Xenon turned away from the field.
The kids were still chasing the ball, their laughter sharp in the morning air. Dust rose and shimmered in the sunlight.
For a moment, he just watched — not because he wanted to join them, but because their noise filled the silence too well.
Then a voice cut through it.
"Hey! Brat, you're daydreaming again. Come inside and eat your breakfast!"
He turned his head. A woman stood by the door, hand on her hip, her apron already stained from the morning's work.
Their eyes met.
He frowned a little, though there was nothing truly annoyed about it — just that quiet expression he always wore when he was thinking about something nobody else understood.
He didn't say anything at first. Then he finally murmured, "Good morning, Aunt," and slipped into the house, feet dragging slightly in his slippers.
The woman blinked.
"Haa… kids these days," she sighed. "No sense of respect whatsoever."
Then she smiled to herself. "At least he greeted."
---
By the time she came inside, Xenon was already sitting at the small table, his legs swinging under the chair.
He looked far too calm for a child his age — like someone who'd already planned his entire day and wasn't in a rush to start it.
The woman set a steaming bowl of porridge in front of him.
"Eat up," she said, hands on her waist. "And when you're done, go play with the other kids for once."
Xenon didn't move. He stared into the porridge like it was hiding a secret.
"Did you hear me?"
"I did," he said finally.
"So?"
He lifted his eyes, serious and innocent all at once. "Play is childish."
The woman's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"
He shrugged. "It's true. They're just running in circles."
"They're children," she said, trying not to laugh. "You're supposed to run in circles too."
"Why?"
"Because that's what kids do!"
Xenon tilted his head slightly, a small smirk forming. "So if I do what they do, I'll just be… ordinary?"
She groaned. "Saints, give me patience. You're nine, not ninety."
"I can be both," he said without looking up. "Depends on the day."
---
She pulled out a chair and sat opposite him, watching as he stirred the porridge lazily.
"You know, most boys your age would be fighting over that ball outside," she said.
"Exactly," Xenon replied, as if that explained everything.
Her eyes narrowed. "You mean you think you're better than them?"
He looked up at her, eyes glinting faintly. "No. Just different."
"And you like being different, don't you?"
He smiled then — a small, sly grin. "It's more fun when people can't figure you out."
That made her laugh, despite herself. "You little troublemaker. One of these days that mouth will get you into trouble."
"Probably," Xenon said, taking a spoonful. "But until then, I'm enjoying the view."
She shook her head. "Unbelievable. You really think you're clever."
He swallowed his mouthful before replying. "No, Aunt. I know I am."
The way he said it — serious tone, but with that playful light in his eyes — made her burst into laughter.
"Oh, you're impossible!"
---
Xenon grinned, satisfied. He liked it when people laughed at things they didn't understand. It made them predictable.
The woman finally caught her breath and leaned back. "You need friends, Xenon. That's your problem."
"I have you," he said innocently.
She snorted. "I'm too old to count as a friend."
"Then maybe I don't need one."
"Don't be ridiculous. Everyone needs friends."
He poked at his porridge with his spoon. "I think I'll wait till someone interesting shows up."
"And who counts as interesting?" she asked.
He looked at her with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "Someone who doesn't run in circles."
She tried to keep a straight face, failed, and ended up chuckling again. "You're such a strange child."
"I take that as a compliment."
"I wasn't giving one."
"Still taking it," he said, grinning.
---
For a while, the only sound was the faint clink of his spoon against the bowl. Sunlight spilled through the small window, cutting bright shapes across the table.
The woman sighed and propped her chin on her hand. "Sometimes I think you were born old."
Xenon shrugged. "Maybe I was just paying attention."
She rolled her eyes. "To what?"
"Everything."
He said it simply — no pride, no bragging — and somehow that made it sound stranger.
"Everything?" she repeated.
"Mhmm." He looked up. "You can learn a lot by watching what people repeat."
She frowned, not following. "Repeat?"
"Like those kids outside," he said, nodding toward the window. "Same ball, same shouting, same mistakes. Over and over."
"That's what makes it fun, Xenon."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe. But it's boring to watch."
---
The woman stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or worry. "You think too much for a nine-year-old."
He grinned. "Someone has to."
"Not you," she said, flicking her finger lightly against his forehead.
"Ow!" He rubbed the spot, pretending to be hurt. "Unprovoked violence! I'll report this to the village head."
"You do that," she said, amused.
"I will," he muttered, lowering his voice. "Right after I finish my research."
She blinked. "Your what?"
"Research," he repeated with mock seriousness. "I'm studying how adults pretend to be serious but secretly like laughing."
That made her burst out laughing again. "Saints help me! You're such a pest."
"I prefer the word observant," he said, spoon still moving slowly through his breakfast.
"Observant, huh? Then observe this — finish that bowl before it gets cold."
"Yes, ma'am." He gave a mock salute, lips twitching.
---
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The morning hum drifted in through the window — birds, laughter, the faint sound of the ball thudding against earth.
The woman watched him — the calm way he ate, the quiet focus in his eyes. He wasn't like other children, and she'd long stopped trying to understand him.
Still, there was something about that faint grin of his that made her think he understood too much for his age.
When he finally looked up, their eyes met again.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said, smiling. "Just wondering what makes breakfast taste better when someone's watching."
She rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
He chuckled. "I get that a lot."
And with that, he went back to eating — quiet, thoughtful, but with that small mischievous spark that never really left his face.