That human sorrow was born from grief.
The boy had never seen his parents.
He was founded by an old shop owner, an old woman who lived on the edge of the forest.
One day, she found him lying unconscious in the middle of the woods, his body cold, his breath faint, as if the world itself had almost rejected him. With the help of a few villagers, she carried him back.
Her livelihood came from herbs. Every morning, she ventured deep into the forest, gathering leaves and roots, drying them carefully, and selling them in her small shop below her home.
After bringing the boy with her, she cleaned his wounds and applied crushed herbs with trembling hands. From the moment she touched him, she knew this child was not ordinary.
In his stillness, she saw her own son.
A son she had lost long ago in a war that took everything from her.
From that day, she had lived without hope, merely surviving. But now, looking at this unconscious boy, a faint light stirred in her heart again, something she had buried for years.
She wanted to raise him.
Yet uncertainty gnawed at her mind.
That night, she did not sleep. She sat beside him, listening to his breath, afraid that if she looked away for even a moment, he would vanish like a dream. She cared for him in silence, as if guarding something sacred.
★★★
When dawn arrived, the boy finally opened his eyes.
The first thing he saw was the ceiling, old wooden beams darkened by time. Slowly, his gaze shifted across the small room. Pain still burned in his chest, dull yet heavy. And those words echoed again in his mind, refusing to fade.
"Where am I?" he whispered.
He pressed his right hand against his head.
The pain did not lessen. It was not an ordinary ache, something deeper, something he could not escape. He sat up slowly and looked out through the window.
The outside world came into view.
Green trees swayed gently. Sunlight spilled like gold. Birds moved freely through the sky.
"Wow… this world is really beautiful," he murmured.
Then his expression twisted. "But this pain…"
With every passing second, it grew stronger.
Then,
Creeeak…
Creeeak…
An old door opened.
An elderly woman entered the room.
Her hair was white, her eyes dark and tired, yet gentle. She wore long, plain robes layered for warmth, simple and worn, with faint symbolic patterns stitched into the fabric. The hem of her robe brushed the floor as she walked. They were on the second floor. Below them, on the first floor, was her herb shop.
"Child," she said softly, "don't take too much stress."
Her voice was gentle, like a song sung deep in the forest. The moment it reached him, the boy felt a brief calm. The vast, hollow ache in his heart shrank, just for a moment.
"Who are you?" he asked urgently. "Who am I? Where am I?"
The strange surroundings frightened him. He waved his hands as he spoke, words spilling out in a single breath. He wanted answers. He needed them.
But the woman had none to give.
"I won't lie to you," she said honestly. "But first, calm down. Take a deep breath. I understand how you feel."
Her voice remained steady, though her heart was not. A faint smile appeared on her face, almost invisible. It was not born of greed or expectation, but of something she could not control.
Her soul longed for what stood before her.
The boy still wanted answers, but her words grounded him. Slowly, he sat down, breathing as she had told him to.
For now, that was all he could do.
The old woman poured warm water into a clay cup. The steam rose slowly, carrying the faint scent of herbs. She brought it to him with careful steps and placed it in his trembling hands.
"Drink slowly," she said. "Your body is weak."
The boy obeyed. The warmth spread through his throat and into his chest. It did not remove the pain, but it softened it, like hands placed gently over a wound.
"What is your name?" she asked.
He stared into the cup.
"I… don't know."
The words felt heavy. Saying them made something inside him sink.
She nodded, as if she had expected that answer.
"That is fine," she said. "Names return when they are ready."
He looked up at her. "Then… what should I call you?"
For a moment, she hesitated.
"People here call me Mai," she said. "Just Mai."
"Mai," he repeated softly.
The sound felt safe.
She turned toward the window and adjusted the wooden shutter, letting more light into the room. Dust drifted in the sunlight, slow and quiet.
"You were found in the forest," she said. "Far deeper than most people dare to go. There were no tracks, no signs of struggle. Only you."
"Was I… running?" he asked.
"I do not know," she replied. "But your wounds were not from beasts."
That answer unsettled him.
He lowered his gaze to his hands. They were thin, unfamiliar, as if they did not belong to him. For a brief moment, he felt the urge to cry, but no tears came.
"Do you remember anything?" Mai asked.
He closed his eyes.
Darkness.
Then fragments. A vast silence. Something breaking without sound. And a feeling, so heavy it pressed against his chest.
"I remember… sadness," he said slowly. "And something calling out. Not with words."
Mai's fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
"That is enough for now," she said gently. "Forcing memory only deepens the wound."
She stood and moved toward the door.
"Rest," she added. "When the sun reaches its peak, I will bring food."
As she stepped outside, she paused, her hand resting on the doorframe.
"You are safe here," she said, without turning back.
The door closed softly.
The boy lay back down.
Safe.
The word echoed in his mind, strange and unfamiliar.
Below, the sounds of the shop drifted upward. The murmur of customers. The clink of jars. The quiet rhythm of a life continuing.
He pressed his palm against his chest again.
The pain was still there.
But beneath it, something else stirred.
A faint warmth.
As if someone, somewhere, had decided not to let him disappear.