Eberhard Eschwege

Her time as a student was a trial for her. She sat through every art history class, hiding her secret under her sweater, listening to the commanding voice of Professor Eberhard Eschwege—her husband. Their marriage was a cold bargain, a lesson in submission he was teaching her.

But a silent ally lived within her. Whenever Eschwege spoke with her usual sarcasm, the child responded with a sharp kick of protest. At first, she thought it was a coincidence, but soon realized—the baby recognized his father's voice and was reacting specifically to his anger.

Eberhard noticed it too. His piercing gaze, sliding over her, saw more than it should have. And the next time his tone threatened to turn steely again, a struggle raged within him. He softened his voice, made it deeper and more velvety, as if trying to calm the storm beneath her heart. And the child responded not with a kick, but with a gentle, rocking motion.

That evening in their soulless mansion, she told him the baby had been acting up again. Eberhard, looking away, said, "I know. He doesn't like it when I raise my voice." There was an unspoken plea in his words, and a trembling hope in the nickname "Little Bear." Their icy world had shown its first crack, and the quiet rebellion of the unborn child was to blame.