The mornings were always the same.
Before the sun fully rose, before the village stirred, Arin was already awake. Not because he had to be. He was just used to it. The small house creaked as he stepped outside. Wood worn by years. Simple. Unremarkable. Just like everything else in his life.
"…you're up early again."
His father's voice came from behind. Arin didn't turn right away.
"…you're late."
A small pause. Then a faint chuckle.
"…guess I am."
His father stepped beside him. He was tall and broad-shouldered. Not intimidating, but solid. Like someone who had worked his entire life and accepted it.
"…today's going to be heavy," he said.
Arin nodded.
"…wood shipment?"
"…yeah."
A pause.
"…big one."
That was their life. No titles. No status. They were lumber workers. Not just cutting trees, but processing them. Shaping them. Transporting them to nearby towns and cities. A quiet trade. Hard work. But honest.
"…you don't have to come every day," his father said.
"…I know."
"…you're still a kid."
Arin finally looked at him.
"…I'm not."
The answer came too quickly. Too naturally. His father noticed but didn't push.
"…right."
A small pause.
"…still."
Arin shook his head slightly.
"…it's fine."
Because it was. Not just the work. The routine. The simplicity. There was something about it, something stable. Something real. And after everything he remembered, that mattered.
The forest was quiet that morning. Not silent, but alive. Birds. Wind. The distant crack of wood splitting. Arin moved with familiarity. Not trained, but experienced. He picked up the axe, adjusted his grip, and swung. Clean. Precise. Not brute force. Control.
His father watched from a distance. Not surprised, but thoughtful.
"…you've gotten better."
"…practice."
A simple answer. But not the truth. Because Arin didn't learn like others. He picked things up quickly, almost too quickly. Like his body understood things before he did.
"…your grandfather was like that," his father said suddenly.
Arin paused slightly.
"…was he?"
"…yeah."
A small smile formed.
"…quiet."
"…kept to himself."
"…but when it came to work…"
A pause.
"…he never missed."
Arin listened. Not out of curiosity, but because something about it felt important.
"…what about before that?"
His father raised an eyebrow.
"…before what?"
"…our family."
A pause.
"…what did we used to do?"
Silence followed. Not long, but enough.
"…nothing special."
The answer came casually. Too casually.
"…we've always been workers. Just different kinds."
Arin held his gaze for a moment.
"…that's it?"
"…that's it."
No hesitation. No deeper explanation. Just a simple truth or something close to it. Arin didn't push further. But something inside him didn't fully accept it.
Later that evening, the house was quiet again. The work done. The day over. Arin sat alone near the window, watching the sunset.
"…nothing special…"
He repeated it softly. Not mocking, but thinking. Because his life, this life, really was simple. No enemies. No war. No overwhelming power. Just a family. A job. A future that looked normal.
And yet, that feeling remained. That something was waiting. Not in his family. Not in his past here. Somewhere else. His hand clenched slightly.
"…I'll find it."
A quiet promise. Not forced. Not desperate. Just certain. Because even in a life this simple, he knew one thing. He wasn't meant to stay still forever.