Walking through the grocery store, I picked up a watermelon and pressed it to my ear, tapping it the way Mom did to check if it was ripe.

  Dad stared at the long list in his hands.

  “What are you doing, Jacob?” he asked.

  “Checking if it’s good quality. You know Mom gets picky with groceries.”

  “I know, but you don’t have to do ridiculous things like that.” He sighed. “Honestly, I should’ve just used a delivery app. But better to get it done now.”

  After tapping a few more, I chose one and placed it in the cart. Dad continued scanning the list, making sure we had the right brands.

  “Okay. Vegetables, fruits, the correct dips. Next is meat and poultry. Let’s go.”

  I followed him. As usual, he rambled about random topics while we walked—until he suddenly asked,

  “Have you noticed any of the sensitive changes I mentioned?”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t listening. What do you mean by sensitive changes? You’re not talking about puberty, right?”

  He sighed again. “Jacob. Listen. This is important. Have you started hearing distant sounds more clearly? Smelling things that aren’t nearby? Do your bedsheets feel rougher than usual? Have any of your five senses felt… overwhelming?”

  I stared at him. He never sounded this serious.

  “No. Not really. Why would you even ask that?”

  We reached the meat section. Dad picked up packages with a calm, almost mechanical precision.

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  “Son,” he said flatly, “I’m immortal.”

  He didn’t look at me.

  “Before you ask—no, I’m not joking. And yes. Immortal. Like the ones you learned about in social studies.”

  I stood there, frozen, while he adjusted the cart. We moved down the aisle in silence.

  “You’re almost sixteen and a half,” he continued. “Between fifteen and seventeen, descendants of immortals begin to awaken. It’s different for everyone. Sometimes abilities come gradually, like heightened taste, temperature sensitivity, and textures becoming unbearable. Other times, it happens all at once.”

  He paused before continuing.

  “But every immortal faces the regenerative wall.”

  My stomach tightened.

  “All your abilities activate simultaneously. Your bones break and repair over and over. It feels like years, but it’s about two hours. After that comes hypersensitivity—every sound, smell, texture amplified beyond what you can handle. The whole process lasts five or six hours.”

  He said it the same way he’d describe traffic conditions.

  “As my son, you may experience this. I’m telling you so you’re prepared. I hope it doesn’t happen. If you never awaken, forget this conversation. But if you do…” He adjusted the meat in the cart. “We’ll deal with it when the time comes.”

  One question managed to escape my shock.

  “Does Mom know?”

  “No.” His voice sharpened. “And you mustn’t tell her. Not when she and your sister come back from their trip. They’re ordinary. I want them to stay that way. If she finds out what I am…” He hesitated. “I don’t want to risk losing this family.”

  By the time he finished, we had everything on the list.

  We paid in silence and loaded the car.

  Once I sat in the passenger seat, he continued.

  “I know you have questions. I’ll answer them if you awaken—or when you turn seventeen. I’m telling you now because mixed-blood children are unpredictable. Your sensitivity could be worse than most pure-blooded immortals. Or nothing might happen at all.”

  He started the engine.

  “If it does happen, don’t panic. Focus on the pain. Control it. Use your senses instead of fighting them. Scream if you need to. Break things. I’ll replace them.”

  That was the last thing he said with that strange, empty expression.

  Then he smiled.

  “Anyway. How’s the volleyball team?”

  I knew he wanted to move on. So I talked about school, practice, tournaments—anything normal.

  The drive home blurred together.

  Because this didn’t feel new.

  It felt like déjà vu.

  More specifically—

  Two years ago.