The moment Mrs. Graves sat across from her son, her eyes were steady—haunted by truths too ancient for words, yet unshakably firm. The ticking clock on the wall was the only sound in the room, amplifying the weight of what was about to be said.
She exhaled slowly. "I saw what happened to you, Damon. I've seen it again and again in my mind since it happened."
He blinked, confused. "You mean… you were there?"
She shook her head. "Not physically. I felt it. I saw it… in a way I can't explain. You were murdered, Damon."
Damon's brow furrowed, but she kept talking.
"I know how it sounds. Absurd. Crazy. Impossible. But listen to me, because this is the truth: You're not like other people. You are immortal. And you won't die—at least, not in the way others do. Not for a very, very long time."
Damon blinked again, trying to make sense of her words. Then, he did the only thing that made sense to his overwhelmed mind—he laughed.
A dry, short laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Mom, come on…" He ran a hand through his hair, still chuckling in disbelief. "You know this has happened before. Medically. Cases where someone's heart stops, people think they're dead, then boom—somehow they come back. It's rare, sure, but not impossible. Maybe that's what happened to me. I passed out, they jumped to conclusions—"
But before he could finish, she suddenly lunged forward and grabbed him by the arm.
"Mom—?"
With surprising strength, she yanked him closer and, in one swift motion, ripped open his shirt.
"Hey! What the hell—?" he shouted, taken completely off guard.
"Look," she said, her voice low, almost trembling—not with fear, but with certainty. "Go to the mirror. Look at your back. Look at your chest. Look anywhere he stabbed you."
Confused, Damon backed away from her, turning slowly toward the hallway mirror. His breath hitched. His heart was pounding now—not from panic, but anticipation. Dread.
He reached for his own shirt, pulling the torn fabric down his arms and twisting slightly, angling himself toward the mirror so he could see his back, expecting to find bruises, gashes, scars—something.
But there was nothing.
His fingers traced along his spine, over smooth, unmarred skin. He turned to his side, checking the exact spot where he remembered the dagger entering him—his chest, his ribs, even his side—nothing.
Not even a faint line.
Nothing.
It was as if no blade had ever touched him.
He stood there, frozen, breathing through his nose, gripping the edges of the mirror as reality began to splinter around him.
His voice came out barely above a whisper. "What the hell is happening to me…?"
Behind him, his mother's voice was soft, steady, and frighteningly certain. "You're waking up, Damon. That's what's happening."
"No, Mom. This is impossible."
Damon stepped back from the mirror, his breathing shallow and erratic. The silence in the room closed in on him like walls pressing inward. He turned around sharply, eyes wide with disbelief, almost pleading.
"I don't know what game this is, or what trauma's done to you—but whatever you're saying… it's some ancient, folklore shit. Immortals? Seriously?"
Valerie didn't flinch. She remained seated, calm in the eye of her son's storm.
Damon kept talking, pacing now, the words spilling from him like he was trying to convince himself. "I must've been in shock. Adrenaline maybe. Maybe the doctors were wrong, maybe the equipment failed. Maybe—hell—I hallucinated the pain. But I'm not some... immortal. That's the kind of crap people talk about in fantasy books, Mom, not real life!"
He stopped and looked at her, really looked, hoping she'd laugh or tell him it was a test, a trick—anything normal.
But she just watched him. Her expression was tired now, but not from his doubt—no, it was something else. Like she'd been preparing for this moment for a very long time.
"You died, Damon," she said softly. "I don't care what explanation your mind is grasping at to protect itself. I saw you... I felt it. You were gone. I knew before they zipped the body bag."
His jaw clenched. "That's not possible…"
"But it is," she said. "It's more possible than you can understand yet."
He ran both hands over his face, through his hair, spinning in place before sitting down abruptly on the couch. He stared at the floor. "Then what am I? Some vampire? A freak experiment? An alien?"
"No," she said, standing now. "You're something older than all of that."
Damon looked up slowly, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean older?"
Valerie didn't answer. Not yet.
She moved to the window again and peeked through the blinds, scanning the quiet street outside like she expected something… or someone.
Damon watched her, unease crawling under his skin.
He didn't know what scared him more—that she believed all this… or that she might be right.
Valerie turned from the window, her eyes more serious now—more determined. Damon hadn't seen her like this before. Her voice, though soft, carried a weight he couldn't ignore.
"I know it's hard to believe," she said. "Hell, I didn't believe it either the first time. But you need to stop thinking with the logic you've known all your life. That life is over."
Damon sat there, silent for a long moment, then let out a short, bitter laugh. "Right," he muttered, shaking his head. "So what now, Mom? I'm some ancient warrior reborn through time? Is that it? Am I supposed to have superpowers next?"
She didn't answer.
He looked up. "You really expect me to swallow this just because I blacked out and woke up in a body bag? That's the whole pitch?"
"I expect you to understand," she said, stepping closer. "But if you won't… I'll show you."
Before he could ask what she meant, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room.
"Wait, what are you—?"
He heard the sharp clang of a drawer being pulled open. The sound of metal. Damon stood, unease prickling at his neck. "Mom?"
She came back into the room.
In her hand was a kitchen knife.
Not a small one. The kind used for cutting bone and meat.
His eyes widened. "What the hell are you doing—"
She didn't say a word. She didn't hesitate. With terrifying speed, she crossed the room in a flash of movement.
Damon barely had time to raise his hands.
She slashed his throat.
He gasped—blood gurgling instantly from his mouth, blood spraying from his slashed neck. He staggered backward, choking, eyes wide, confused, horrified.
And then came the second blow. The knife drove straight into his chest. A perfect pierce, right into his heart.
Damon reached for her, struggling, but her hand was firm, steady. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. He fell to his knees, the world dimming around him.
His mother knelt with him as he slumped forward, whispering something he couldn't hear.
And then…
Everything went black.
Damon Graves died again.