The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]-Chapter 101 - Comforting dream

Jian felt like he was floating—no, drifting—through a soft sea of cotton candy. Everything around him was gentle and warm, like clouds soaked in sunlight. A gentle hum resonated through the space, like a lullaby hummed by the wind.

He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t in pain. He wasn’t anything but... comforted.

Then, he felt it.

Two hands, warm and soft as silk, wrapped around him with such tenderness that his eyes, though shut, brimmed with a sudden sense of security he didn’t know he’d been missing. The scent of milk drifted around him—creamy, fresh, soothing. A scent that made him want to curl up and sleep forever.

A voice, so soft and sweet, whispered words in a language he’d never learned.

But somehow, he understood.

"My baby... you little impatient one, you came so quickly."

The words danced through him like the brush of a breeze in spring.

A playful finger gently pinched his cheeks, and Jian instinctively leaned closer, nuzzling into the sensation like a kitten seeking warmth. A giggle, like windchimes, followed.

"My cute baby... your daddy longed to be there when you came into this world. But you came just a tad bit too soon... look how small you are. How small your hands are."

Something shifted in Jian.

He slowly blinked open his eyes—but the world was not what he remembered. He wasn’t in his room at the construction site. He wasn’t under a thin blanket or on the hard mattress. No, he was cradled in someone’s arms—arms that felt like home.

He looked down at his hands.

Tiny. Fragile.

His fingers, once lean and calloused from lifting concrete and scrubbing tile, were now barely larger than matchsticks. He wriggled them experimentally. They didn’t even reach the width of the woman’s palm.

She lifted his hands gently, cupping them in both of hers like they were the rarest thing in the universe. Then she kissed them, her lips pressing so delicately it almost tickled.

Tears pricked the corners of Jian’s eyes.

A name formed on the tip of his tongue, one he had never said aloud before—not with meaning, not with memory. But it burned in his chest now, like a light ignited in the dark.

"...Mother...?"

Could this be...?

Was it possible?

In all his life, Jian had never known the warmth of a mother’s embrace. He had no memory of her face, her scent, her voice. His world had always been filled with coarse hands, harsh voices, and cold stares. But this... this feeling—he knew it couldn’t be anything else.

A warmth that asked for nothing.

A love that simply was.

The woman smiled down at him, her eyes glistening with affection, as if she could hear his thoughts.

She brushed her nose against his.

"I’m sorry I couldn’t hold you longer, baby. I would have wrapped you in love every day if I could. But time was cruel."

Jian whimpered softly, confusion and sorrow blooming inside him. He reached up with his tiny hands, trying to grab onto her, as if sensing she might disappear.

"Shh," she cooed, drawing him close to her chest. Her heartbeat echoed in his ears. Steady. Calming.

"You were never alone, my love. You just couldn’t see us. But we were always watching."

A tear slid down Jian’s cheek.

She wiped it gently with the pad of her thumb.

"But it’s not time yet, sweetheart. You have to go back. You have someone waiting for you, don’t you?"

The image of the old man surfaced in his mind—wrinkled hands, tired eyes, warm porridge... that quiet, unspoken care. A pang of worry shot through him.

Suddenly, the embrace began to fade. The warmth started to slip.

"No—wait..." Jian tried to speak, but his voice was still that of a baby, faint and whimpering. The world trembled around him.

"My little Jian," she whispered one last time, her voice barely a breath in his ear, "Live, love, and come back to me... but not yet."

Then everything dissolved into a mist of light.

Jian’s breath hitched as he jolted awake in bed, tears slipping silently down his face.

But a strange chill crawled over his skin.

Something was wrong.

He shot up, heart thudding, the warmth of that dream fading fast—replaced by a terrible sense of dread.

Jian blinked awake, the remnants of a warm dream still lingering behind his eyes. It had been so soft, so strange... someone had held him, kissed his hands—his mother? He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes.

The other bed was empty.

"Grandpa?" he called, voice groggy. He waited, but there was no answer.

He stood and peeked into the bathroom—nothing. The towel was dry. The room felt cold and quiet. The silence unsettled him.

He slipped on his shoes and went downstairs to the front desk. The man there was half-asleep, slouched against the counter. Jian hesitated, then gently tapped the bell.

The receptionist jerked upright, blinking blearily. "Yeah? What is it?"

"Did you see my grandfather leave? He’s old, wearing a brown coat."

The man scratched his head. "Sorry, kid. I must’ve dozed off. Didn’t notice anyone."

"Oh..." Jian stepped back, his brows furrowed.

He returned to the street, gazing up at the multiple alien ships hovering overhead the city in the distance. They are going to attack in an hour and his grandpa has gone out.

Terrible sense of panic overwhelmed him.

Jian jogged back into the hotel, his steps quick and uncertain. The lobby was quiet except for the soft hum of a ceiling fan. He walked over to the reception desk, where the man behind the counter was dozing off again in his chair.

"Excuse me," Jian said, gently tapping the counter. "Can I borrow your phone for a moment? It’s important."

The man blinked awake and nodded groggily, sliding the landline across the counter. Jian murmured a quick "thank you" before dialing his grandfather’s number. The line rang a few times. Jian held his breath.

After a few rings, someone picked up.

"Grandpa?" Jian asked, his voice low but urgent. "Why did you leave without saying anything? It’s not safe outside right now. Where are you? I’ll come get you."

There was a pause—too long.

Then a voice came through, one Jian hadn’t expected.

"Hello, Jian."

Jian’s body went still. The voice wasn’t his grandfather’s.

"Bian..." he said slowly, his grip on the phone tightening.