The lush and bright season of life, spring very quickly blurred into 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 barely turning 4 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 like a dusk-colored pond—quiet, unsure.
Mise, eight.
Chin tilted upward, eyes flicking from face to face like a sparrow ready to fly or fight.
Hands always folded. Always thinking.
Raad, nine.
Steady steps.
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 tag.
Echa was running too fast, she tripped – face-first into damp grass.
She pushed up, wiped mud 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.
Still. Too still.
Lost in deep thoughts.
Mise 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… quiet."
"Don't bother Rowe," the older girl had warned, already turning back to her game. "He doesn't like company."
But warnings were air to Mise. 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 on a root.
Crack.
Mise 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 blue hues, like the clear sky itself bowed in respect, 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.
Then—slowly, as if pulled by the weight of their stares, he turned his head. Just enough.
And they saw 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 fresh out to shine, compared to the colour of glacial ice over deep water. They held no curiosity, no annoyance. Just… observation. As if they weren't children at all, but rocks. Clouds. Things that simply were.
The silence stretched, thin and brittle. Mise found her voice first.
"You're not playing?," Mise asked,
Rowe blinked. Slow as frost forming
Turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge her.
But 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.
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. Mise noticed his face – the perfect, empty stillness of it was quiet disturbing. No trembling lip. No wet eyes. Just words dropped like stones into a still pond.
The lie worked. 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 fall. Quiet sad." Her own eyes shimmered, reflecting the dim candlelight. As she continued to eat the potato soup
Mise 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," Mise said softly, more to herself.
Raad snorted as he picked on Mise's words. "So?"
"So," Mise met his gaze, her sparrow-quick eyes sharp. "When Marta's kitten died, she cried for days. When Jonas dropped his only honeycake, he howled whole day. Even you yelled when you stubbed your toe last week. Anyone express sadness that way as much as I've seen"
Raad scowled. "What's your point?"
Mise 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, the one that chilled her more than the autumn draft:
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.
The next morning.
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."
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.
He also told them stories of how he used to serve a noble family before joining the merchant guild.
Dan had spent the day moving like sunlight through the building—lively, warm, eager to help. The younger children had clung to him instantly. He was careful never to boast, but everything about him gave away the softness of someone who had been raised not to fear the world.
Still, throughout the day, his eyes kept drifting toward a particular child—the one no one was quiet close with.
The child with few words.
He had seen him only from a distance, the child after finishing the necessary work or any extra help would move to the same spot on the hill, watching the valley below. Always watching. Always alone.
Dan had tried to speak to him before—little greetings, casual offers of help,
each time, the boy replied with the minimal necessary words, then faded like mist into the edge of things.
But now, as the sky dimmed and Dan prepared to leave, his feet took him up the hill one last time.
Rowe sat where he always did, legs folded, eyes turned toward the horizon that painted the valley in molten gold,. He didn't look up when Dan approached, but he didn't walk away either.
Dan sat beside him slowly, letting the silence settle like dust between them.
"Why so solemn?" Dan asked, light-hearted—like grownups do when they don't expect real answers, his voice light as dandelion fluff. "Got the weight of the world on those shoulders?"
Silence. Only the sigh of wind through dry grass.
The boy said nothing. His gaze stayed locked on the town below, as if the rooftops whispered things he alone could hear.
Dan tried again, smiling gently. "Come on," Dan nudged. "This big brother brought caramel bites. Saved you some." He held out the sweet, wrapped in waxed paper. Rowe didn't look.
Dan sighed, pocketing the sweet. "Alright, little iceberg. What melts you? Stories? Toys? A promise?". "If you want something, just tell me. This big brother will bring it for you next time I come. Hmm? Kid? Say something. Little one—". He leaned closer, studying the boy's face properly for the first time. The fading light of the sunset caught the unusual ash-blue of his hair, like moonlight on a clear lake, and those teal eyes – deep and unsettlingly clear.
He paused.
His voice softened, and the warmth in it turned curious. "Ahh… now that I see you up close—you've got a striking face, you know that? "Like a storybook prince left out in the cold. Where'd you come from, little mystery? These looks aren't the thing of this 3 seasonal North region, hmm but as far as I remember I think the Southern planes had these features, though it's been so long I went there that, that memory seems blured."
A breeze passed between them. The boy didn't answer right away.
Inside, Rowe's thoughts stirred for a brief moment
This big brother has so many questions, he mused. Should I answer him… or not?
He sighed.
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—"
He expected more silence. He was turning to leave when the voice stopped him – small, precise, cutting through the dusk like a knife.
But it carried the kind of stillness that made time pause for a moment.
"First—I am not sad. Sadness implies investment. I observed repetition here. This—" rowe turned to the town view below "—is inefficient. I sit here, I calculate some of the things I would have done if I did the work. It passes the time."
Dan blinked and slowly sat back down to the grass.
The boy continued, tone steady as a recitation:
"Second—Probability suggests that you may not return. But If you do, bring a book. One teaching advanced literacy. The lessons here are… elementary. I completed last year's curriculum. It's going to be the same again this year. Though the staff doesn't know, I learned it secretly."
A pause.
Dan's brows lifted slightly, but he said nothing.
"Third—I was here since birth. That's what they told me. I heard the old granny say she was the one who picked and brought me inside when she saw my abandoned at the edge of the forest one evening.I don't know anything about where I belong to or where I come from."
Then, "Fourth." Finally, Rowe turned his head. Those teal eyes pinned Dan, unnervingly direct. "Query threshold exceeded. Further interrogation is counterproductive." no more questions."
Rowe was done answering all of Dan's concerns
He stood, brushing grass from his worn trousers with fastidious care.
"Goodbye, Merchant Dan. Travel safely."
Dan sat still, stared. The boy's words hung in the air – bizarre, brilliant, brittle.. Silent.
He blinked.
The wind brushed through the grass around them.
And then—
He laughed. A surprised, quiet laugh. Not mocking. Not amused.
It was the kind of laugh someone makes when the world does something unexpected—and lovely.
"You really are something," he said, almost to himself.
Dan stood at last and placed a gentle hand on the boy's head, ruffling his hair with affection without thinking. Rowe went rigid. Not with fear, Dan realized, but with affronted dignity. Small hands immediately smoothed the strands back into precise order.
"Alright, little one," he said. "I'll remember." Dan's grin softened. "A book, eh? Advanced literacy?" He winked. "Consider it done."
Dan gave him one last smile and walked down the hill.
He didn't look back.
But in his heart, something lingered.
A strange boy, too quiet. Too distant.
But honest. Sharp. And… real.
Dan would return. He knew it now. Not for duty, nor for kindness— But for the child who sat still against the wind,
As if waiting for something the world had long forgotten.
Next time, he would bring more than books.
He would bring silence that listened,
And questions wrapped in gentler robes of wisdom.
Perhaps even— the beginnings of understanding for this stranded soul.