I Loved Her. Then I Killed Her Dreams

Before he was a killer, before the ghosts came to him, before the fire, before Yena—

Soren was just a boy.

He was born on the coldest night of winter, when even the city held its breath. Half the power grid had collapsed under a storm so violent it snapped trees like matchsticks. At Saint Haven Hospital, nurses lined the hallway with candles—flames flickering like nervous prayers.

Outside, the snow didn't fall. It devoured. Sheets and sheets of it slammed against the glass like an angry sea, sealing roads and silencing satellites.

It was as if the world had frozen mid-scream.

His mother, Lyra Vale, bled too much. Her cries were soft, almost polite—like she didn't want to inconvenience the nurses. Her body trembled but her eyes stayed on the ceiling, searching for something that wasn't there.

His father, Renji Vale, never moved from her side. One hand on her head, the other clenched tight, as if sheer will could hold her together.

No one spoke much that night. The doctors had that look—like they'd already sent the prayers and were waiting for fate to answer.

Except her.

Lyra whispered something, barely audible.

"Don't let him forget he was born from love."

There were no white cloths left—only red silk from a ceremonial shelf in the maternity ward. They wrapped the boy in it like a prophecy, or a warning.

He didn't cry when he was born. Not once.

And maybe… the world should've listened to that silence more carefully.

Age 3 – The Disappearance

Soren didn't know what a container port was. But he knew the way his father's voice changed on the phone. Low. Serious. Like thunder before the lightning.

Renji Vale was a businessman, but not the kind who smiled in magazines or wore luxury watches. He wore bruised hands, midnight meetings, and a stare that made men shrink.

He made enemies. That was the price of shipping what no one else dared touch.

That night, the air felt off. Heavy. Even the house creaked differently.

Soren remembered his mother's knuckles—white around the phone. She kept dialing. Over and over. No one picked up.

His father's shoes still sat by the door. One slightly crooked. His coat still hung where he left it, the sleeve swaying slightly like it was waving goodbye.

Soren sat on the staircase, hugging his knees. Eyes locked on the front door like a little soldier in a one-man war.

It never opened.

Renji Vale never came home.

Age 4 – The Funeral with No Body

Two weeks later, the manor filled with people who didn't bring condolences, just curiosity.

There was no body—just a closed casket and words wrapped in velvet.

"Business gone wrong."

"Enemies, surely."

"Such a tragedy."

Soren didn't understand the language of grief spoken by men in coats. But he understood the way his mother knelt beside the empty box, whispering like she was trying to stitch his father back into the world with words.

That night, she lit every candle in the house. Wax pooled like tears across every table. The mansion looked like a holy shrine haunted by one living ghost.

She held Soren close, telling stories about Renji.

"He hated neckties… but he wore one on our wedding day. For me."

"He once punched a man because he called me 'difficult.' Can you believe that?"

Her voice cracked on the laughter.

Then her tone changed. Quiet. Hollow.

"He wasn't a good man… but he was mine."

Soren didn't understand the pause that followed.

Not until she added:

"I hope he died quickly."

Age 6 – The Stranger on the Balcony

The letters arrived like whispers in paper form. No names. No handwriting they recognized.

"He was taken, not killed."

"Your mother knows more than she says."

"Vale blood isn't innocent."

Lyra burned every one. Her fingers shook, but her eyes never flinched.

She stopped answering the phone. Stopped singing. She even stopped saying "goodnight."

One evening, snow blanketed the balcony in silence. Soren found her standing barefoot on it—dress thin, lips blue, murmuring words to the sky like a curse.

He reached for her sleeve. "Mama?"

She didn't even blink. Just turned to him slowly… her gaze frantic, like she was seeing something behind him.

"They'll come for you too."

Age 7 – The Night of Screams

Thunder shattered the sky like a gunshot. It rattled the windows of Vale Manor. Soren was under his blanket, reading by flashlight.

Then the scream came.

High. Sharp. Animal.

He sprinted.

The door to her room hung open like a wound.

Inside—

A man lay dead. His eyes wide, frozen in shock. Blood soaked the ivory carpet. A knife in his throat. His body sprawled like a ruined painting.

And in the corner—

His mother.

Her hands were slick red. Her eyes unfocused. And her mouth—

She was laughing. Or crying. Maybe both.

Her neck bore bruises. Her nightgown was torn. Her soul… already gone.

She kept whispering the same thing, like a broken doll.

"He said Renji screamed too…"

Soren didn't move. Didn't speak.

He just stood in the doorway, watching his childhood end.

Age 7 – Orphan

The authorities came like shadows. Quiet. Swift. Clean.

No one asked questions. No camera crews. No chaos.

Just men in suits… and the silence of decisions already made.

She didn't fight when they took her.

Only once did she glance back at her son, through the backseat window of the cruiser.

"You're better off without any of us."

And then—she vanished.

No trial. No court date. Just a note:

"Committed to institutional care."

That night, Soren didn't cry.

Instead, he climbed up to the balcony she used to haunt.

He stood barefoot in the snow until the sun rose, letting the cold burn away what was left of his warmth.

Age 8 – The Estate Becomes a Cage

With his parents gone, the wolves came wearing ties.

Lawyers dissected the Vale estate with smiles like scalpels. They spoke to each other like Soren wasn't there—as if he were just another valuable artifact left behind.

He was sent to a boarding school far from home. The dormitory smelled like dust and boiled potatoes. The walls were always too clean. Too white.

The other boys whispered.

"That's him. The Ghost Boy."

"His mom stabbed someone, right?"

"His dad was mafia or something."

None of it mattered. None of it stung.

Because they were right about one thing—

He never cried.

Age 9 – The Garden Incident

The only living thing he loved was a bird.

He found it broken in the courtyard. Wing snapped. Chest heaving like a whisper.

He stayed up for days nursing it. Fed it crushed seeds. Made a tiny bed from cotton and gauze. Talked to it like it could understand him.

It died anyway.

He buried it under a tree behind the chapel.

And the next morning, the boy who always bullied him sneered and said:

"Ghosts don't raise the living, Vale. They rot it."

Soren didn't reply. Didn't even blink.

But that night, when the bully crawled into bed—he found feathers under his pillow. Dozens. Bloodstained.

No one ever figured out how.

And Soren…

Soren slept peacefully for the first time in years.