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The exercise continues. Faster. Harder. I change my breathing. Slow it. Control it. Most people don't realize how much information breathing gives away.

Sayer notices. Immediately.

"You stopped breathing normally."

I pause.

"Good."

He frowns.

"Was that the test?"

"Part of it."

I move again. He tracks me. Not perfectly. But close. Every time.

Eventually, I increase the difficulty. I move behind the shed. Change direction twice. Circle around the house.

Sayer points.

"Left."

I stop.

"How?"

He shrugs.

"I don't know."

"What did you notice?"

He thinks.

"Pressure."

"What kind?"

He struggles.

"Like the air changes."

I look toward Carys. She is writing everything down. Of course she is.

"What?" she asks.

"He's not just hearing."

Her expression sharpens.

"Then what?"

I look back at Sayer.

"He's sensing."

The word hangs there. Because that changes things. A heightened sense of hearing can be trained. This is something deeper. Connected. Inherited.