The lush and bright season of life, spring very quickly blurred into the short lived summer. The days came and went like soft waves against worn stone. Still the orphanage had the same clockwork everyday. They woke. worked. ate. played. slept. The world moved, even when it felt still. Then came autumn, brushing its golden fingers through the trees. And with it, change.
The Arrival
It was a morning edged with wind when the orphanage gates opened again. Three new faces stepped in. They looked quite grown to Rowe as he was almost turning four soon. Strangers at first, but not for long. The kids were introduced to everyone.
Echa, age six. She held the caretaker's hand for too long, like she was unsure she'd ever get to hold one again. Eyes reflecting the colors of autumn at its finest—quiet, unsure.
Solh, eight. Chin tilted upward, eyes flicking from face to face like a sparrow ready to fly or fight. Hands always folded. Always thinking. She had the feisty gaze like a warrior.
Raad, nine. Steady steps, acting mature. He looked like someone had told him this was temporary, and he was already making plans for his next stop.
The other children gave short greetings. Names were shared, then forgotten. Shoes compared. A spot offered at the table. Chores resumed. Lunch steamed in bowls. Games picked up where they left off. It was just another day. The world kept turning.
The Hill
Five days later. They were playing the game of hide and seek together. Echa was running too fast when... she tripped – face-first into damp grass. She pushed up, wiped dust from her cheek… and saw him. Far off. At the edge of the hill where the trees parted. A small figure, knees drawn close, hands resting in his lap. He was facing the town below. Sitting still. Too still. Lost in deep thoughts.
Solh saw Echa's pause, followed her gaze. "Who's that?" she asked. Raad turned too. "He doesn't play with anyone." One of the older girls overheard. "That's Rowe. He just… sits there. Looks down at the village most days. Doesn't talk unless you ask him something first." "Is he sick?" Echa whispered. "No," the girl replied. "Just… he likes being alone." "Don't bother Rowe, It's his thinking time now," the older girl had warned, already turning back to her game. "He doesn't like disturbance."
But warnings were air to Solh. Curiosity was a hook in her ribs, tugging her forward. Raad followed because Raad always followed where defiance led. Echa trailed because she feared being left behind. So..., they went to approach Rowe.
They moved like shadows through the grass – knees slightly bent, breaths held. Rowe didn't stir. He was a statue carved from stillness, his back a silent wall against the orphanage noise. Ten paces away, Echa stumbled again... on a root this time. Crack. Solh froze. Raad grabbed Echa's elbow, steadying her.
Rowe… didn't react. Not a flinch. Not a turn. Only the wind touched him, lifting strands of hair. That's when they saw it clear under the autumn sunlight. Ash-purple hues, like the night sky had faded to leave behind its most beautiful traits only, with a flattering shimmer against the light. Soft strands lifting just enough for the sun to catch the edges. Strange. Not northern. Not something they'd seen before. It captivated them so much they forgot why they went to Rowe in the first place.
Then—slowly, as if pulled by the weight of their stares, he turned his head. Just enough. And they noticed his eyes. Too captivating to not notice. Quite... like a crystal. Not quite green nor quite blue. A deep, forest teal, like well polished jade, compared to the colour of glacial ice over deep sea waters. They held no curiosity, no annoyance. Just… observation. As if they didn't belong to a child at all, but rocks. Clouds. Things that simply were.
The silence stretched, thin and brittle. Solh found her voice first. "You're not playing?" Solh asked.
Rowe blinked. Slow as frost forming. Turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge her. Then his gaze drifted back to the rooftops far below.
Inside Rowe's mind, logic clicked: Children seek connection and vulnerability prompts sympathy. So showing them vulnerability would prompt them to retreat for today. His voice, when it came, was soft. Flat. A blade wrapped in wool: "I miss my mom." Not too loud. Not too sad. Just enough to make the others go quiet. Echa's breath hitched. Raad shifted uncomfortably. Solh noticed his face – the perfect, empty stillness of it was quite disturbing. No trembling lip. No wet eyes. Just words dropped like stones into a still pond.
The lie worked. As they understood what family meant, their curiosity drowned in awkward pity. They backed away, leaving him once more to the wind and the vast, indifferent sky.
That Evening
The new kids sat together after dinner. The refectory was loud with scraping spoons and chatter, but their corner felt hushed. Echa picked at her gruel, her small face troubled. "He's weird," Raad exclaimed quietly, shoving a chunk of bread into his mouth. "Sits like a lump. Talks like a stuck-up scribe. 'I miss my mom'." He mimicked Rowe's flat tone poorly.
"No!" Echa's whisper was fierce. She tugged Raad's sleeve. "He's sad. Like… like baby birds who fell. Quiet sad." Her own eyes shimmered, reflecting the dim candlelight. As she continued to eat the potato soup, Solh stayed silent. She traced a knot in the worn wooden table, seeing not wood, but a hilltop. That voice – not trembling, not pleading, just stating: "I miss my mom." It hadn't sounded sad. It had sounded… final. Like closing some kind of door.
"He didn't cry," Solh said softly, more to herself. Raad snorted as he picked on Solh's words. "So?" "So," Solh met his gaze, her sparrow-quick eyes sharp. "When Marta's kitten died last year, she cried for days. When Jonas dropped his only honey-cookie, he howled the whole day. Even you yelled when you stubbed your toe last week. Anyone expresses sadness that way as much as I've seen." Raad scowled. "What's your point?"
Solh looked toward the dark window, picturing the hill. "He said he misses his mom… but his face was like stone. His eyes were… empty." She shivered. "That's not sad, Raad. That's… something broken." She didn't say the rest of her thought: Or something pretending to be broken.
She kept her eyes on the window, on the unseen hill where the quiet boy watched a world that didn't seem to want him. Questions, sharp and persistent, began to root in her mind.
Merchant's Visit
Two weeks passed. Leaves began to fall in twos and threes. The air grew crisp, the wind sharp with the scent of pine. It was time. Every month, the merchant woman came with her wagons of things—cloth, thread, sweets, books too old to be sold in the cities. But this time she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, someone new showed up.
A young man stepped off the wagon. Tall, bright-eyed, and dressed in the crisp merchant uniform. He introduced himself simply: "Dan. Just call me Dan. The lady that usually comes here is my master, I recently started learning under her." Dan smiled wide and helped carry crates inside. He took to the children easily, teaching them how to say greetings in three different cities' dialects, how to hold a stick like a sword, how to fold clothes quickly. Dan had spent the day moving like sunlight through the building—lively, warm, eager to help.
Throughout the day, his eyes kept drifting toward a particular child—the one no one was quite close with. He had seen him only from a distance; the child, after finishing the necessary work, would move to the same spot on the hill, watching the valley below.
Dan walked up the hill one last time. Rowe sat where he always did. Dan sat beside him slowly. "Why so solemn?" Dan asked. "Got the weight of the world on those shoulders?" Silence. Dan nudged, holding out a sweet. "I brought caramel bites. Saved you some." Rowe didn't look. Dan sighed. "Alright, little iceberg. What melts you? Stories? Toys? Say something. Little one—"
He leaned closer, studying the boy's face properly. The fading light caught the unusual ash-purple of his hair and those teal eyes – deep and unsettlingly clear. "You've got a striking face, you know that? Like a storybook prince. Where'd you come from? These looks aren't from this North region. Maybe the Southern plains?"
Rowe offered only a weary sigh. Dan stood up, brushing his knees off with a faint laugh. "Alright then. I'm leaving now. If you're not saying goodbye, I'll be off—"
"First," Rowe interrupted. His voice was small but precise. "I am not sad. Sadness implies an emotional investment in a loss. I have lost nothing I care to claim. I sit here because this town is a study in inefficiency. I calculate the variables of their labor to pass the time. It is more productive than games."
Dan froze, then slowly sat back down.
"Second," the boy continued. "Probability suggests you may not return. But if you do, bring me a book. One teaching advanced literacy. The lessons here are elementary; I completed the curriculum a year ago. I have no desire to repeat it."
"Third—I have been here since birth. The matron found me at the forest's edge. I have no 'homeland' to miss, and no origin to speak of."
Rowe finally turned his head. Those teal eyes pinned Dan, unnervingly direct.
He's reached the limit of what I'm willing to share, Rowe mused internally. Any more talking is just a waste of breath. Dialogue closed.
"No more questions," Rowe stated flatly. He stood, brushing grass from his worn trousers with fastidious care. "Goodbye, Merchant Dan. Travel safely."
Dan sat still, staring. The boy's words hung in the air – bizarre, brilliant, and as cold as the coming winter. He blinked. And then—he laughed. A surprised, quiet laugh. "You really are something," he said. He placed a gentle hand on the boy's head, ruffling his hair. Rowe went rigid with affronted dignity, immediately smoothing the strands back into precise order.
"Alright, little ghost," Dan said, his grin softening. "Advanced literacy. Consider it done." Dan walked down the hill, but in his heart, something lingered. He would return. Not for duty, but for the child who sat still against the wind, as if waiting for something the world had long forgotten.