Rion woke up before the sun rose again. The air was still cold enough to sting the nose, the kind that made breath look like faint smoke, rising and vanishing just as quickly. He sat up slowly, blanket half-kicked off his legs, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. The wooden bed creaked under his weight — thin, uneven planks that groaned like they wanted another hour of rest. He didn't blame them.
The room around him was dim, painted in soft gray where dawn had yet to reach. The other boys were still asleep, bundled in patched sheets and mismatched quilts. Elias snored in the bunk below him, one arm dangling off the side, a streak of dried mud still faintly smudged on his cheek from yesterday's mischief. In the far corner, Seren slept with perfect stillness — face turned toward the wall, hair falling over his eyes, his expression unreadable even in rest.
Rion swung his legs down, his bare feet touching the cold wood floor. The chill bit, but he was used to it. He'd been used to it for as long as he could remember — to mornings like this, quiet and gray and slow, where the world felt small but safe. He reached for his shirt hanging from the bedpost, a worn white tunic that had once been cream before time and dirt claimed it. The sleeves were too short, the fabric thin, but it smelled faintly of soap from yesterday's wash, and that was enough to make him smile.
He brushed his fingers through his hair, though it didn't help much. It was a mess of brown that always stuck up at the back no matter how much he tried to tame it. His reflection on the windowpane — faint and ghostlike — looked like that of a boy who was always one step behind growing up. Soft brown eyes, a few freckles near the bridge of his nose, and that same careless smile that people said made him look like he'd never known hardship.
Maybe that was true once. Or maybe he just got too good at pretending.
Outside, the wind whispered across the fields. The orphanage sat at the edge of a village that barely existed on maps, surrounded by dry grass and fences made from old wood that creaked even when the wind was gentle. Rion stepped into his boots and picked up the broom leaning by the door — half the bristles gone, the handle wrapped with fraying cloth where it had split. He took it anyway.
The morning ritual was always the same. Sweep the yard, feed the chickens, fetch water before the sun rose high enough to make the well feel heavy. The broom scraped softly against the packed dirt, a sound so familiar it blended into the quiet. He liked it that way. There was a rhythm to small chores — something honest, something that made the world feel less cruel for a while.
The other children would wake soon, and the chaos would begin. But for now, Rion worked in the hush between night and morning, sweeping the world into a kind of order only he could see. Every fallen leaf, every pebble brushed aside, made him feel like he was keeping something alive — not the orphanage, maybe, but the idea that it could still be a home.
He looked up when the first bit of sunlight spilled across the fence. It touched the roof, the dry fields beyond, and finally his face. He stopped sweeping for a moment just to feel the warmth. The smile came naturally — not forced, not even conscious. It just happened, the way it always did.
"Smiling again already, huh?"
Elias' voice came from behind him, rough with sleep and teasing in the way only he could manage. Rion turned to see him standing in the doorway, his short blond hair sticking out in every direction, his shirt half-buttoned, and his belt hanging loose. He always looked like he'd been in a fight, even when he hadn't. His grin was sharp and tired at once — the grin of someone who had too much energy for a world too small to contain it.
"You're up early," Rion said, resting the broom against his shoulder.
Elias snorted. "Couldn't sleep. Seren was talking in his sleep again."
"He doesn't talk."
"He did this time," Elias said, leaning against the fence post. "Said something about 'lines of light.' Creepy."
Rion chuckled softly. "Maybe he's dreaming about the stars."
"Or maybe he's just weird."
Elias yawned and stretched, the hem of his shirt riding up to reveal a thin scar running along his side — the kind of mark that shouldn't exist on a boy his age. He caught Rion looking and grinned wider. "What? Don't tell me you're worried again."
"I'm not," Rion said. Then, after a pause, "Not much."
Elias laughed, light and careless. "You worry too much for someone who smiles all the time."
Rion shrugged. "Somebody has to."
The words came out half as a joke, but they hung between them a little too long. Elias didn't answer, just kicked at the dirt with his boot and looked away toward the fields. The silence stretched, filled only by the soft rustle of dry grass and the distant cluck of the hens behind the barn.
The door creaked open again, and Seren stepped out. His dark hair was neatly combed as always, though one side caught the morning wind and ruined the effort instantly. His eyes — gray and sharp, older than they should've been — scanned the yard before landing on Rion and Elias. He wore the same plain shirt and trousers as the others, but they always looked tidier on him, like he didn't quite belong to the same mess of childhood chaos.
"You started early again," Seren said quietly.
"It's easier when everyone's still asleep," Rion replied.
Seren nodded, stepping closer. "You don't have to do everything yourself."
"I know." Rion smiled again, though his eyes flicked toward the yard as if looking for something to distract himself with. "But it's quiet this way."
Seren's expression softened slightly, though he didn't smile back. "You'll burn yourself out."
"Then I'll rest tomorrow."
"You said that yesterday."
"Then maybe I'll rest the day after."
Elias groaned. "You two sound like an old couple."
Rion laughed. Seren just sighed and muttered something under his breath. The moment felt familiar — the kind of small, ordinary peace that lived only in forgotten corners of the world.
When the sun finally rose high enough to bathe the orphanage in gold, the rest of the children began to stir. The sound of footsteps and laughter filled the air, and for a while, the place didn't feel broken at all. They shared the last loaf of bread, tore it into uneven pieces, and pretended it was a feast.
The caretakers, two old women with soft hands and sharp voices, came out to scold Rion for working before breakfast, but their tone softened when he smiled. It always did. "You'll grow old too fast, boy," one of them said, ruffling his hair with a sigh. "Save some of that goodness for when you're older."
Rion grinned, brushing her hand away. "If I wait too long, there won't be any left."
She laughed, though there was something in her eyes — a quiet sadness that never left even when she smiled back. She'd buried too many children in her time to believe that kindness lasted forever.
After breakfast, the younger kids went to play near the fields, and Rion followed, watching them from the fence. Elias challenged two of the older boys to a mock sword fight with wooden sticks, declaring himself the future "Hero of the West," as he always did. Seren sat nearby on the steps, his legs crossed, reading a worn book he'd scavenged from the market weeks ago.
Rion watched them all and felt something warm in his chest. The orphanage might've been falling apart — roof leaking, fences rotting, food running out — but for now, it was theirs. The world beyond the fence could burn, and maybe someday it would. But in this small place, they were still allowed to laugh.
He took a deep breath, the air filled with dust and sunlight and faint echoes of laughter, and thought — maybe that's enough for now.
The morning drifted into noon with the kind of lazy warmth that made the world seem softer than it really was. Sunlight shimmered over the fields like a slow tide, brushing the grass into waves. The air smelled faintly of hay and dry soil, mixed with the smoke from the kitchen chimney where the caretakers cooked their thin stew. There wasn't much to eat, but everyone acted like it didn't matter — because when you had nothing, pretending was its own kind of meal.
Elias and the others were still at it in the yard, swinging their wooden swords with wild energy that kicked up dust and laughter. Rion leaned on the fence, arms crossed, watching them with the kind of half-smile that didn't belong to a boy but to someone older who already understood too much. Elias charged again, shouting some heroic nonsense about saving the kingdom, and tripped over a rock. The others burst out laughing before helping him up, and Elias joined in, brushing dirt off his shirt like it didn't sting his pride.
"You're laughing too," Seren said quietly from beside him. Rion hadn't noticed when he sat down on the fence rail, book still open on his lap.
"I can't help it," Rion said, smiling faintly. "He falls the same way every time."
"Maybe he does it on purpose."
"Then he's even dumber than I thought."
Seren didn't answer. He turned a page, his eyes scanning words that were probably too advanced for his age. The wind caught a few loose strands of his hair, and Rion noticed again how different he was from the rest — not just quieter, but distant, like his thoughts were always somewhere far away.
"What are you reading?" Rion asked.
"History. Old kingdoms, old wars. The kind people don't remember anymore."
"Sounds depressing."
"It's not," Seren said softly. "It's… predictable."
Rion tilted his head. "Predictable?"
Seren nodded. "People build things. Then they destroy them. Then someone else tries again. It keeps happening."
Rion hummed, glancing toward the sky. "Then maybe we'll be the ones who don't repeat it."
Seren closed the book slowly and looked at him. "You always say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Things that sound impossible. But you say them like you believe them anyway."
Rion laughed under his breath, scratching the back of his head. "Maybe I just don't know better."
Seren didn't laugh. He just watched him for a moment longer, as if trying to memorize something. Then, without a word, he stood and walked back toward the orphanage.
When the games finally ended, Elias threw his stick down and flopped onto the grass beside Rion. Sweat clung to his neck, and his blond hair had turned almost silver under the sunlight. He wiped his face with his sleeve and groaned dramatically.
"I'm starving," Elias said.
"You're always starving."
"Yeah, but this time it's serious."
Rion chuckled. "You said that yesterday too."
"Yeah, and it was serious then too!" Elias rolled onto his back, squinting at the sky. "Hey, Rion… why do you always smile like that?"
Rion blinked. "Like what?"
"Like everything's fine. Like the world's not falling apart."
He didn't answer right away. The wind moved across the field, soft but constant. Beyond the fence, the tall grass rippled in long, slow waves — gold and green stretching endlessly toward the tree line.
"Because," Rion said finally, "if I stop smiling, I think everyone else will too."
Elias turned his head to look at him. For once, he didn't joke back. He just nodded slowly, like he understood something he didn't want to say out loud.
The bell from the chapel rang in the distance — a thin, wavering sound carried by the wind. It meant lunch, though no one was ever sure if it would be ready on time. The two boys got up and brushed the dirt off their clothes.
On their way back, they passed the small path that led toward the forest. It was narrow, half-hidden behind the overgrown fence, where weeds had long since won the battle for space. The trees beyond swayed gently, but there was something about them that didn't move quite right — as if the shadows there had their own rhythm, slower than the wind, heavier somehow.
Elias noticed Rion had stopped walking. "What is it?"
Rion didn't answer at first. He just stared into the treeline. "Nothing. Thought I saw something move."
Elias squinted. "Probably a rabbit. Or a fox."
"Yeah," Rion said, though his voice wasn't sure.
They walked on, but Rion glanced back once more. The trees looked the same as always, yet for a brief second, the air between them shimmered — faintly, like heat haze, bending light in a way that made his chest tighten. Then it was gone.
Lunch was a quiet affair — thin soup, a few pieces of stale bread. The younger kids talked about silly things: who could run fastest, who found the biggest stone, who stole extra bread from the kitchen. Elias bragged about his "victory" in the mock battle until one of the caretakers made him wash the dishes as punishment for shouting indoors. Seren ate in silence, flipping pages between bites.
Rion listened to all of it, smiling when he was supposed to, laughing when it was right to. But part of him stayed stuck in that moment by the forest. He couldn't explain why. It wasn't fear — at least not exactly. It was a kind of awareness, like the air itself had looked back at him.
When the chores were done for the day, the others went inside, but Rion stayed out in the yard. The sun had already started to dip, painting the sky in fading shades of orange and rose. The shadows stretched long, merging with the dark edge of the forest. He rested the broom against his shoulder again, sweeping out of habit more than need.
He thought about Elias — loud, fearless, too quick to swing and too slow to think — and Seren — quiet, sharp, always three thoughts ahead of everyone else. They were so different, and yet, both somehow looked to him whenever something went wrong. That was what scared him most.
He wanted to protect them, to protect everyone here, but the truth was he didn't know how. The world outside their fence was cruel — war, hunger, the Church's reach growing wider each season. He'd seen enough of it when soldiers passed through, their armor stained with mud and something darker. But still, he told himself that there had to be good somewhere — that maybe, if he just smiled a little longer, the world would smile back someday.
As the last of the light faded, the first stars began to appear, scattered faintly across the deepening blue. Rion leaned against the fence and tilted his head back to watch them. The air grew cooler, and a faint hum — not quite a sound, but more like a feeling — lingered in the back of his mind.
He closed his eyes for a second, just breathing, and in that stillness, he felt it again — the same strange pulse he'd noticed earlier. Faint, like the air was trembling, like something inside the world had taken a quiet breath.
When he opened his eyes, a single firefly drifted past him, glowing softly before disappearing toward the forest.
He smiled again, though this time it felt different — smaller, unsure.
"Maybe the world's not bad," he whispered to no one. "Just… tired."
The wind carried his words away.
And from somewhere deep within the trees, something stirred in answer — too faint to hear, but enough that the air shifted once more.
Rion didn't notice. He just turned back toward the orphanage, where faint light spilled from the windows and laughter echoed against the walls. He took one last look at the fields behind him, at the dark line of forest beyond, then stepped inside.
The door closed softly.
Outside, the night deepened, and the wind carried with it the faint, whispering sound of something watching.