying to hold onto the anger that had carried him this far.

The presence announced itself without footsteps or sound, a shift in the air that made the hair on Joe's arms stand on end. 

His piece fell to the ground.  He turned to find a figure that his mind struggled to process—tall but not imposing, familiar yet utterly foreign, speaking without words directly into the space behind his eyes.  Understanding flooded through him like warm water, knowledge that bypassed his rational mind and settled into his bones. 

Mae's child began to pulse with significance that stretched beyond human comprehension, a thread in a tapestry Joe could suddenly see in its entirety. The being showed him glimpses of what could be, humanity's next step, bridges built across chasms of misunderstanding, healing that reached into wounds centuries deep.  Joe saw his own role in this unfolding story, not as victim or fool but as guardian, protector, the steady ground beneath something extraordinary. The communication came not as commands but as invitation, as recognition of something Joe had always carried but never understood.  When the presence withdrew, Joe sat alone in the gathering darkness with the taste of revelation still sharp on his tongue. He stepped on the joint beneath as he stumbled away, his body moving with new purpose through streets transformed by what he now knew.

Mae answered her door with eyes that had learned to expect disappointment, her hand resting protectively over the life they had created together. 

Joe knelt before her without preamble, his voice steady as he spoke words he had never planned to say. "Marry me then."

The wedding took place three weeks later in a courthouse that smelled of floor wax and forgotten dreams, Mae's belly prominent beneath a dress Liz had sewn from fabric they found on sale. Joe's hands shook as he slipped the ring onto Mae's finger, both of them understanding that they were binding themselves not just to each other but to something larger, something that would demand everything they had to give.

December 24, 2050.  6:30 a.m..  Scarborough, Ontario, U.S.A.

The phone vibrated in the morning while Joe stood in the tiny kitchen, coffee mug halfway to his lips. Mae stirred in the bed in the main room. The screen showed a number he didn't recognize, a Barrie area code that made his stomach tighten before he answered.

"This is Constable Mitchell with the Barrie Police Service. I'm calling about your father Dave."

The coffee mug hit the counter. Brown liquid spread across the off-white surface, reaching the edge and dripping onto the floor in a steady rhythm that matched his heartbeat. 

The officer's voice continued, words like "found this morning" and "appears to be natural causes" and "next of kin" forming a net that caught him and held him suspended above a reality he wasn't ready to enter.

Mae appeared in the doorway, huge t-shirt stretched tight across her middle. Three months along but looking like nine, her body expanding with a speed that confounded the doctor and left them both checking the calendar obsessively. She watched Joe's face while he spoke to the officer, watched him write down addresses and phone numbers on the back of an envelope, watched him hang up and stand motionless beside the spreading puddle of coffee.

"We need to go to Barrie," Joe said.

She nodded and disappeared to pack their bags. 

Joe remained in the kitchen, studying the mess he'd made, the dark stain that would probably never come out of the grout. 

His father was dead. 

The words felt foreign in his mouth, like trying to speak a language he'd only read in books. 

Dave, who called every Sunday to complain about the Leafs and ask when they were coming to visit. Dave, who had been building a cradle in his garage, measuring twice and cutting once the way he'd taught Joe twenty years ago.

Two hours later Joe and Mae were on Highway 400, the city falling away behind them as they drove north toward the place Joe had spent seventeen years trying to leave.  The highway curved through snow-laden pines before opening onto Dunlop Street, where strings of white lights traced the rooflines of century homes. Joe's hands tightened on the steering wheel as familiar landmarks emerged from the December dusk, the same corner store where he'd bought penny candy, the park where his father had taught him to skate on the frozen pond. 

Mae shifted beside him, one hand resting on the curve that had appeared seemingly overnight, her body expanding with a speed that surprised them both.  Garland wrapped the lampposts like green scarves. Shop windows blazed with artificial snow and mechanical reindeer that jerked their heads in endless loops. 

A Santa waved from the steps of city hall, his red suit brilliant against the limestone facade. The Christmas market had taken over the town square, wooden stalls selling hot chocolate and handmade ornaments to families who moved between the booths with the unhurried pace of people who belonged somewhere.

Joe pulled into the funeral home parking lot, where cars sat beneath a coating of fresh powder. The building wore the same festive treatment as the rest of the street, wreaths on every door, icicle lights dripping from the eaves like frozen tears. Inside, the reception area smelled of pine boughs and lilies, scents that fought for dominance in the warm air.

Mae walked beside him down the carpeted hallway, her breathing shallow from the weight she now carried. Her coat hung open—she could no longer button it across her middle. 

Three months, the doctor had confirmed, though her body suggested otherwise. 

Joe watched her settle into a chair near the back of the viewing room, watched how she pressed her palm against her side when she thought no one was looking.

Dave lay in the casket wearing his navy suit, the one he'd bought for Joe's graduation.

Someone had combed his grey hair the way he never did in life, parted on the side instead of swept back. 

His hands, those carpenter's hands that had built the deck behind their house, the treehouse in the backyard oak, lay folded over his chest. The wedding ring he'd never removed after Joe's mother died caught the overhead light.

People filtered through the room speaking in hushed voices about the weather, about Christmas plans, about anything except the body that drew them here. 

Mrs. Henderson from next door brought a casserole. 

Tom from the hardware store shook Joe's hand and mentioned how Dave had been in just last week buying wood screws. Each conversation felt like stepping stones across a river Joe couldn't see the other side of.

Mae stood to greet his aunt Carol, rising with the careful movements of someone whose centre of gravity had shifted without warning. 

Carol embraced her, then stepped back with the expression people wear when they're calculating months in their head. 

Mae's hand found Joe's arm, her fingers pressing into his sleeve.  Through the tall windows, the Christmas lights of Barrie continued their celebration. 

Children pressed their faces against the glass of the toy store across the street. A horse-drawn sleigh moved down the sidewalk, bells chiming with each step. The world spun forward while time seemed suspended in this room that smelled of flowers and grief, where people whispered their memories of a man who would not see another Christmas morning.

Joe stood beside the casket as the last visitors departed. 

Mae waited by the door, her silhouette backlit by the colored lights that transformed the familiar streets of his childhood into something both magical and strange. Tomorrow they would gather again, would follow the hearse to the cemetery where the ground crew had worked with machinery to break through the frozen earth. Tonight, they would return to his father's empty house and try to find sleep while the neighborhood twinkled around them like a music box that played the same melody over and over.

The funeral director dimmed the lights. Outside, snow began to fall again, each flake catching the glow of the Christmas display before disappearing into the darkness.

The family home was crowded with extended family.  Joe didn't want to deal with any of them.  He and Mae decided to just find a hotel room for the night.  The estate would cover it and anyway it wasn't that expensive in Barrie.

Mae was surprised that Joe turned on Christmas music as they set off for the highway side where a small cluster of motels congregated, but Joe said he needed some cheer.

The Borden Inn sign glowed white through the falling snow, the digital word "VACANCY" crossed out with black electrical tape. Mae remained in the passenger seat while Joe spoke to the desk clerk, a teenager with purple hair who shrugged and pointed toward the highway. The Days Inn down the road displayed the same message. So did the Travelodge, the Super 8, and the roadside motor lodge with the broken neon sign that flickered between "OTEL" and darkness.  

"Christmas bookings," the clerk at the sixth hotel explained, his fingers drumming against the reception desk. "Plus we got the mining equipment expo running through the weekend, and folks coming in for that funeral tomorrow. Dave Brennan, you know him? Seemed like half the county knew that man."

Joe's jaw tightened. 

Mae watched him through the windshield as he returned to the car, watched the way his shoulders hunched against more than just the cold.

"Everyone's full," he said, sliding behind the wheel. Snow gathered on his hair and melted into dark patches on his coat.

Mae shifted in her seat, trying to find a position that didn't press against her ribs. The baby had been active since they'd left the GTA, pressing outward as if testing the boundaries of its expanding world. She closed her eyes and thought of their apartment, their bed, the quiet routine of morning coffee and evening news that seemed impossibly distant now.

Joe pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. The screen's blue light illuminated his face as he found the number he was looking for.  "Luke? It's Joe Brennan... Yeah, I'm in town for Dad's funeral... Listen, I know this is asking a lot, but Mae and I can't find a room anywhere..."

Mae watched him through their conversation, watched him nod and write down directions on a Tim Hortons napkin. 

When he hung up, some of the tension left his shoulders.  "Luke Elbib," he said. "We went to high school together. He has a farm about fifteen minutes out of town. Says he's got a place we can stay."  The roads narrowed as they left the commercial strip behind. Fields stretched white and empty under a sky that threatened more snow. Abandoned wood barns and silos punctuated the landscape like monuments to a way of life that perished by the relentless pace of technological advancement, factory farming, and lab meat. 

Mae counted mailboxes and tried to imagine Joe as a teenager in this place, tried to picture him belonging to these wide spaces and long horizons.  Luke's driveway curved between two stone pillars, the mailbox still reading "Elbib Farms - Grass Fed Beef." The farmhouse sat back from the road, windows glowing yellow in the gathering darkness. A Cybertruck with a snowplow attachment sat beside a red barn that looked freshly painted. 

Luke emerged from the house as they pulled up, a man in his forties with the kind of build that came from physical work, not a gym.  "Joe." He embraced his old friend, then turned to Mae with the kind of smile that made her understand why Joe had called him. "You must be Mae. I'm sorry about Dave. He was a good man."

"Luke converted the old cattle barn when people stopped buying real beef," Joe explained as they walked across the yard, their feet crunching in the snow. "Said he might as well make it useful."  The barn stood fifty yards from the house, its pale paint bright even in the dim light. 

Luke pulled open a door that looked original but moved on modern hinges. 

Inside, Mae found herself in a space that defied her expectations. The old stalls had been removed, leaving an open floor plan with exposed beams and modern fixtures. A kitchen occupied one corner, complete with granite countertops and stainless smart appliances. A spiral staircase led to a loft bedroom visible through a railing of reclaimed wood.

"Plumbing, heat, everything you need," Luke said, flipping switches that brought the space to life. "When people decided they wanted their meat wrapped in plastic from who knows where, I figured this old girl deserved a second chance."

Mae ran her hand along the kitchen counter, feeling the smooth stone beneath her fingers. The space smelled of pine and sawdust, clean scents that made her think of new beginnings. Through the windows, she could see the lights of the farmhouse and, beyond that, the distant glow of Barrie against the winter sky.  "This is beautiful," she said.

Luke ducked his head, pleased. "Built most of it myself. Seemed a shame to let it sit empty when it could house folks instead of cattle. Dave actually helped me with the electrical work. Said he'd never seen a barn turn into anything so fancy."

Joe walked to the window and looked out at the snow-covered fields. 

Mae watched him process this information, another piece of his father's life that had existed beyond his knowing. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows and reminding them all that winter in this part of Ontario was not a season to face without shelter.

"Stay as long as you need," Luke said, handing Joe a set of keys.

December 25, 2050.  12:01 a.m..  Outside Barrie, Ontario, U.S.A..

The countryside was a blanket of fresh snow. Fields stretched unbroken in every direction, their furrows erased by the storm that had passed through after midnight. Luke's farmhouse sat dark against the white landscape, its windows black rectangles that reflected nothing. Even the barn cats had found shelter, leaving no tracks in the pristine drifts that curved around fence posts and mailboxes like frozen waves.  Inside the converted barn, Joe and Mae slept deeply in the loft bed, their breathing synchronized with the quiet that pressed against the walls. The heating system cycled on and off with mechanical precision, the only sound in a world that seemed to have paused between one moment and the next. Snow covered the skylights, filtering the moonlight into a pale glow that made the exposed beams look like the skeleton of some ancient cathedral.  The silence was so complete that when Mae's cry cut through it at twenty-five minutes past midnight, the sound seemed to shatter something fundamental about the night itself, pulling Joe from sleep like a hand dragging him from deep water. She sat upright in the loft bed, both hands pressed against her abdomen, her face pale in the moonlight streaming through the barn's high windows.

"Something's wrong." Her voice came in short bursts between breaths that seemed to catch in her throat. "Joe, something's happening."

He rolled toward her, his mind struggling to catch up with his body's sudden alertness. Below them, the barn's open space stretched dark and quiet, their footsteps from hours earlier still visible in the dust that coated the wide plank floors. 

Mae doubled forward, a low moan escaping her lips.

"Hospital," Joe said, already reaching for his clothes. "We need to get to the hospital."

Mae shook her head, her hair damp with sweat despite the December cold that crept through the walls. Another contraction seized her, stronger than the first, and she gripped the iron bed frame until her knuckles showed white against her skin.  "No time." The words came through gritted teeth. "Joe, there's no time."

He pulled on his jeans and stumbled down the spiral staircase, his bare feet hitting the cold floor with sharp slaps that echoed in the vaulted space. The barn's kitchen held towels, clean dish rags, a pot large enough for boiling water. His hands moved without conscious thought, muscle memory from a first aid course he'd taken years ago guiding him through preparations he'd never imagined making.

Mae appeared at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing as another wave of pain doubled her over. She descended slowly, one step at a time, pausing when the contractions peaked and breathing through them with a focus that reminded Joe of athletes he'd watched push through barriers they'd thought impossible to cross.  The main floor felt vast around them, the exposed beams stretching overhead like the ribs of some great sleeping creature. Mae lowered herself onto the thick rug that covered the space between the kitchen and living area, her movements careful and deliberate despite the urgency that filled the air between them.

"Three months," Joe said, more to himself than to her. The timeline made no sense. The baby wasn't due until spring. Mae's body had been changing, yes, expanding faster than expected, but three months meant danger, meant a fight for survival that babies that small rarely won.

Mae reached for his hand and squeezed with strength that surprised him. "It's coming now."  The next hour passed in a blur of controlled panic and whispered encouragements. 

Joe found himself kneeling beside Mae on the rug, his shirt soaked with sweat despite the cold that seeped through the barn's walls. Outside, snow continued to fall, coating the windows and muffling any sound from the world beyond their small circle of emergency.

Mae's face showed a determination he'd never seen before, as if she'd found reserves of strength she hadn't known she possessed. Between contractions, she looked up at the barn's rafters, at the modern fixtures Luke had installed among the original timbers, and Joe wondered if she was finding comfort in the building's transformation from one purpose to another.  "Now," she said, her voice breaking. "Joe, now."

The baby slipped into the world at twelve minutes past one o'clock on Christmas morning, sliding into Joe's waiting hands with a ease that defied every story he'd ever heard about difficult births. The tiny body felt warm and solid, perfectly formed despite arriving months ahead of schedule. 

Joe stared down at his child, expecting to see the translucent skin and laboured breathing of a premature infant, but instead found himself looking at a baby that appeared full-term, its skin pink and healthy, its chest rising and falling with steady, strong breaths.

Mae raised her head from the rug, exhaustion and wonder fighting for control of her expression. "Is it...?"

"Perfect." Joe's voice caught on the word. The baby opened its eyes and looked directly at him, a gaze that seemed far too alert for someone who had just entered the world. "Mae, he's perfect."

Mae struggled to sit up, and Joe helped her lean against the leather couch that dominated the living area. She reached for the faux-fur throw that had been draped over the cushions, a soft cream-colored blanket that Luke had probably chosen more for comfort than style. Her movements were slow but sure as she wrapped their daughter in the makeshift swaddling, creating a cocoon of warmth around the tiny form.

The baby settled against Mae's chest as if she'd been waiting for exactly this arrangement. Outside, church bells began to ring across the countryside, an old tradition marking the arrival of Christmas Day.  The sound drifted through the barn's walls, mixing with the quiet breathing of their new family and the whisper of snow against glass.

Joe sat back on his heels and watched Mae cradle her son against the ottoman she'd pulled close to the couch. The barn felt different now, transformed again from shelter to birthplace, its purpose shifting as easily as it had when Luke had converted it from stable to guest house. 

The baby's eyes remained open, alert and curious, as if she were taking inventory of this strange new world he'd chosen to enter in the middle of a December night, far from home, in a barn that smelled of sawdust and new beginnings.

Neither of them noticed when the little one blinked its eyes sideways.

The crunch of boots on snow announced Luke's approach before his silhouette appeared in the barn's tall windows. He knocked twice on the door frame, then pushed inside without waiting for an answer, his face creased with concern and his coat dusted with fresh powder.  "Heard voices," he said, then stopped as his eyes adjusted to the scene before him. 

Mae sat propped against the couch, the cream-colored throw wrapped around a bundle in her arms. 

Joe knelt beside her on the rug, his shirt damp with sweat despite the cold that followed Luke through the open door. 

"Jesus. Is everything..."

"The baby came early," Joe said, his voice carrying a mixture of exhaustion and wonder. "He's healthy. Perfect, actually."

Luke approached slowly, the way people move around something precious and fragile. 

The baby turned toward the sound of his footsteps, eyes wide and alert in a face that seemed impossibly serene for someone who had just completed the journey from one world to another.

"He's beautiful," Luke said, reaching out to touch the tiny fist that had emerged from the blanket. "Congratulations."

Mae looked up at him, her face pale but radiant. "He arrived right after midnight. Christmas Day."  The three adults formed a quiet circle around the new-born, their breathing visible in the cold air that continued to flow through the open doorway. Outside, the snow had stopped falling, leaving the countryside locked in silence. The barn's heating system hummed softly, working to replace the warmth that escaped into the December night.  Then the darkness beyond the threshold began to change.  At first, it looked like approaching headlights, a soft glow that grew brighter without the accompanying whir of an electric engine. Mae's grip tightened on the baby, her knuckles white against the faux fur. The light intensified, not the harsh glare of bulbs but something softer, more diffuse, as if the air itself had begun to glow.

"What in God's name..." Luke moved toward the door, then stopped as the light coalesced into a presence that made his rational mind stumble.

Mae's face went rigid with recognition. The hue was the same that had found her in the woods six months ago, the same radiance that had preceded hours she could barely remember and refused to discuss. Her body began to shake, not from cold but from a terror that reached back to that night when she'd lost time and woken with no memory of how she'd gotten home.

The figure that emerged from the glow moved with fluid grace, its form humanoid but impossibly elongated. The skull was large and smooth, the limbs thin as winter branches. But it was the eyes that held their attention, black pools that seemed to contain depths beyond measurement, ancient and knowing and somehow kind.

Peace. 

The word formed in their minds without passing through their ears, gentle as falling snow. Do not fear.

Mae clutched the baby closer, her maternal instincts warring with the strange calm that began to settle over her thoughts. The creature's presence felt different than she remembered from that night in the woods, less clinical, more... reverent.

The child is special, the voice continued, speaking directly to their consciousness. Born of two worlds, carrying gifts that will serve all of humanity. You will call him Chris.

The baby in Mae's arms stirred, turning toward the figure in the doorway as if recognizing something familiar. His deep eyes, which had been alert since birth, seemed to focus on the creature with an intensity that made Joe's breath catch.

He will help your kind understand what you have forgotten, that you are not alone, that love transcends the boundaries you have created. He will be a bridge between what is and what could be.

More figures appeared behind the first, their forms barely visible in the soft radiance that emanated from their presence. They stood in silent witness, their thoughts touching the edges of human consciousness like whispers of wind through leaves. Peace flowed from them in waves, washing away fear and replacing it with something Joe had no name for, a sense of rightness, of purpose, of belonging to something larger than themselves.

Raise him with love, the first being continued. Teach him kindness. The rest will come.

The creatures began to fade, their forms dissolving back into the light that had brought them. The radiance lingered for a moment longer, bathing the barn's interior in gentle luminescence, then contracted to a single point and vanished, leaving only the ordinary darkness of a December night.

Luke stood frozen in the doorway, his mouth slightly open, his practical farmer's mind struggling to process what he had witnessed. 

Joe sat motionless on the rug, staring at the space where the beings had been. 

Mae looked down at the baby in her arms—Chris—and found him sleeping peacefully, his tiny features relaxed as if he had just been blessed.

"Did that really..." Luke's voice trailed off.

Joe reached for Mae's hand, finding it warm despite the cold that continued to seep through the open door. Outside, the countryside had returned to its winter stillness, fields of snow stretching endlessly under stars that seemed brighter than they had any right to be.  None of them spoke for a long while. 

The baby slept, the heating system hummed, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled the hour. Christmas Day had begun with a miracle none of them would fully understand.

10:00 a.m..

After the sun rose and shone down on Christmas morning, the first car turned into Luke's driveway. 

Mae watched from the loft window as a silver sedan navigated the snow-packed lane, followed by a red pickup truck, then a minivan with children's faces pressed against its glass. Word travelled fast in a place like Barrie, carried by the same invisible networks that spread news of births and deaths and everything in between.

"How do they even know?" Joe asked, bouncing Chris gently in his arms. 

The baby had slept through the early morning hours but now gazed around the barn with eyes that seemed to take in everything.

Luke emerged from the house and spoke to the first arrivals, gesturing toward the converted barn. 

Mae couldn't hear the conversation, but she watched the way people nodded and moved with a kind of reverence she'd never seen at a typical baby visit. 

They approached the barn door with careful steps, as if entering sacred space.  The first visitors were Mrs. Patterson and her daughter from the grocery store, carrying casseroles and a basket of fruit. They cooed over Chris with the appropriate enthusiasm, but Mae noticed something else in their faces, a peace that settled over their features when they looked at him, as if his presence smoothed away the everyday worries that lined their expressions.  "He's got such calm eyes," Mrs. Patterson said, reaching out to touch his tiny hand. "I've never seen a newborn so... present."

More people followed throughout the morning. Neighbors Mae had never met, friends of Dave's from the hardware store, families from the Christmas market who had somehow heard about the Christmas Day birth in Luke's barn. They came bearing gifts and good wishes, but Mae began to notice that they lingered longer than expected, reluctant to leave the warmth of Chris's presence.  The steady stream of visitors paused when three men appeared together in the doorway, stamping snow from their boots. Joe's face lit up with recognition.  "Bart. Mel. Gary." He shifted Chris to one arm and embraced each of them in turn. "I can't believe you guys came."

"Are you kidding?" Bart grinned, unwinding a scarf from around his neck. "Christmas Day miracle baby born in a barn? We wouldn't miss this for anything."

Mae remembered their names from Joe's stories, his closest friends from high school, the ones who had stayed in touch despite distance and time. Bart worked in tech now, somewhere near Kitchener. Mel taught at the university in nearby Orillia. Gary had taken over his family's accounting firm in town.

"We brought gifts," Bart said, producing a wrapped box from his coat. "When we heard about little Chris here, we thought he might need some essentials."

"And some non-essentials," Mel added, holding up a shopping bag. "The fun stuff."  He approached Mae and the baby with a reverence that reminded her of the other visitors. "May I?" He held out his arms, and Mae found herself passing Chris over without hesitation. Mel cradled the infant with surprising skill, his face softening as he looked down at the tiny features.  "There's something special about him," Mel said quietly. "I can feel it."

"We all can," Bart agreed. "As soon as we heard about the birth, we knew we had to come. It felt... important."  They unpacked their gifts with ceremony. Bart had brought a hardware wallet loaded with digital currency—enough to secure Chris's future, he explained, his contribution to the modern world the baby would inherit. Mel presented boxes of sheets and blankets, impossibly soft linens that would transform any crib into a palace. Gary's bag contained practical items—premium diapers, organic baby food, toys crafted from sustainable wood.

"Egyptian cotton," Mel explained, running the fabric between his fingers. "Six hundred thread count. Nothing but the best for this little guy."

"And the digital wallet is untraceable," Bart added, handing Joe a sleek metal device. "Set it up with biometric access. By the time he's old enough to use it, this will be worth considerably more than it is today."

Mae watched the three men fuss over Chris, watched how their entire demeanor changed in his presence. 

The stress lines around Bart's eyes seemed to fade. 

Mel's usual nervous energy settled into calm focus. 

Gary, who Joe had always described as cynical, smiled with genuine joy as he showed Chris a wooden rattle carved in the shape of a dove.  "It's not really about the gifts," he said, seeming to read Mae's thoughts. "I mean, we wanted to bring him things, but being here... it feels right. Like this is where we're supposed to be this morning."

The afternoon brought more visitors—teachers from Joe's old school, members of the church Dave had attended, teenagers who had worked at the hardware store and remembered Joe's father with fondness. They came in waves, each group bringing their own offerings, their own stories, their own sense that something extraordinary had happened in this converted barn.  

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the snow-covered fields, Mae found herself holding court in the barn's living area. 

Chris slept in a basket lined with the Egyptian cotton, surrounded by the gifts that had accumulated throughout the day. The visitors had finally thinned out, leaving only Luke, the three childhood friends, and a few stragglers who seemed reluctant to leave.

"We should probably head home," Mrs. Patterson said, though she made no move toward the door. "But it's been such a peaceful day. I haven't felt this... settled in months."

"It's him," Bart said simply, nodding toward the sleeping baby. "He radiates something. Calm, maybe. Or hope."

Mae looked around the barn at the faces of these people who had come to welcome her son into the world. They had brought gifts, yes, but they had given something more valuable—their recognition that Chris was special, their willingness to be part of whatever was beginning here. In a small town like Barrie, where everyone knew everyone else's business, the fact that word had spread so quickly felt less like gossip and more like a calling.  "Thank you," she said, her voice carrying across the barn's vaulted space. "All of you. For coming, for the gifts, for..." She paused, searching for words to describe what they had really given her. "For understanding."

The visitors began to disperse as darkness fell, but each stopped to look once more at the baby sleeping in his basket, their faces reflecting the same wonder Mae had seen all day. As the barn emptied, she realized that Chris's arrival had become more than a birth, it had become a gathering, a celebration, a moment when an entire community had come together to welcome something they couldn't quite name but somehow recognized as precious.

7 p.m..

Before the trip home, Joe pulled into the cemetery to touch his father's tombstone.  "I'm sorry we missed the burial, Dad, but I have a feeling you would've approved of how things turned out."

Overhead, an odd light streaked off into the void.  

Liz would never believe this.S