The morning sun rose—but no warmth came with it.
The village had begun calling the child names. Not out loud. Never in front of Reon. But behind closed doors, in kitchens, during quiet walks to the well, they whispered.
"He shouldn't exist.""That boy is cursed.""He didn't come from a womb… he came from something else."
Kean was just two years old, but the weight around him felt heavy. Heavy enough to bend even the strongest words into silence.
One afternoon, a group of village elders gathered in the temple near the hill—just above the tree where his mother was buried. The place where the wind always howled softly, even when the skies were clear.
There were seven of them. All old, all respected. They sat in a circle around a fading stone emblem — a symbol of the ancient realms.
One of them, Elder Maruk, leaned forward and said, "His eyes do not close when he sleeps. He watches with them shut."
Another elder, Oma, rubbed her hands nervously. "The animals don't go near Reon's house. Not even the wild dogs. They used to steal bread from his windows. Now? They cross the street."
A third, Elder Lani, added, "And the rain. It hasn't stopped in months. Not once since his birth. That's not nature. That's memory. The sky remembers."
They looked at the emblem. Then at each other. Then up at the sky through the cracked ceiling.
Elder Maruk's voice was barely above a whisper. "We need to decide… soon. Before he grows."
Down in the village, Kean sat on the muddy ground, staring at a row of ants walking past his toes. He didn't move, didn't disturb them. He just watched.
A little girl passed by with her mother. She tugged at her mother's robe and pointed."Who's that boy?"
Her mother pulled her close and said, "Don't look. Just keep walking."
Kean heard it.
He always heard.
He looked up—eyes soft, not angry, not sad. Just… quiet.
He watched the mother pull her daughter away faster, like he had poisoned the air with a glance.
Reon stood a few feet behind, leaning against the old fence.
"He listens too well," he muttered.
That night, Reon lit the fire and made two bowls of soup. He set one in front of Kean.
Kean didn't move. He stared at the flames, and they moved strangely—as if they bent toward him, wanting to be closer.
Reon sat across, stirring his own bowl slowly.
"Do you know," he began, "when I was a child, my mother used to say… a baby's cry tells you who they'll become."
He looked at Kean, who still hadn't touched his food.
"You didn't cry, Kean."
The boy looked at him, silent.
"You just looked. Like you had already cried once, long before you were born."
Reon exhaled deeply. "They want to cast you out, you know?"
Kean blinked. Slowly.
Reon nodded. "They won't say it yet. But it's coming."
The fire crackled.
Kean reached out, touched the edge of his bowl, and whispered something Reon couldn't hear.
And suddenly, the soup rippled—like wind passed through it.
Reon leaned forward.
"What did you say?"
Kean looked up at him.
And then, for the second time ever, he spoke:
"I didn't ask to be born."
Reon froze.
He gripped his cane tightly.
"…You heard them?" he asked.
Kean didn't answer.
He just stood up, walked over to the window, and stared at the dark hill behind the village.
Where his mother slept.
Outside, the wind began to howl again.
And somewhere, deep below the earth, something old turned in its slumber—slowly waking.
End of Chapter 4