This was a small town nestled at the foot of the mountains, known for its pleasant scenery. Towering peaks surrounded quiet valleys, and a narrow path stretched from the back of the town, winding up into the hills. As one ascended, the landscape turned lush—green fields filled the horizon, and wildflowers of every imaginable color bloomed, their fragrance mingling with the clean mountain air. The scent of blossoms from the fertile pastures filled every breath, refreshing and pure.
Deacon Thorn held Loren's hand in one of his own and carried a small package in the other.
"Your grandfather, Mr. Bates, lives up in the mountain pasture," he explained. "He keeps a flock of sheep with some of the town's residents and grows a bit of wheat for himself. It's a good life."
Loren nodded and lowered his head, inhaling deeply. He was wearing two layers of smocks and a pair of heavy, spiked boots—valuable items Sister Joyce had insisted he take with him from the welfare home.
The blazing sun had turned his cheeks red, and as they climbed higher, Loren began to pant, dizziness clouding his vision.
Though it had been years since he came to this world, his small, underdeveloped body and brain couldn't support too much exertion. Britain in the 1980s was not a kind place for orphans. Drug dealers, skinheads, thieves, and unemployed youth filled the streets. A child couldn't afford the slightest accident. And right now, he was no different from a normal five-year-old—his ambitions buried beneath a fragile frame.
As they passed through the village, the townsfolk cast wary glances at the two of them, whispering to one another. But neither Loren nor Deacon Thorn paid them any mind.
Eventually, the heat became unbearable. Loren pulled his hand from Thorn's, tore off the smock, leaving only the thin inner layer, then took off the boots and wrapped them in the discarded smock. He stepped barefoot onto the dirt path, testing the warm, flat stones beneath him.
"I'm fine, Mr. Thorn. Let's keep going—I can manage."
Thorn smiled and resumed walking. When the path grew steep, he would still offer a hand to steady Loren.
After nearly an hour, they reached the alpine pasture. Three small wooden huts stood on a high ridge beside the road. They were weather-beaten and exposed on all sides, but they basked in bright sunlight, overlooking the valley below.
A rough bench made of thick wooden planks sat beside one of the huts. An old man was seated there, pipe in hand, watching as the two approached. His long beard and bushy gray eyebrows framed a deeply lined face.
Deacon Thorn stepped forward, reaching out his hand. "Hello, Mr. Bates. I'm Thorn."
"Hello, sir," the old man replied in a gruff voice, shaking his hand. His eyes then turned to Loren, studying the tiny figure before him. The sunlight caught the boy's pale lashes and cast fluttering shadows over his sky-blue eyes. Something about it softened the old man's expression.
Sensing the man's attention, Loren seized the chance to speak. "Hello, Grandpa."
All he wanted was a peaceful life until he could stand on his own. Nothing more.
Thorn soon asked Loren to rest while he spoke privately with Mr. Bates.
Loren set his package down on a bench beside the hut and took in the view. The sunshine was golden, the air fragrant with grass and trees—it was a beautiful place.
Before long, Thorn descended the path alone. The handover, it seemed, was complete.
"Come on in. You'll need to clean up before living here," the old man barked from the doorway.
Loren ran inside. The hut had only a single room. A small bed stood in the center, flanked by a table and several chairs. A closet was built into the wall. In one corner sat a stove with a large pot on top, and opposite it, a wooden ladder led to the attic.
He stuffed his bundle and smock into the closet. The attic already held a simple bed—just coarse cloth spread over planks, with cotton stuffed inside a patched quilt. It would suffice for the summer.
"I'll make you a proper frame later," Bates muttered. "For now, just make do."
That night, they sat at the wooden dining table in the ranch cottage.
Wheat porridge cooked in goat milk filled the room with a warm, earthy aroma. Each spoonful carried the mingled flavors of grain and cream. Smoked lamb, salty and rich, melted on the tongue. A plate of small, unknown wild berries—some sweet, some sour—sat nearby.
Loren mimicked the old man, grabbing a handful of berries and tossing them into his mouth. The flavor exploded—bright, tangy, exhilarating. Compared to mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, potato stew, and endless potatoes, this was heaven.
After dinner, Loren reached to clear the table.
"Kid, just live here for now. We'll talk about chores when you're older," Bates said, carrying the dishes out to wash at the outdoor sink.
"Okay, Grandpa." Loren smiled. Even this rural life was far more comfortable than the orphanage.
That night, Loren slept in the attic. He breathed in the grassy scent of the wild, and his dreams soared—gliding through valleys, across streams, through treetops and clouds, dancing along cliff edges. His head was clear, the dizziness gone.
In the morning, sunlight poured through the attic window, and for a moment, Loren forgot where he was.
Mr. Bates was downstairs, preparing to build a proper bed frame from wood and clear out old clutter. In the meantime, he told Loren to go play on the mountain with the shepherd.
Each day, a shepherd named Pete would bring the town's sheep up to the high pasture, along with several from the Bates family, to graze and drink from mountain streams.
Pete was only ten, and he was already tired of tending the stubborn goats alone. When he heard he'd be taking Loren along, he jumped at the chance.
Once they reached the highlands, Pete let the sheep graze and led Loren into a full day of adventure—rolling through the soft grass, watching mountain eagles drop rabbits onto rocks, picking colorful berries along the ridge.
Loren was entranced. In all his years at the welfare home, he had never known such freedom—no fear, no restraint, no danger.
At dusk, Pete cracked his whip to drive the goats downhill. Bates led his own flock into the pen, using a handful of salt as bait.
Back in the village, Pete blew a whistle to summon the local children and gathered his flock. Life in the mountains was poor, primitive—but full of comfort and raw beauty.
As Loren settled in, he gradually became familiar with the townsfolk. They often looked at him with strange pity, as if he had suffered some great tragedy. But whenever Bates was nearby, they grew silent, their expressions wary, even fearful.
Loren asked Pete about it, and Pete told him the village was full of wild rumors—some said Bates had killed a man, others claimed he'd made a deal with the devil and would bring bad luck.
Every month on the night of the full moon, Bates would go deep into the mountains alone and return the next morning pale and exhausted. For several days afterward, he would do no heavy labor and seemed frail.
When Loren asked, Bates only said he was checking on fruit trees deep in the hills and liked to give his old bones a few days of rest afterward.
But he never brought Loren with him.