LEGACY UNCHAINED

THE FREQUENCY OF BLOOD

Chapter Two — The Frequency of Blood

The years after Kyle’s birth moved quietly, like the city holding its breath. To the outside world, the Harrison's were a portrait of American success: Lillian’s wellness empire expanded across states, Benjamin launched a philanthropic foundation, and their Midtown penthouse often graced the covers of lifestyle magazines.

But inside those glass walls, something unseen hummed beneath the surface. It was in the lights that flickered when Kyle laughed too hard, the phones that rang once and went dead when he cried, the way his toys sometimes vibrated faintly in his hands. The housekeepers whispered about “the boy’s current,” but no one dared say it near Benjamin.

At first, the parents dismissed it as imagination. Then, by age three, Kyle began predicting things. Small things. He’d look at his mother and say, “Mommy’s phone will ring,” seconds before it did. He’d stop her from spilling coffee a heartbeat before her sleeve brushed the cup.

It wasn’t chance. It was rhythm.

Benjamin tried to ignore it, burying himself in work, but one evening he returned home to find Kyle standing on the balcony, eyes closed, humming softly. The streetlights below were flickering in perfect sync with the boy’s voice.

“Sweetheart, come inside,” Lillian said gently, but Benjamin froze. He recognized the pattern. It was the same rhythm that had pulsed on the hospital monitors the night Kyle was born.

“Kyle,” Benjamin said, keeping his tone calm. “How long have you been out here?”

The boy turned, smiling, gray eyes bright. “The lights are singing, Daddy.”

Benjamin’s stomach tightened. “What do you mean, singing?”

“They make sounds. Not with ears. Here.” Kyle pointed to his chest. “It feels warm when they talk back.”

Benjamin knelt beside him, the city wind sharp against his face. “Did anyone teach you that? Mommy? Aunt Helena?”

Kyle shook his head. “No. It just… happens.”

That night, Benjamin called his sister. “It’s starting,” he said quietly.

On the other end of the line, Helena didn’t sound surprised. “Then it’s time. Bring him to Savannah for testing.”

“He’s four, Helena.”

“He’s chosen, Ben. The Current doesn’t care about age.”

Benjamin glanced toward the living room where Kyle sat cross-legged on the floor, watching cartoons, utterly innocent. “He’s not ready,” he whispered.

Helena’s tone hardened. “You don’t decide readiness. Blood does.”

He hung up.

Lillian found him sitting in the dark study later that night. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

He looked up, eyes shadowed. “They want him tested.”

She froze. “Tested? You said you wouldn’t”

“I know what I said.” His voice broke slightly. “But they won’t stop. They never stop.”

She stepped closer. “Then we keep him away from them.”

He looked at her, almost pleading. “And how do we explain it when he starts making phones ring or lights hum wherever he goes? How do we keep that secret forever?”

Lillian swallowed hard. “He’s still our son. Not a prophecy. Not an experiment.”

Benjamin turned toward the window. “To them, those are the same thing.”

By six, Kyle’s intelligence became impossible to ignore. His teachers at Midtown Academy called him “a phenomenon.” He read college level biology books for fun, dissected toy gadgets to understand circuitry, and corrected his science teacher’s equations with calm precision.

He didn’t talk much about the strange sensations that followed him the quiet humming before storms, the faint static that sometimes made his fingertips glow when he touched metal. It scared him, but curiosity always overpowered fear.

He began keeping a notebook hidden under his bed.

Each page filled with symbols spirals, waves, and patterns that looked almost mathematical but pulsed with rhythm instead of logic.

When Lillian found it one evening, she froze. “Kyle… what is this?”

He looked up, startled. “It’s what I hear. The shapes from inside my head.”

“Shapes?”

“They talk sometimes. But not like people. More like…” He searched for the word. “Electricity.”

Her throat went dry. She closed the notebook and kissed his forehead. “You’re just special, baby.”

But when she tucked him into bed that night, she stayed awake long after, staring at the city lights beyond the glass, whispering, “Please, not again.”

Two months later, Helena arrived in Atlanta.

Her presence filled the penthouse before she even spoke tall, elegant, her black coat gleaming under the recessed lights. Her voice carried the weight of generations. “You should’ve brought him sooner,” she said.

Lillian’s smile was polite, brittle. “He’s a child, not a lab subject.”

Helena’s eyes softened slightly as she looked at her nephew. “Hello, Kyle.”

He hesitated, then waved shyly.

Helena knelt. “You’ve heard the music, haven’t you?”

Kyle blinked. “How did you know about that?”

Helena smiled faintly. “Because I used to hear it too.”

Lillian stepped forward. “No. You’re not dragging him into this.”

But Benjamin stood frozen, torn between worlds. Helena looked at him. “If you won’t teach him control, the Current will teach him chaos.”

Then she turned back to Kyle and whispered something in Yoruba a short phrase, soft but resonant.

Every bulb in the room flickered once.

Kyle’s eyes widened. “I understood that.”

Lillian grabbed his hand. “We’re done here.”

Helena straightened, her face unreadable. “The Current doesn’t care about your fear, Lillian. You can delay his purpose, but you can’t erase it.”

She left quietly, the door closing behind her like the end of a heartbeat.

That night, Kyle couldn’t sleep. He sat by his window, notebook open, drawing circles again. He didn’t know why, but the patterns felt alive as if completing them made the world breathe differently.

He pressed his pencil harder, tracing a final spiral. The air grew thick. The lamp flickered. Then, for a single second, the faint outline of an eye glowed on the page white, pulsing.

Kyle gasped and slammed the book shut.

Down the hall, Benjamin woke with a start. He didn’t know why only that something inside him whispered, He’s hearing the frequency now.

The next day, Benjamin drove Kyle to the park. He needed to see if it was real or if they were all losing their minds.

“Hey, champ,” he said lightly as Kyle ran toward the swings. “You know that thing you said about lights singing?”

Kyle nodded. “They still do.”

“Can you… make them sing?”

The boy hesitated, then pointed toward a street lamp. “That one likes high sounds.”

Before Benjamin could ask what that meant, the lamp flickered twice quick, playful and then steadied.

Kyle smiled. “See?”

Benjamin’s pulse thudded in his ears. “How long have you been able to do that?”

“Since the dream,” Kyle said simply. “The one where Grandma said the world is breathing through me.”

Benjamin froze. “What did she say exactly?”

“She said the blood remembers its song.”

The man felt cold all over. His grandmother had died years before Kyle’s birth.

That night, Benjamin made a decision. He packed a suitcase, quietly. Lillian watched from the doorway, arms folded.

“You’re taking him, aren’t you?”

“I have to. Helena’s right about one thing if we don’t teach him control, something else will.”

“Ben, he’s a child. You can’t just”

He turned to her, voice breaking. “Do you want him to burn down the world by accident?”

The silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush them both.

Finally, Lillian whispered, “If you go to Savannah, they’ll take him from us.”

Benjamin’s hand froze on the suitcase zipper.

“Then come with us,” he said.

She shook her head slowly. “No. I won’t let them touch him. I won’t let that life touch him again.”

He stared at her for a long time, then let go of the suitcase handle.

The argument didn’t end. It simply folded into silence the kind that builds walls in a marriage.

Weeks passed. The tension never lifted. Kyle felt it even when no one spoke. His father’s eyes were tired, his mother’s smile stretched thin. He began spending more time alone, reading, drawing, humming under his breath.

He didn’t know that every hum made the lights dim across the apartment. He didn’t know his parents were fighting to keep his world from collapsing into prophecy.

He only knew that sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could feel the city pulsing beneath him every streetlight, every phone signal, every whisper of energy all moving to the same rhythm. His rhythm.

Then came the betrayal.

It happened on a Thursday morning. Lillian dropped Kyle off at school as usual, kissed his forehead, and drove off.

By noon, she received a call from the headmaster. “Mrs. Harrison? Kyle isn’t here.”

Her heart stopped. “What do you mean, he’s not there?”

“He left with your husband an hour ago. He said it was family business.”

Lillian’s breath caught. She called Benjamin immediately.

No answer.

She called again.

Voicemail.

In the back seat of Benjamin’s car, Kyle sat quietly, watching trees blur by. “Where are we going, Daddy?”

“Someplace safe,” Benjamin said.

“Does Mommy know?”

He hesitated. “Not yet.”

Kyle’s fingers curled around the edge of his seat. “Am I in trouble?”

Benjamin’s voice softened. “No, son. I’m trying to keep you from it.”

They reached Savannah by dusk. The old Harrison estate sat hidden behind iron gates and overgrown ivy, humming faintly with a kind of electricity the air couldn’t hide.

Helena stood waiting at the entrance, dressed in black, the faint glow of lanterns reflecting in her eyes.

“You did the right thing,” she said.

Benjamin looked at her, regret in every line of his face. “I hope so.”

Helena turned to the boy. “Welcome home, child of the Current.”

Kyle’s small hand gripped his father’s tighter. “Daddy,” he whispered. “The ground’s singing again.”

Helena smiled faintly. “It’s greeting you.”

The gates closed behind them with a sound that felt like fate sealing itself shut.

Back in Atlanta, Lillian stood in the empty nursery, the city’s glow flickering through the window. She touched the crib rail, whispering her son’s name.

Every light in the apartment went out.

And for the first time in years, the house was completely silent no hum, no flicker, no rhythm.

Only grief.