Ash lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
The room was silent except for occasional sounds of the celebration downstairs fading into something muted and distant.
Up here it was only the ceiling, and thoughts, and the shadowy quiet of his bedroom enveloping him.
He had plenty of thoughts.
Images of his father kept flashing through his mind – that wide-eyed gaze and the flattened, hollowed-out look that had taken its place the minute 3.2 appeared above his head.
Draco had made an impassioned speech about his third son in front of every noble family in the region, and the Tethrys had replied with its lowest possible classification.
He did not need anyone to tell him that his father was disappointed. He had witnessed it firsthand.
What made the weight of the situation bear down even more heavily was not the disappointment of his father.
Ever since that moment when he first became conscious in this world, something inside of him had made him believe that the whole experience was significant.
That the very act of reincarnation itself was a message, and in every story he had ever read, the MC who ended up transported into a new reality had a purpose.
Whether it was a latent ability, a system, or some kind of unique talent, there was always a reason for the transition.
He had given up the system idea long ago, when he stood in the library with his little flame and told himself he was not that sort of story.
But deep inside, something in him had still hoped he would have enough. That he would end up in at least the middle category. That the universe would offer him enough material with which to work.
3.2.
Ash closed his eyes.
He recalled his previous existence. Not the cliff, the darkness, and the falling. Before all of that.
The open window that allowed in the breeze. His mother cooking in the kitchen early in the morning.
Andrew calling him a pest and then hiking up the mountain with him, despite the fact that he had tried to climb alone.
He missed them.
He did not allow himself to dwell on this for too long. There was always a book or some other form of learning, and his brain needed something to focus on.
But lying on his back in a silent room, listening to the noise of the celebration winding down downstairs, and recalling the disappointment in his father's eyes – all of that led to the same conclusion. Missing them was an unignorable presence.
Sometimes he wished none of this had ever happened. That the earth had not cracked open and swallowed him.
That he had returned home with Andrew, shared dinner with him, and slept in his own bed that night.
He closed his eyes and clung to the hope, if only for a few seconds, that when he opened them again, he would find himself somewhere familiar.
The door opened.
"Ash."
He turned his head without bothering to sit up.
Rose stood in the doorway, her hand resting on the doorknob, her gaze fixed on him with a sincerity that required no pretense whatsoever.
"Mom?" He spoke more quietly than he intended.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"I came to see how you were doing," she answered plainly. She stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her and approaching the bed.
Ash pushed himself up and perched at the edge of the mattress, his feet dangling off the side. It somehow seemed like the room was even smaller when he sat upright.
Rose took a seat beside him, close enough that he could feel the heat emanating from her body but still without making any contact.
"Are you okay, sweetheart?"
He raised his head and met her gaze, offering her a smile.
"Of course I am," he replied. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Rose stared at him.
She examined his smile and his eyes for a moment before she spoke. She knew him better than anyone else in this world, and had been the first person he ever met.
If he tried to hide something from her with his expression, she was well aware of his intentions.
"Hey," she said softly. She reached out and placed her hand gently on top of his head. "It's alright. There's nothing to be worried about."
The smile remained on his face for another second before it slipped away.
"I know," he responded, finally meeting her gaze. "I just wanted to be strong. I wanted to be a Raider." He paused. "And I feel like I've disgraced the Vulkan name."
"That is not true," Rose argued firmly. "You haven't disgraced anyone. Not me. Not this family." She looked directly at him. "It does not matter what your Affinity Quotient may say. You are still my genius son."
She gathered him into her embrace before he could react.
Her arms encircled him and he rested his head against her chest, feeling the warmth of her body and some emotion that had been tightly coiled in his chest since he ascended the stairs earlier that day begin to relax without any decision on his part.
He did not fully comprehend this phenomenon. He had considered it before, analyzing the exact mechanics of such a reaction, and wondering how lying here resulted in peace.
Perhaps it was something instinctual, buried in his subconscious. Maybe it was simply the warmth and comfort of someone who did not think less of him.
Regardless, he did not need to understand the process to recognize its effects.
Rose held him for some time.
Then she released him slowly and studied his face. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Go get some sleep," she instructed. She rose from the bed and approached the door, her footsteps quiet on the wooden floor.
She reached the door and paused.
"Goodnight," she whispered.
Then she pulled the door shut behind her.
Ash sat at the edge of his bed in his silent room and stared at the closed door for a few moments.
Then he reclined and gazed up at the ceiling again.