Lies and Truth
Nathan La Gracious was not like other children. From the very beginning, his life unfolded with an air of mystery, wrapped in something that felt both fragile and divine.
Born on a quiet spring morning, the air was crisp and golden as sunlight poured into the small hospital room where his parents first laid eyes on him. Tears of joy welled in their eyes as they held their newborn son—tiny, warm, and already so alive with presence. It was as if the universe had conspired to give them a miracle.
His mother would later recall that the moment she touched his hand, a calm warmth ran through her body, almost as if the baby already understood her unspoken feelings. His father, overwhelmed with pride, whispered, "Welcome, Nathan. You're going to change the world."
The years passed quickly. Nathan grew up in a home filled with love, laughter, and gentle lessons about kindness and curiosity. But something about him always felt... different. He was quiet, observant, and often stared at people as though he was listening to something they weren't saying.
Then, when Nathan turned five, something awakened.
It wasn't sudden, like a lightning strike—it was more like a curtain being pulled back. One afternoon, as the sun spilled through the window and danced across his bedroom floor, Nathan sat up in bed, his eyes wide. He could hear it. Thoughts. Echoes of other people's minds brushing against his own like whispers on the wind.
At first, it overwhelmed him. The thoughts came in fragments—worries, hopes, passing curiosities from those around him. He clutched his head, confused and frightened. But then he focused. With effort, he could tune into a single voice, like changing the station on a radio.
That afternoon, the sun cast long, lazy beams across the playground as children scattered like birds set free. Their laughter echoed off pavement and fences, bright and untamed. But Nathan sat still, cross-legged in the grass near the sandbox, his eyes fixed on the girl beside him.
She had chestnut-colored hair and a pink ribbon that had come undone as she played. Her fingers moved with careful intention, stacking bright-colored blocks one atop another, creating towers that leaned like castles on the verge of collapse.
Nathan wasn't watching the blocks.
He was listening.
Not to her words—those were quiet, few, polite. He was listening to the buzz behind them, the flickering thoughts that danced just under the surface of her expression.
"I'm the dragon. I'm guarding the treasure. Nobody can touch it. Except maybe the prince, but only if he brings ice cream."
"I want to fly today."
"Do dragons eat clouds?
They weren't full sentences, not really—more like flickers of color, emotion, playfulness. Dreams still half-formed. But they were real. And Nathan heard them as clearly as the wind rustling through the grass.
He tilted his head slightly, trying to make sense of it all. The thoughts didn't match her face. Her lips were neutral, her gaze calm. But inside, there was a whole world unfolding.
And when he asked her—his voice soft, curious—
"What are you thinking about?"
She blinked. Paused. Then said, *"Nothing. Just playing games."*
It was the first time he felt it—that strange gap between truth and what people say aloud.
Nathan stared at her, not with judgment, but with wonder. He hadn't expected her to lie. Or maybe it wasn't a lie, not really. Maybe she didn't know how to explain what was happening in her mind. Maybe she didn't think it was important.
But it was.
It was everything.
They kept playing after that, him watching her thoughts shift like the wind, her unaware that her inner world was no longer hers alone. Nathan didn't ask again what she was thinking—he didn't need to. And for the rest of the afternoon, he simply followed her, both physically and mentally, letting her imagination lead the way.
*Dragon slayer.*
*Magic flowers.*
*A teddy bear army.*
To her, they were games. To Nathan, they were revelations.
By the time the sky began to pinken with the early blush of dusk, he was exhausted. Not physically—but mentally. His mind buzzed with the residual noise of the day. Not just her thoughts, but the others too—adults walking by, parents calling for their kids, teenagers biking past with music in their ears and stress in their chests.
Nathan barely remembered saying goodbye to the girl. She waved at him, smiling, and he gave her a small nod before turning down the road that led back to his house.
As he walked, the thoughts of others swirled in and out of his awareness like clouds moving across the sky.
"Did I leave the oven on?"
"I hate this job."
"He didn't text me back again."
"Why do I always mess things up?"
Random. Messy. Heavy.
Nathan's steps slowed. His hands dug into his pockets as he looked down at the cracked pavement beneath his sneakers.
Was this how the world always sounded?
Had it always been this *loud*?
By the time he reached home, his head ached with the weight of a thousand untold stories. He climbed the porch steps, slipped inside, and let the warm scent of dinner and the murmur of his parents' voices greet him like a soft blanket.
"Did you have fun today, sweetie?" his mother asked as she stirred something on the stove.
Nathan nodded. "Yeah."
Then, quietly, "I'm sleepy."
She smiled. "Then go rest, my love."
And he did.
He climbed into bed, pulled the covers up to his chin, and stared at the ceiling as the last light of day faded from his room.
The voices were quieter now, distant.
But he knew they'd return.
Even then—at only five years old—Nathan La Gracious understood something that would follow him for the rest of his life.
People live in layers.
And he could hear every one.