The wind sang a mournful song that morning.
It wound between the cliffs like an old ghost, whispering to trees that had stood longer than men had known words. A thin sheet of mist clung to the shoulders of the mountains, trembling each time the sun tried to pierce through. It was winter—one of those years when snow refused to fall yet cold still gnawed at bone and bark alike.
In a narrow valley between the peaks, a stream ran clear and restless. Its voice was the only sound for miles, a steady murmur like breathing. Yet beneath that gentle current, another sound was born—so faint it almost dissolved into the air.
A cry.
Soft, weak, yet carrying something more ancient than grief. It came from the bank of the stream, where frost glazed every blade of grass. A bundle lay there, half-covered in snow, wrapped in nothing but a frayed piece of linen. The fabric had stiffened from the cold, and the child within shivered soundlessly after that first desperate wail.
Above, a hawk circled once and screamed, its voice echoing against the cliffs. The mountains listened. The world, vast and uncaring, had heard the birth of something strange and small.
---
Old Goran found the child when the sun had climbed high enough to melt the frost from the stones.
The hermit was a tall, lean figure, wrapped in robes that had been mended so many times they were more patchwork than cloth. His beard was long, white streaked with the color of ashes, and his eyes—though dulled by age—still carried the clarity of rivers untouched by human feet.
He had not seen another living soul in years, not since he'd retreated from the world of men and its endless hunger. His life was simple now: fishing, tending to his herbs, meditating by the fire. He had thought nothing could surprise him anymore.
Then he heard the cry.
It was faint at first, a sound carried by the stream. He had mistaken it for a wounded animal—perhaps a cub lost to the cold. But when he reached the bank, when he saw that tiny form lying in the snow, he froze.
The old man's breath caught. His staff trembled.
A baby. Here, at the roof of the world—miles from any village. No human should have been able to climb these ridges without freezing to death, let alone abandon a newborn at the summit.
For a long moment, Goran simply stared. Then, as the child whimpered again, he set aside his staff and knelt, his joints creaking like old branches. The infant's face was flushed red from the cold, yet its eyes—barely open—were the color of clear sky.
Blue so deep it reflected everything.
Something stirred in Goran's chest, a warmth he had forgotten. He lifted the child carefully, wrapping it in his own robe.
"Who would cast you to the mercy of the mountains, little one?" he murmured, his voice rasping like dry leaves. "The world below must truly have gone mad."
The baby's small hand reached out and caught the hem of his beard, tugging weakly. Goran chuckled despite himself, the sound rusty from disuse.
"Ah… fierce already, are you? I suppose that's a good sign."
---
The hermit returned to his hut with the child pressed against his chest, careful not to let the wind bite it again. His cabin stood in a hollow of rock and pine, smoke curling faintly from a chimney that leaned like a tired sentinel. Inside, the fire was still warm.
He placed the infant near the flames, feeding the hearth more wood until the crackle filled the silence. The child had stopped crying now; its tiny eyes followed the dancing sparks as if hypnotized.
Goran watched, his heart caught between awe and unease.
In all his years of wandering, he had seen men kill for less than bread, kings burn cities over pride, and monks abandon their faith for fame. He had fled those flames long ago, retreating into these mountains to find silence.
And now silence itself had given him… this.
He brewed goat milk mixed with herbs and fed the child from a small clay spoon. The infant drank eagerly, life returning to its cheeks.
"You have a strong spirit," Goran said softly. "You didn't cry out of fear. You cried so the world would know you're here."
The baby blinked at him. The old man felt foolish talking to it, yet the words came unbidden.
"Since fate has dropped you upon my doorstep, I suppose you're mine now. But I can't call you 'boy' forever, can I?" He stroked his beard, thinking. "Let's see… your eyes remind me of the morning sky—pure, unclouded. In the old tongue, 'Arin' means the first light of dawn. That will be your name."
He smiled faintly. "Yes… Arin. The one who begins again."
---
That night, Goran could not sleep.
The wind howled outside, and though the fire kept his bones warm, his thoughts wandered to darker corners.
He had left the world decades ago because he no longer believed humanity could be redeemed. Too much cruelty. Too much arrogance masquerading as civilization. The martial arts he once loved had become tools of vanity—symbols of domination, not discipline.
Yet now, as he watched the newborn sleep beside the fire, something fragile and hopeful flickered in his chest.
"Perhaps," he whispered to the darkness, "the mountains still have mercy."
The child shifted, cooing softly. For a moment, Goran imagined he heard a faint hum—like the rhythm of his own heartbeat echoing through the cabin. He leaned closer. The baby's skin radiated warmth, as though the fire itself had chosen to live in him.
He brushed the child's hair, frowning slightly. "Strange…"
It was faint, but when the firelight touched the baby's tiny body, Goran could swear he saw something shimmering beneath the skin—like ripples on water. A pulse, not just of blood, but of energy.
Old instincts stirred.
He placed two fingers on the child's chest, channeling a fraction of his own internal energy, the ancient art of feeling one's life flow. What he sensed made him inhale sharply.
"Impossible…"
The energy within the baby was vast—raw, untamed, yet pure as mountain spring water. It pulsed with a rhythm that didn't belong to an infant. It didn't even belong to normal humans.
Goran withdrew his hand slowly. "So… the heavens are still writing strange stories."
The baby stirred, eyes opening briefly. Those blue eyes—clear, fearless—met his, and for a fleeting instant, the old man felt the weight of something immense pass between them.
It wasn't power. It was destiny.
---
Morning came quietly. The world outside was sheathed in white; snow had finally fallen. Goran stepped outside with the baby bundled against his chest. The air was sharp enough to bite, but he didn't care.
He stood on the ridge and looked out at the endless expanse below. Clouds rolled like oceans; the horizon glowed faintly golden.
"This is where you were born, Arin," he said softly. "A world far above men and their madness. But someday, you'll have to go down there. Every bird must leave its nest."
The baby yawned, unimpressed by philosophy. Goran laughed, the sound echoing faintly down the cliffs.
"Ah, perhaps that's for the best. The world doesn't need another fool who talks too much." He turned and headed back toward the cabin. "For now, we'll live simply. You'll grow strong, and I'll teach you what I know—how to listen, how to move, how to fight only when the heart commands it."
As he walked, the wind shifted behind him. The snow on the peaks glittered brighter than before, as if the mountain itself had approved.
---
That night, the forest was alive with quiet sounds—crickets chirping beneath the snow, trees groaning under the weight of frost. Inside the hut, Goran sat cross-legged by the fire, the baby asleep in a small basket beside him.
He watched the flames and whispered, not to anyone, but to himself:
"Perhaps I was wrong to abandon men. Perhaps one child is enough to change the world."
Outside, the stream kept singing—the same stream that had carried that infant's first cry.
But now, its melody was softer, warmer, as if welcoming the new life that had joined the mountains.
And though the old hermit could not have known it then, that tiny, fearless cry would one day echo across the entire world—awakening hearts that had long forgotten how to feel.
---