Jayson did not know what fear was.
He did not know the weight of expectations, the cruelty of words, or the way the world could slowly grind down a person's dreams. At that age, the world was simple—small enough to fit inside an afternoon, wide enough to feel endless.
He was seven years old, barefoot, and running.
The ground beneath him was warm and dusty, the kind that stuck to skin and left marks that mothers scolded but never truly cleaned away. His laughter rang louder than the cicadas hiding in the trees, louder than the wind brushing through tall grass. He chased after the other children, his thin arms swinging wildly, his breath uneven but happy.
"Wait for me!" Jayson shouted, though he didn't really need them to.
They were all playing the same game they always did—no rules, no winners, no end. Just running, hiding, pretending the world was made only for them. A broken slipper became a treasure. A fallen branch became a sword. The sky above them was a vast blue ceiling, untouched and eternal.
Jayson tripped.
He fell forward, scraping his knee against the dirt. The sting came quickly, sharp and surprising. For a moment, his face twisted—not in pain, but confusion. He stared at the blood slowly forming on his skin, bright red against brown dust.
Then he laughed.
It didn't hurt enough to cry. Not yet.
One of the girls ran back to him. "You're bleeding," she said, eyes wide, as if she had discovered something important about life.
Jayson shrugged, standing up. "It's nothing."
And he meant it.
Because back then, everything was nothing. Every problem could be shaken off. Every wound would disappear by tomorrow. He did not know that some cuts stayed long after the skin healed.
From the edge of the field, his mother watched.
She didn't call him home. She didn't warn him to be careful. She only watched quietly, holding a basket in her hands, her eyes following her son as if she was memorizing the shape of his happiness.
Jayson did not notice.
He did not notice the way adults looked tired even when they were smiling. He did not notice how the older boys stopped playing and started watching instead. He did not notice the silence that sometimes fell at night when conversations turned serious.
All he knew was this moment.
The sun was low. The game was still going. And tomorrow felt guaranteed.
That night, as Jayson lay on the thin mattress by the window, he counted the stars he could see through the cracks in the roof. He believed they were watching him. He believed the world was kind.
He fell asleep with dirt still under his fingernails, a healing scrape on his knee, and a heart untouched by loss.
He did not know that this was the last time his life would ever be this simple.