Thanks for the views and favs so far! And, to reply to Fickleness- thanks for the review and well wishes! Hoping the story goes well (and I finish it AHHH). And, heheheh, you got something going there but my lips are sealed lol. Now, onward...

Bradford found himself visiting more and more, even taking breaks from enacting FOWL meetings to watch and visit the child in its tank. It was growing steadily, but surely: the head was becoming more developed, as well as its arms and webbed feet. It was becoming more like a regular newborn duck as the months rolled on.

As the visits continued, Bradford soon found himself talking to the child in a light tone of voice about different, trivial things in his life, from his daily board meetings to the annual taxation rate on large yachts. For some odd reason, he found speaking to the little floating baby to be comforting. He didn't know if it could hear him, but he swore sometimes the child would turn to the sound of his voice or even smile sometimes with its little beak. It probably was not on purpose, but he found the little moments they shared precious.

Four months into the process, he settled to have a chair located near the tank as he spent longer visits sitting by the chick, droning on and on about the various events in his life. Very soon, he found himself telling the child stories, starting out short until he realized his stories started to last for hours on end.

At first he started with just fairy tales and legendary stories he's heard over the years. It didn't take long, however, for the stories to evolve into him reminiscing about his life.

He began with his short-lived childhood, stories he heard from his grandmother about him and his parents before they became lost when he was very young. Often, he tried to remember their voices and their visages in his memories, but it was all for naught. He remembered seeing some ancient black-and-white photos of them taken around the time he was hatched, but their photos were long ago either lost or burnt to time thanks to Finch. To him, it felt as if their bodies were burnt from the surface of the earth as well.

These stories then transitioned to his hard years with his grandmother. He remembered the day they packed up for their first day of adventuring together, him wearing one of the first prototype uniforms for the Junior Woodchucks. He was stuffing his bags with clothes, toys, and paper stationery in his room, feeling like his stomach was going to burst as he couldn't get his hands to stop shaking and dropping his belongings on the floor.

As he tried to close his overstuffed suitcase on his bed, he heard the sound of laughing children. He opened his second story window and saw during that summer morning a group of regular kids his age in the streets playing ball, their lives totally careless and full of joy while he watched in strong yearning. Oh, how he would've loved to just throw his suitcase down, change into a regular t-shirt and shorts and just run down there, all the plans his grammy made for them abandoned.

But Finch soon called up to him asking if he was done packing, and he called back in a defeated voice that he was. He then closed the window shut and turned his back on the children, carrying his suitcase down the stairs to meet her by the door. He didn't want to make them late to the train and get his grammy upset at him already on his first day officially adventuring with her. Not after he had prepared for them for so long, wanting to make his grammy proud of him.

But as the days passed and his worries stacked higher, it didn't take long for things to go wrong for him.

His stories with Finch were numerous, but they were difficult for him to go through. To ease his mind, he also spoke about his young adulthood studying in university, then he'd go into various anecdotes about his many years with SHUSH, FOWL, then finally McDuck Enterprises.

When he spoke, he would hold his head close to the glass and confess his heart's deepest secrets, desires, and pains in low whispers, stroking the chamber in a loving embrace, keeping his steady gaze on the child's floating form. Focusing on the unborn allowed him to speak more freely as his words flowed out of him like streaming water.

It was the first time in many, many years he'd been able to open himself up about these memories. He's only done this once previously, but it was so long ago. For some reason, the memories pained him less when he spoke to the child, and it comforted him to know he was speaking to someone who listened to him without judging him, without any preconceived notions about him, even if the child did not understand him.

Regrettably, however, this ease only lasted for as long as he was with the chick, and the pain would come back in full force once he laid in his bed again, alone in the dead of night, his only companions his freshly resurfaced memories.

One day, von Drake gave him a baby book on how to raise young ducks. "Trust me, you'll need this," he said with a chuckle and a wink. Bradford was at first skeptical before opening the book, but then he realized as he read through it that he really didn't know how to properly care and raise a baby. This was to be rectified, effective immediately.

He read the entire book within one night, and by the next morning he had brought a vinyl record player into the lab to play some classical music and a worn out storybook he used to read as a child.

The baby book had said that talking to a child before they're hatched and playing music for them can enhance their cognitive processes. If that were true, then surely there was no harm in him redoubling his efforts in speaking to the unborn duckling. As Bradford sat near the incubator and started to read Alice in Wonderland while Tchaikovsky softly played in the background, he admitted to himself that he hadn't felt this calm and at peace in a very, very long time.

When he finished the story, he pressed his forehead and a hand to the glass with a small smile. He knew the child would never have known, but he could've sworn he saw the duckling come near and touch the glass with its own head, but just barely. His proud smile grew wider.