Rain fell steadily through the night.
It was the kind of rain that softened the earth and filled shallow ditches along the road. In a small border village, far from cities and even farther from anything related to cultivation, the sound of rain was familiar. It meant tomorrow's fields would be easier to plow.
Most houses were dark.
After a long day of work, villagers slept early. Farmers, woodcutters, and hunters had no reason to stay awake once the oil lamps burned low. Life here was simple, repetitive, and peaceful.
Inside one such house, dimly lit by a single flickering lamp, a woman cried out in pain.
The room was narrow and plain. The walls were rough clay, patched in places with old straw. A wooden bed creaked softly with each movement. Aside from a small table and a few clay bowls stacked neatly in the corner, there was nothing else.
Nothing valuable.Nothing unusual.
This was the home of mortals.
Outside, the wind rustled through wet leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once before falling silent again.
Inside, life struggled to begin.
"Slowly now… breathe," the old midwife said calmly. Her voice carried no urgency, only experience. She had lived in this village all her life and had helped bring many children into the world.
Tonight was no different.
After a long while, a sharp cry cut through the quiet house.
A newborn's cry.
The sound was thin but strong, echoing briefly before fading into the steady rhythm of rain. The woman collapsed back onto the bed, exhausted, her breathing uneven.
The midwife lifted the child with practiced hands, cleaned him, and wrapped him in a faded cloth that had been washed countless times.
"It's a boy," she said.
The father stepped closer. His clothes still smelled faintly of soil, and his hands were rough from years of farm work. He stared at the child with cautious eyes, as if afraid to breathe too hard.
The baby's face was red, his fists clenched tightly as he cried.
No light descended from the heavens.No strange signs appeared in the sky.
Just a crying newborn.
The man let out a quiet breath he did not realize he had been holding.
"Good," he said softly. "As long as he's healthy."
The midwife nodded. "He's strong enough. Heaven willing, he'll grow up safely."
She said the word Heaven the way villagers always did—not with reverence, but with habit.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
In the village, no one woke. No one noticed. Tomorrow, people would rise with the sun, tend their fields, repair fences, and greet the day like any other.
And so, in a small house within a small village, a boy was born.
A mortal child, in a mortal land, surrounded by ordinary lives—peaceful, unnoticed, and unremarkable.