The world did not greet him with crying.
It welcomed him with silence.
The morning sky looked like the eyelid of heaven, not fully opened. Dew still clung to the grass like leftover fragments of dreams. And in a small wooden hut, at the forgotten edge of the world, a child was born without a sound.
The old doctor assisting the birth furrowed his brow. His fingers trembled as he patted the baby's back.....once, twice. But there was no cry, no wail of first breath.
"He's... strange," he whispered. "This baby doesn't cry."
Yet the woman lying on the straw, cold sweat dampening her temples and a soft smile resting on her lips, showed no fear. She gazed at the child.....his skin pale as untouched snow, his black eyes unblinking as they stared straight at the world as if he meant to swallow it.
"He's calm," the mother said. "Because he hears the world."
That child.....who would one day shake the heavens and bury demons.....was, for now, just a small, nameless body. He hadn't yet known hunger, hadn't yet understood what tears were, and had no grasp of love. But he observed.
To him, the world was an absurd theater, and he was the eternal spectator trapped in a form far too small to voice what he understood.
The blue sky was an open wound.
Leaves did not fall because of the wind, but because they were weary of living.
And human voices were hesitant murmurs from creatures unsure they deserved to exist.
Sometimes, he was held by warm, rough hands....the ones they called "father." The man liked to sing out of tune while swaying the tiny body like a twig in a storm, deliberately and without rhythm.
Sometimes, he was cradled by soft hands that smelled of earth and wildflowers—his mother. She spoke to him the way one speaks to stars: not hoping for an answer, but for the comfort of presence
They didn't know their child wasn't yet human.
Days passed. The sun rose and fell as if whispering that time moves on even when no one understands it.
He did not sleep from weariness. He did not wake with awareness. He merely... existed. Like a stone surrendering itself to the river, sinking in silence
One night, while crickets shrieked like desperate prayers, his mother tied a bracelet around his tiny wrist. It was no gold, no silver....just aged metal, shaped into a perfect circle
"Look at this, my dear,"
she whispered, gazing into her child's empty eyes.
"This circle has no beginning. And no end. Life isn't a straight line… but a loop that always returns."
He didn't understand. But he remembered.
As the sky remembers its past wounds.
He didn't cry. Nor did he laugh.
Sometimes, neighbors came by and pinched his cheeks, babbling, "Why is he always so quiet? Like he's judging us all."
An old woman once joked, "His eyes look like an owl's. Too old for a baby."
But the mother would only smile and say,
"He's listening....not with his ears, but with his soul."
Did she know? That he had once stood between life and death, and was now trapped inside soft, fragile flesh?
Maybe she knew.
Or maybe love is the highest form of sacred foolishness.
Time flowed on. The first years passed like unnoticed blood. The child grew. His body expanded, but his soul remained a spectator. He hadn't chosen to live yet. He didn't trust the world.
Still, the world kept reaching for him....with fingers as soft as his mother's songs about stars, or through the cracked voice of his father reading myths of gods under the night sky.
He sometimes touched their faces. Not to feel them.....but to make sure they were real. Flesh. Breath. Warmth.
"Is this what they call... affection?" he wondered.....or more precisely, something inside him whispered the question.
He didn't have words yet. But now, something inside him begins to stir.....something he cannot avoid.
Attachment.
Like the bracelet on his wrist, which he had never taken off. As if breaking that circle would send him falling out of this world and back to the nameless void.
At some point, he began to realize:
Humans aren't logical.
They laugh when they're sad.
They cry when they're happy.
They name things that are always changing.
They believe in gods, even though the gods don't listen.
But... they also hold each other through storms.
They sing songs in the rain.
They look up at the sky and hope.
And within that chaos, something in him cracked.
Not shattered....just... began to open.
Was this... a heart?
He didn't know. But when night came, and his mother laid him down, gently patted his back, and kissed his forehead while whispering, "Sleep well, my love"....he didn't resist.
He didn't cry. But his eyes didn't close right away.
He stared at the ceiling and, for the first time, thought
"I... am here."
It wasn't a prayer.
Not a question.
Not even a statement.
Only silence, conscious of its own being
And in that silence, the baby began to become human.
They named him Kael.
Just like the name he once bore as an angel. A quiet irony.
Four years had passed, but time was never something he understood.
He knew daylight came with warmth. And night brought cold, and the sharp chirping of crickets that sliced through silence.
But the concept of a "year" or "age" remained a riddle with no answer.
All he really knew was this: his body was growing, and everyone expected him to be a child.
"Come on, laugh!"
"Don't be so serious!"
"If you're happy, show it on your face!"
They said things like that every day. And he learned to imitate.
At first, it was awkward.
His lips were stiff when he tried to smile.
His laugh flat and monotone.
But everyone seemed satisfied.
Someone patted his head and said,
"Good. Now you're just like a normal kid."
But deep down, all he felt was emptiness.
As if everything he did was a mask, puppeteered by curiosity, not feeling.
"They're holding something I can't see.
Maybe..... that's what they call a heart."
That was one of the first thoughts to rise in his awareness, the moment he began reflecting not on the world, but on himself.
He didn't yet understand love.
But he started recognizing its patterns.
His father would always take him into the woods, showing him how to nurture the soil, how to read the wind, how to climb tall trees without falling.
"I fell too," his father once said, "and that's part of learning."
His mother taught him the names of plants....those that could be eaten, and those that could kill.
"Bitter roots for deep wounds," she said. "But don't mix them with this flower, or you'll sleep forever."
They never said "I love you," but their hands were always there when he stumbled, their eyes always searched for him when the rain fell.
And somehow, that felt... warm.
But he knew:
He didn't love them.
Not yet.
He only remembered them.
Like tracing constellations he would never touch.
One evening, in front of the campfire, his father told him a legend.....about a constellation formed from the bones of a burning god.
His mother added that every star was a soul finding its way home.
"People fear death,"
she said, gazing into the embers,
"because life feels too short when you love something."
The child said nothing. He didn't understand the words. But they stayed with him.
Like a tiny thorn lodged between his ribs.
One day, that thorn would pierce deeper than he could ever imagine.
That little village wasn't big. But it was full of life.
Children played in the mud and laughed until their voices cracked. Kael ran with them, stumbled, fell.
Someone helped him up and said, laughing,
"Being dirty alone is sad. But being dirty together? That's funny!"
He looked at the boy for a moment, then... laughed. This time softer. More real.
He didn't know why.
In the large stone hall at the village center, the elder would sit every afternoon and give riddles to the children.
One day, Kael gave the wrong answer. All the children laughed.
But there was no mockery. No shame.
It was warm laughter, like sunlight falling on a wound without forcing it to heal.
"Is this weakness... or strength?"
he wondered that night, sitting alone, staring at the bracelet on his wrist.
He didn't know the answer.
But he knew this: humans fail, and still smile.
The old bread seller always gave him an extra piece.
"Because you look at me like you're staring at the sun, you strange child."
At the market, there was a blind woman who once stopped him and gently felt his face.
"Your eyes are empty," she said, "but your heart isn't. You just don't know where the door is yet."
He didn't respond. But after that day, he began staring at his reflection in water.
As if
searching for a door.
Searching for a crack.
And one night, as he sat under a tree holding warm bread and listening to his mother's singing in the distance, he realized...
He didn't want this place to be destroyed.
He didn't want them to vanish.
He wanted... to understand.
For the first time, he hugged his mother without being told.
And though his small body still couldn't say much, his arms trembled a little tighter.
His mother smiled and looked into his eyes.
"See? You're starting to open that door."
And then he asked, softly, for the first time with his own voice:
"If... I understand... will I change?"
His mother looked at him for a long moment, then answered gently:
"No, sweetheart. You won't change.
You'll always be the child I love."
Morning came.
The sky was clear, the wind brushed against the leaves like a soft whisper. The scent of firewood drifted in from the kitchen. The world was still whole.
His father told him to pick fruit in the forest.
"Stick to the usual path. Don't go too far. Listen to the birds...they're the repeating signs."
Kael found himself nodding.
Not out of obedience, but because it was part of the routine. Like breathing. Like a small circle that never broke.
His mother combed his hair before he left. Snow-white, almost like ash reflecting moonlight.
Then she touched the bracelet... an old metal ring... on her son's wrist.
"Never take this off, no matter what happens," she said. "As long as the circle stays unbroken… you are not alone."
Kael looked at the bracelet.
He didn't know why, but that day... it felt heavier than usual.
On his way to the forest, he passed the village hall. The elder waved from a distance, his hands trembling but full of warmth.
Children called his name, handed him clumps of mud, and laughed for no reason.
The bread seller gave him an extra piece, grinning wide.
"For the road! Don't eat it 'til you're really hungry, alright?"
It all felt like part of a written cycle.
A chapter of peace that always returned, like seasons. Like rhythm.
The forest was silent.
No birds sang.
The wind held its breath.
The sky was too blue.
Kael walked, picking fruit, following the familiar trail.
But something was wrong.
He felt it...not with human instinct, but with remnants of an older sense buried deep within him.
He didn't yet understand what the unease meant.
Didn't yet know that silence sometimes means danger.
As he turned to head back, the sky changed. Smoke… thin and pale.
He scrambled up a low ridge to see beyond the smoke.
And...
He saw hell, made real.
The village was on fire.
Screams echoed like distant thunder from another world....unreal, yet shattering.
Flames climbed houses, devoured wood, roofs, voices, and history.
The blue sky turned red.....raw, like an open wound.
Kael stood frozen.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't a fate he'd ever imagined.
This was loss.
Something inside him collapsed.
From afar, he saw them.
People.
Bound.
Watched by men with faces like masks and eyes like stone.
And among them....
His father and mother.
Still alive. Still standing. But surrounded by fire and the shadow of death.
Kael wanted to run.
Wanted to destroy everything.
But his body was small.
His strength.....gone.
His legs.....weak.
He was not the Reaper.
He was just a child.
He saw the dead. One by one.
The elder who once patted his head.
The child who pulled his hand through the mud.
The baker who always snuck him an extra slice.
All… silent.
Eyes open. But their light had gone out.
He wanted to scream.
But his mother saw him from afar.
Their eyes met.
Time froze.
She raised her hand: palm to chest, then to the sky.
Don't.
His father turned. Gave a faint smile.
The smile of a man who knew the end couldn't be avoided.....only faced.
They stood side by side.
Her hand gripped his.
Their shoulders burned, but their backs stood tall.
No screaming.
No pleading.
Only sacred silence, as if they were waiting for dawn... even though the sun would never rise again.
An executioner stood behind them, his face hidden behind an iron mask.
His sword was long, straight, unadorned.....a tool of death, not a symbol of honor.
One breath.
His father spoke, soft and silent, just the movement of lips.....sharp, but clear.
And Kael understood the words.
"Go, live, and be happy, son."
And his mother.....with a voice that was breaking but still pure....said:
We're sorry…"
"For not being strong enough."
"we failed you as parent."
"we couldn't make you happy."
"we can't stay with you anymore, my child."
"We love you."
Then, the wind stopped.
One swing.
Two heads fell together.....not heavy, not slow.
Like leaves surrendering to the fall.
Their bodies followed, cradled by flame.
Eyes open, still gazing at the sky.
Still looking at Kael.
Kael trembled.
Something he had never felt before stirred inside his chest:
Pain.
Grief.
Fear.
Rage.
For the first time in his new life....he cried.
Then....
Crack.
A small sound.
But in a world drowned in silence and death, it struck like thunder.
One of the executioners turned his head, sharp and instinctive like a beast smelling blood.
Kael froze.
His eyes widened.
His heart stopped for a beat… then slammed against his ribs like a hammer.
No time.
He turned, his body tearing itself from the earth.
Ran.
As if every step was betrayal.
But also the only choice.
He didn't look back.
Didn't say goodbye.
The last thing he saw:
His parents' bodies lying together,
Surrounded by fire.
As if returning to the light.
His steps were uneven.
His breath caught.
His knees bled.
But he kept running.
He ran aimlessly.
Leaves and branches whipped against his face and arms.
His feet slipped....he fell....then rose again, silent.
Tears blurred his vision. Yet the world remained too clear.
Too sharp.
"What is this?" he thought.
"What do you call this feeling…?"
Pain.
Not physical.
Something deeper, like an earthquake shaking his soul.....not the earth beneath him.
For the first time, he understood what it meant to lose something.
He stopped beneath the roots of a massive tree. Gasping.
Shivering.
His hands covered his face, as if trying to erase reality.
But the memories kept coming.
Fragments:
His mother singing songs from the night sky.
His father telling him to jump off a tree, laughing loudly.
Children's laughter.
The warmth of bread and the smiles it brought.
And now...
Smoke.
Blood.
Screams.
"As long as the circle remains whole, you are never alone..."
He reached for the bracelet again.
It was still there. Still cold.
Still flawless.
But the world around him had changed forever.
He walked back to the hill.
Not out of foolishness.
But because he had to see.
He had to be sure.
Through the bushes, he stared at the ruins of his old world.
The flames had begun to die down.
But the embers still burned red.
Smoke danced toward the sky like spirits refusing to leave.
His parents' bodies had fallen.
Together.
Bound to each other in an ending both poetic and cruel.
Around them...
Masked figures.
They were laughing.
But Kael knew.
He would never forget the outlines of their figures, the movement of their eyes, the way they raised their weapons.
They... were the beginning of it all.
They… were the beginning of it all.
The beginning of this feeling
The root of this ache.
What is this feeling?
It's like....
Like I want to break them.
Tear them down until nothing remains.
Is this…
Is this what they call revenge?
But not now.
His small body couldn't do it yet.
He bit his own lip until it bled.
The blood was warm.
Real.
He liked it....because it proved he was alive.
That night, beneath a dead tree, he lay down.
Eyes wide open.
The sky now full of stars.
And those stars felt too far away.
Too indifferent.
He curled into himself.
The tears wouldn't stop falling.
But this time, he didn't hold them back.
In his mind, his mother's face appeared once more.
A gentle face that spoke with eyes, not lips:
"Don't."
Not a command.
Not fear.
But a plea to endure. To live.
"If you live… you can still remember us."
New voices rose within him.
But they weren't from outside.
They came from within his own bones.
Fragments of a soul that had once been silent… began to whisper.
"Why are you crying?"
"Why didn't you stop it?"
"Why did you run?"
And one final voice.....so faint, so cold:
"Why are you weak?"
He looked up at the sky.
His gaze no longer trembled.
Not light. Not hope.
But awareness.
That this world was unfair. Not beautiful. Not full of love.
But... he was still alive.
And as long as he lived,
He could walk.
He could stand.
He could take revenge.
Even if he was still small.
Even if he was still fragile.
Something inside him had begun to grow.
A seed of will.
A seed of something far greater than man.
He began to walk...toward a direction unknown to him.
But for the first time, he wasn't walking because someone told him to.
He walked because he chose to.
The bracelet on his wrist shimmered briefly.
A flicker of light.....as if it carried the memory of a world that had burned.
And he stepped into the darkness of night.
Alone.