American Comics:No one care about the Hero's father

"It was Father Norma from the church. He told me about the... magical properties of that land."

Old Bill's face was etched with remorse, his voice trembling as he spoke. "I know it isn't natural. But... I just kept thinking about Caesar. About the way he used to bounce around beside me. Loyal. Full of life."

Peter's eyes narrowed slightly. "You said Father Norma?"

"Yes," Old Bill nodded, guilt pulling down his features.

Peter's frown deepened.

That was the same Father Norma who officiated Louis's funeral just last week.

A man of the cloth encouraging something like this?

"As a clergyman," Peter said, voice flat, "doesn't he understand this is blasphemy? Bringing back the dead? This goes against the very God he claims to serve."

"I—I don't know," Bill said, shaking his head slowly. "He's always been devout. Maybe... maybe he just didn't want to see me suffer. Maybe he thought he was easing my pain."

Peter didn't buy it. Not completely.

"Pain and death are part of life," Peter muttered, turning to grab the scattered photos off the table. "Abandoning them is abandoning life itself."

He stood, brushing invisible dust from his coat.

Bill let out a long breath as Peter headed toward the door.

For a moment, he had been terrified Peter would stay. That he'd dig deeper. Push harder.

But Peter simply paused at the threshold and said calmly, "If I have more questions, Bill... I'll be back."

Bill offered a weak smile. "Of course."

---

Patrick Farm – Later That Night

After dinner, the quiet hum of Kansas evening rolled over the farmhouse. Fireflies danced in the tall grass outside. Inside, the air was cozy and warm.

Peter nearly choked on his tea when Clark looked up at him and asked, "Dad, can you read me a bedtime story?"

Peter blinked. "You want me to read to you?"

Usually, it was Adam who made such requests—especially when he was younger. But lately, as he'd grown stronger, Adam had grown more distant from bedtime rituals.

Clark nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! A scary one."

Peter tilted his head. "Scary?"

The boy nodded again, dark eyes gleaming.

Peter considered. He'd planned to look into Father Norma tonight, but...

Father Norma wasn't going anywhere.

"Alright," he finally said with a sigh. "Let's go."

From the couch, Adam looked up from the TV, clearly pouting.

"That was my thing," his eyes seemed to say.

---

Clark's room was a small one on the second floor, cozy and filled with hand-me-down toys, a few books, and a framed photo of Clark with Peter and Adam at a small lake nearby.

Since Clark spent so much time on the farm, Peter had given him his own space here.

Peter sat down beside him and pulled a worn book from the shelf: The Monkey's Paw by W.W. Jacobs.

It was an odd choice for a bedtime story—but Clark had asked for it specifically.

---

> "She said hysterically, 'I just thought of this, why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you think of it?'

'Thought of what?' he asked.

'There are two more wishes,' she answered hurriedly, 'we've only made one wish.'

'Isn't one enough?' he asked sharply.

'No,' she cried ecstatically, 'we can make another wish—quickly, kneel down, and wish our son can be reborn.'"

---

Peter paused, glancing down at Clark.

The boy had pulled his covers up to his chin. His eyes were wide, lips tight.

When Peter reached the part where the dead son returned—knocking heavily on the door, demanding to be let in—Clark yelped and dove under the blanket entirely.

Peter chuckled.

"Alright, maybe I should switch it up," he said. "What about The Three Little Pigs? Or Cinderella? You know—less horror, more bedtime."

But Clark peeked out from under the covers and whispered, "No... I wanted to hear that one."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Clark shifted uncomfortably. Then, with a glance toward the door and a check to make sure Adam wasn't eavesdropping, he leaned in.

"Godfather," he whispered, "I think... I saw the boy in the coffin."

Peter's expression didn't change. But his heart skipped a beat.

"Little Terry?"

Clark shrugged. "I don't know his name. But I saw him. His face was really pale. And his eyes were... strange. Like they weren't his."

Peter frowned. "Where did you see him?"

"A few nights ago," Clark said. "Mom was taking me and Adam to Aunt Nier's house. When we passed by Louis's place, I looked toward the window, and he was standing right behind the curtain."

"My eyes have been getting better lately," he added. "I can see farther. I can hear things really far away too."

Peter leaned forward, his voice calm. "So that's why you wanted to hear this story?"

Clark nodded. "Adam told me about it once. He said it was about the dead coming back."

Peter let out a long breath.

Clark's powers were developing, just like Adam's had.

But this?

This was bigger than just x-ray vision and super-hearing.

Peter's gaze sharpened. "So watching horror movies—Adam did that on his own, didn't he? You didn't tell him to?"

Clark swallowed and nodded guiltily.

"Thought so."

Peter sighed, rubbing his temples.

That kid was going to be the death of him.

Still, he softened his tone and said gently, "Clark, you probably saw wrong. People can't come back from the dead. Death is sacred—it's final."

"I understand," Clark replied. "Just like the story. The son came back, but it wasn't really him anymore. If people come back from death, it's... wrong, right?"

Peter nodded. "Exactly. Just like the White family in the story. Some doors should never be opened."

He reached out and tousled Clark's dark hair.

"Get some rest, alright? We've got horseback riding tomorrow."

Clark's eyes lit up. "Really?!"

"Really."

Peter stood and gently closed the door behind him.

As he walked back down the hallway, he muttered to himself, "So Terry's already back, huh? That's faster than I thought…"

---

The Next Morning

The smell of scrambled eggs filled the kitchen.

Peter stood at the stove, flipping the eggs with the grace of a man who clearly didn't cook much. Burnt toast lay nearby like fallen soldiers.

Aside from eggs, the rest of his cooking bordered on disaster.

Maybe I should just hire a damn chef, he muttered.

Just then, the phone rang.

He wiped his hands on a towel and picked it up.

"Peter, something's happened!" a panicked voice shouted on the other end.

Peter's brow furrowed.

He didn't need coffee anymore.

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