Page 51 of Rhythm and Rapture

I freeze, caught between my two worlds. My hands shake as I smooth his blanket, trying to decide how to explain this.

"Who are they?" He tilts his head, examining them with those too-wise eyes. Then something shifts in his expression—recognition that shouldn't be there. "They look like..."

"They're friends, baby," I interrupt quickly. "From work."

But Kael isn't listening. He's studying them with an intensity that makes my chest tight. "They look like Uncle Jax,” he says slowly, pointing at Roman. "And Uncle Luka,” his finger moves to Ash. "And Uncle Gabriel," landing on Felix.

My heart stops.

His forehead wrinkles in concentration. "Do they play music too, Like Uncle Kade? Do they sing like Uncle Jax and Auntie Rose do?”

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. I can feel all three men processing this information—that my son knows Grimoire, calls them family, has no idea these strangers are connected to that world.

"Yeah, buddy," Ash recovers first, his voice carefully controlled. "We play music too."

Kael's eyes light up despite the exhaustion weighing them down. "Cool! Can you play the heart-singing music? Like the kind Mommy was listening to that made her dance?"

Another piece of my carefully constructed privacy shatters.

“Mommy told me she was going to meet people and that the music makes her heart want to sing. Are you the heart-singing people?" Kael asks, and despite everything, there's genuine interest cutting through his medication fog. “Is that why she was happy?"

"Kael—" I start, but he's on a roll now, the way he gets when his brilliant little mind latches onto something.

“After she met the heart singing people, the next morning she made special pancakes. The ones with faces! The endothermic reaction pancakes—you know, where the acidic buttermilk reacts with sodium bicarbonate to create carbon dioxide bubbles for maximum fluffiness. With strawberry smiles and blueberry eyes and homemade guava syrup like her Abuela used to make. And she was singing in the shower. She only sings when she's really happy, not pretend happy."

Ash steps forward before I can stop him, and every protective instinct screams at me to throw myself between them. But he just crouches down beside the bed with surprising gentleness, careful not to disturb the web of monitors and tubes.

"Hey, little man. I'm Ash. I play the drums, which is basically making heartbeats for songs." He pulls out his ever-present drumsticks, holding them up for inspection. "Want to see?"

"Ash, don't—" I start, but Kael's eyes have already widened with the first real interest he's shown in days.

"Can you make the beep sounds better?” He points weakly at his heart monitor, the gesture taking visible effort. "They're boring. Always the same. Beep... beep... beep..."

Ash grins, that infectious smile that probably works on everyone, even dying five-year-olds. He starts a soft rhythm on the bed rail, somehow matching and then playing with the steady beep of the monitors. It's quiet, gentle, nothing like his usual frenetic energy. The rhythm is complex but soothing, turning medical machinery into melody.

"That's cool," Kael whispers, a tiny smile breaking across his pale face. His eyes find Felix and Roman. "Do you make heartbeats too?"

"Different kinds," Felix says softly, approaching the bed with the same care you'd use around a spooked animal. "I play bass.It's like the deep breathing sounds. The foundation everything else builds on."

"Like carbon?" Kael's eyes light up with recognition. "Mommy says carbon is the foundation of all life. It can form four stable bonds and makes the backbone of every organic molecule." He stares at Felix with intense curiosity, as if his response will determine whether he passes some crucial test.

Felix's eyes crinkle with genuine delight. "Exactly like carbon. It creates complex chains and rings, just like bass lines create the structure for songs." He glances at me with something like wonder. "Your mom taught you well. She's an excellent teacher."

Kael beams at the validation, then turns to Roman. "What about you?"

"I sing," Roman says, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "We all work together to make the music feel alive. Like how all the elements work together to create life."

Kael processes this with the seriousness only a five-year-old can manage, his forehead wrinkling in thought. Then he looks at me with those eyes that see too much. "Like a perfect experiment! Three variables working together!" His face brightens with understanding. "Is that why you were happy? When you came home that morning and made special pancakes? Because the heartbeat music experiment worked?"

My throat closes completely. He noticed. Of course he noticed. And he's framing it in the language I taught him—experiments and variables and successful outcomes.

"I..." I can't finish, tears threatening to spill over.

"You haven't been happy in a long time," Kael continues matter-of-factly, each word a dagger. "Not real happy. But that morning you were. You sang in the shower—the song about practice and theory. So the experiment must have beensuccessful!" His face brightens with genuine joy. "That's so great, Mommy."

The silence that follows is deafening. I can feel three sets of eyes on me, understanding dawning. They know now—that morning meant something to me far beyond professional collaboration. That for a few precious hours, I'd let myself feel joy that had nothing to do with treatment plans or survival.

"I just..." My voice breaks completely. "I wanted you to have a special breakfast."

---