When the Sun Still Rose
When he went to the temple again the next day, it had already become a routine.
He had been coming for more than a week now. Long enough that the old stone steps no longer felt foreign beneath his feet. Long enough that the silence no longer pressed against him like a warning.
Words surfaced in his mind that did not belong to him, yet felt familiar.
Mathematics.
Cultivation.
Novels.
They came without context, drifting through his thoughts like fragments of someone else's life. He was sure they were not his, and yet they felt remembered rather than learned.
The temple smelled the way it always did. Dry urine soaked into stone, sweat clinging to old clothes, and smoke that never fully left. But it was one of the few places where people stayed quiet. Where children did not fight. Where no one shouted unless they had to.
The old monk who welcomed them all did not differentiate between anyone. He could not see. He asked no questions. Beggars, children, wanderers they were all the same to him.
That made the temple safe.
Here, he would sit.
Here, he would grow drowsy.
Here, memories slipped past his guard.
As his eyes began to close, something distant stirred.
Light brushing his skin.
Clean air.
The fresh scent of wet grass and oak trees.
The world softened.
The first thing he remembered was not fear.
It was warmth.
His body felt light. Soft. There was no hunger clawing at his stomach, no thirst burning in his throat. Not the sharp heat of a forge or the sick warmth of fever.
This was real warmth.
Morning warmth.
The kind that clung to skin after sleep and made the world feel gentle, as if the sky itself had softened overnight.
Sunlight spilled through cracks in the shutters, turning dust into drifting stars. It touched the floor first—wooden planks worn smooth by barefoot steps—then climbed the wall slowly, like a lazy creature waking up.
He lay very still, listening.
For a moment, he forgot he was dreaming.
He was happy.
There was always a rhythm to home.
A pot lid clinking softly in the morning.
The scrape of a wooden spoon against clay.
The faint hiss of fire breathing beneath a kettle.
Outside, the soft chuckle of a middle-aged man's voice—one he remembered well. The gentle giggle of a woman in love.
A rooster crowed too early, then went quiet, as if startled into remembering the hour.
That pause lingered.
Then the sounds returned to normal.
Beneath it all—the sound that made him feel safe even before he opened his eyes—his mother moving.
She did not stomp. She did not rush. She moved like someone who always knew where everything belonged, even if the house was messy. Even if life was not.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was close. The beams were dark, smoke-stained from years of cooking. A spiderweb clung to one corner, left alone because the spider did its job and ate the flies.
He smiled faintly.
Small things like that made a house feel alive.
His stomach growled—quiet at first, then louder—as if it had learned the rules.
Morning meant food.
This was not the distant memory of the extreme hunger he was used to.
This was hunger that expected to be answered.
He sat up and rubbed his face.
The air smelled like grain porridge and woodsmoke, layered with something his mother always added when she thought no one noticed—dried herbs crushed between her fingers. Warm. Slightly sweet.
A smell that did not exist in the city.
A smell that belonged to a place where hands had time to be careful.
His mother glanced over her shoulder when she heard him move.
"Kael, you're awake," she said. "I left fresh water for you to rinse the sleepiness away, my baby. Come—breakfast is almost ready."
Her voice carried that familiar balance. Warm at the edges. Firm in the middle.
"I smell porrage, delicious poridge," he said.He voice still ver immature, and cute.
"You smell smoke," she corrected, tapping the spoon against his little head, she carresed his little head and removed the blankets. "Your nose is dramatic.Come love, freshen up and Sit with us. Before you start wobbling and blaming your bones."
She paused, then frowned slightly.
"And how did you even come up with that word? We haven't taught you that. Has the village doctor been filling your head again with stories?"
She had wondered that often. How her son knew words they had never taught him. He was one of the few young children in the village, and he had never been much for friends.
"No Mum..." he said softly with a pause. "I don't know. I just… know what it is."
His voice was small. Earnest. Five years old.
When he had turned four, distant memories had begun to surface. Fragmented. Disconnected. Never clear.
Only words.
He slid off the bedding and padded across the floor. The boards were cool beneath his feet. He liked that. Cool floor, warm pot, sunlight creeping in—honest balances.
He washed his face. The fresh water shocked him awake. He dried himself with a towel that smelled faintly of familiar herbs, then sat at the small table in the kitchen.
The kitchen was simple. A furnace served as a stove. Wood was stacked neatly in one corner. The windows stood ajar, letting sunlight spill in.
The table was scarred with knife marks and ink stains from a neighbor who had once borrowed it to write a letter he never sent. One corner wobbled if leaned on too hard.
His father had promised to fix it for months.
It still stood anyway.
His mother served him a bowl and blew gently across the surface.
"It's hot," she said. "Eat slowly, okay?"
Her voice was gentle.
He took a cautious sip regardless.
The porridge tasted plain, but not empty. Grain soaked properly. Cooked slowly to tenderness.
Heat spread through his mouth, down his throat, and settled into his belly. The world softened again. His nose burned. His eyes watered.
A tear slipped free.
How he had missed this... this basic, warm meal.
He took a bigger bite.
His mother made a small, satisfied sound and returned to stirring, as if stirring itself were an argument against disorder.
The door creaked.
His father entered with the cold of early morning clinging to him.
He always carried the outside with him—soil beneath his nails, grass crushed into his boots, metal lingering faintly on his clothes. His hair was damp. His cheeks pink from wind.
He did not speak at first.
He looked at them.
At the boy eating.
At the mother stirring.
At the thin strip of sunlight on the floor.
Then he exhaled, and the room felt fuller.
"You're up early today," his mother said gently.
"Fence line sagged again," his father replied. "East side."
Her spoon paused for a single breath, then moved again.
"If I don't fix it now," he continued, "the goats will decide they own the whole world."
"They already think that," she said.
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
He ruffled Kael's hair with a hand that smelled like earth. Kael leaned into it without thinking.
His father ate like someone who understood food as both fuel and gratitude.
Between bites, he said, "After you finish, come with me."
Kael froze, spoon halfway to his mouth.
His mother lifted an eyebrow. "For fence work?"
"Fence," his father said, straight to the point..
Then, after a moment, "And a look beyond it."
Kael did not understand the difference.
He only heard old enough in the space between the words.