He remembered the sound of water before he remembered pain.
It was loud. Endless. A roar that swallowed thought. When he tried to breathe, water filled his mouth and nose, cold enough to burn. His body twisted instinctively, small fingers clawing at nothing, legs kicking against a current that did not care.
The river did not slow.
It did not hesitate.
It did not notice him.
He tried to call out. His mouth filled with water instead. Panic flared, sharp and sudden, then dulled as his chest burned and his limbs grew heavy.
He let go.
Not because he wanted to.
Because his body could not hold on any longer.
The river took him.
When awareness returned, it did so in pieces.
Cold first.Then weight.Then pain.
A sharp, distant pain that pulsed in time with his heart, spreading outward until it filled his entire arm. It hurt in a way that made thinking difficult, as though pain itself had weight and was pressing him down.
He tried to open his eyes. They burned. He closed them again.
Something was pressing against his chest, steady and firm, forcing water from his lungs. He coughed weakly, his body convulsing as breath returned in ragged bursts. Each gasp scraped his throat raw.
He cried out.
The sound barely escaped his mouth.
Hands turned him onto his side. Rough hands. Calloused. They did not shake. More coughing. More burning. Bile and river water spilled onto stone.
"Easy," someone said.
Not kindly.
Not unkindly.
Just… present.
Then stillness.
He woke again to light.
Not bright. Filtered. Dusty.
The sky above him was unfamiliar, framed by stone instead of trees. He lay on something hard, his body wrapped in fabric that smelled old and clean at the same time. Not home. Not forest. Not the river.
His arm hurt.
Not like a scrape. Not like a bruise.
It hurt in a way that made his breath hitch when he tried to move.
He whimpered and tried to pull his arm closer to his body.
Someone held him still.
"Don't," a voice said.
Flat. Measured.
The boy turned his head weakly. An old man sat beside him, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His hands were dark with dried blood. A metal tray lay nearby, tools arranged with care — knives, clamps, cloth.
The boy did not understand what the tools were for.
He understood they were meant for him.
"Where…?" he whispered.
The word came out wrong. Too small. Too thin.
The man did not answer.
Instead, he took a folded cloth and placed it gently, firmly, between the boy's teeth.
"Bite," he said.
The boy's eyes widened.
"No," he whispered around the cloth. "Please."
The man did not react.
He did not look angry.
He did not look cruel.
He looked focused.
Pressure came next.
Then fire.
The pain erased everything else.
He screamed until his throat burned raw, until sound became breath and breath became nothing. His body thrashed, small legs kicking uselessly, but hands held him down with practiced certainty.
"Hold him," the man said.
Another set of hands appeared, pinning his shoulders.
The boy sobbed around the cloth, tears blurring his vision. His world narrowed to pain and heat and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
It felt like it would never end.
Then, abruptly—
It stopped.
When he woke again, the world felt lighter.
Too light.
He blinked slowly, confused by the strange absence where pain had been. His breathing was shallow. Careful.
He turned his head.
And saw that his arm was gone.
Where it should have been, there was only bandaged absence.
White cloth. Tied tight.
For a long time, he did not react.
He stared.
He lifted his remaining hand and reached toward the empty space, fingers trembling.
Then he screamed.
The next memory was movement.
Carried.
Not gently, but carefully.
Stone underfoot. Steps. The sway of walking. Voices in the distance, overlapping and uninterested. Smells layered over each other — smoke, refuse, cooked food, bodies pressed too close together.
The city.
He did not know the word yet.
He only knew it was loud and full and uncaring.
He was set down beneath an overhang, shielded from the street but not hidden. The stone beneath him was cold. A coin was pressed into his remaining hand.
The old man crouched in front of him.
"You will live," he said.
The boy stared up at him, face wet with tears, chest hitching as he tried to breathe around the pain.
"Why?" he asked.
The man straightened.
Then he was gone.
The boy stayed where he was until night fell.
No one came back for him.
People passed. Some glanced at him. Most did not. A few slowed, then continued on.
Eventually, the cold crept in, seeping through his thin clothes, biting into his skin.
He curled into himself, clutching the coin so tightly it cut into his palm.
It was real.
The pain was real.
The city was real.
That night, he did not dream.
He woke the next morning alone.
Hungry.
Thirsty.
Alive.
The city continued around him as if he had always been there.
He learned quickly.
Where not to sit.When to move.How to hold out his hand without meeting anyone's eyes.
He learned how to sleep lightly, waking at the slightest sound. He learned how to hide pain behind stillness.
He learned that no one asked how a child lost an arm.
They only asked whether he would survive without it.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
The river faded into memory. The pain dulled to a distant ache. The city became routine.
By the time he began waking before dawn every day, the nightmares had already started.
And by the time the nightmares stopped making him cry, the city had decided he belonged.
That was how his life began.
Not with purpose.
Not with meaning.
But with survival.