Cold was the first truth.
It bit deeper than teeth, deeper than bones—a raw, scraping nothingness that swallowed feeling whole.
Mist. A blind, grey shroud. Swallowing trees. Swallowing sky. Leaving only damp stone and the ache of solitude.
Rough casket beneath him. Splinters like tiny knives against fragile skin. Straw, damp and smelling of earth, poked through thin cloth. Too rough to be a cradle or container.
Tall Trees. Black sentinels creaking in the wind. They hemmed him in—a cage of shadows and sound.
The Infant boy tried opening his eyes. Not for the first time.
But—seemingly—for the first time.
He had no name.
Only his loud beating heart, frost bitten nose and fingers and... A mind echoing with logic that should not have been in the possession of his small mind.
Eyelids heavy as stone, dragged open.
Vision blurred, then sharpened.
Beyond rusted iron bars. Small figures,Hunched under the mist like a wounded animal.
Shapes behind the gate. Moving. Human silhouettes.
Humans...he thought...
A sound escaped him—not a cry, but a small gasp. The first intentional breath.
Logic sparked through the numbness:
Abandoned child + Nearby humans = Rescue is probable.
Someone will come.
Relief washed through him—warmth in a sea of frost.
Then exhaustion slammed down like a hammer.
Cold became numbness. Numbness became weight.
His eyelids fluttered.
The walking shapes smeared into grey ghosts.
The creaking trees faded to silence.
Darkness rose—thick, velvet, absolute.
He surrendered.
Not to fear.
To certainty.
Someone would come.
For now…
…He was safe.
The next time the child opened his eyes he found himself under the protection of a roof, he felt warmth around, there was no longer unbearable cold to fear, he could hear voices around, though...these voices sounded quite foreign and unknown to him.
As days passed by he took in the information of the surrounding he was in, everything felt foreign now it took him a long time to accept the reality that he was no longer where he remebers he should be, as he started growing he noticed—The mountain was silent.
From the valley below, it might have seemed peaceful—serene, almost. And from the hilltop, the world looked distant.
Out of reach.
He remembered things no infant should. How light bends. How fire melts glass. The anatomy of a bird's wing. The number of bones in a human hand.
But not his own face.
Neither his own name, nor what he had been doing to have those memories.
That was the beginning
Time passed slowly.
He didn't cry when frost crept under the orphanage door as he had enough to survive, Didn't whimper when hunger twisted his small stomach. His limbs moved stiffly, awkwardly. Hunger felt distant—a problem, not a pain.
Other children screamed and cried. He stayed silent.
Not from bravery.
Not out of strength. But detachment.
He was noticed for it. Not with affection—just awareness. The adults couldn't ignore the quiet child who never screamed.
The records had to be maintained. So they gave him a name.
Rowe.
Simple. Easy. Easy to forget.
He accepted the grace not out of attachment, but because it fit. Like a coat that wasn't his, but covered him all the same.
Rowe was three and half year old now.
The walls still creaked in winter. The wind still scratched the same rhythm every night. He woke up early out of habit every day.
His feet felt the cold floor, then he moved to the window, pressed his fingers against the glass, watching he forest outside breath. Beyond it, pointy and slopy rooftops marked the nearby town.
He now knew the paths. Every twist. Every slope. Every slippery stone.
At some point, the others had begun to follow Rowe. Quietly. Without instruction, though he never asked them to, but when he worked, they worked.
When he walked, they trailed.
The caretakers noticed. Called him helpful. A blessing.
He said nothing. Just gave a nod.
This place wasn't home. This building called orphanage It was shelter. It had its routines.
The orphanage wasn't cruel, but it wasn't kind either. There were no lullabies. No soft hands brushing hair. No birthdays, no stories unless they were whispered from one child to another under fraying quilts. The children adapted. They clung to each other. Played, fought, made up, learned the rules of invisible boundaries.
Rowe stayed on the edge of all that.
Not disliked.
Jus...A presence. A function.
He did not push others away. But no one clung to him either. When hurt, he did not cry. When praised, he did not brighten. He answered when spoken to. Ate what he was given. Slept when left alone.
He was neither cold nor warm. He...simply was.
He stayed awake at quiet nights. Watching thin moonlight slide across the floor. Counting stars hidden behind the mist, and sometimes—when the world was too quiet—he closed his eyes and searched inside.
Who had he been?
A name?
Had he had a home?
Was there a place he belonged to?
A Family?
Did they abandon him?
He didn't know.
Only that now—he had none.
Occasionally he would reflect the knowledge in his mind—the strange, precise understanding of how things should work out efficiently—it didn't soothe him.
It just made existing easier.
He learned how to fix the creaks in the doors and windows to keep warm. Which merchants gave food and which expected flattery. How to split wet firewood, how to feed himself, how to bandage etc.
He didn't bother to share.
But when others asked, he showed—by doing. They followed.
They always did, assigning tasks in rotations. The children helped in town; the townspeople gave what they could. Bread. Wool scraps. Broken tools for mending.
One morning, while wandering through the front yard, Rowe paused. The mist was thicker than usual. The valley rooftops vanished behind white. The wind had a somewhat errie yet powerful air to it
A crow flapped overhead, cutting the silence with a single cry – Kraa-aak!
Rowe turned his gaze skyward.
And at that moment—it felt like the very air had eyes.
Neither the tall trees nor a human gaze.
But something aged, vast, and immense.
As if the world itself had turned to look.
Rowe stood still for a long time.
The crow circled once. Then vanished.
He went back inside. He didn't pay much mind to the event earlier.
That afternoon, the merchant's horse-drawn cart rattled into the yard. Wood creaked. The horse snorted steam. She handed out bread, grain, rough wool. Ruffled a boy's hair. Shared a tired laugh with the people around.
Then she saw Rowe, crouched near the well, drawing on the ground with a wooden stick, symbols only he understood, alone.
"That one again," she said lightly.
"The quiet one," the caretaker replied. "Never caused a day's trouble."
"He doesn't smile much."
"Why bother. He helps more than the older boys. They follow him now, you know."
The merchant tilted her head. "What's his name again?"
"Rowe."
The merchant's eyes lingered.
"Looks… different. The stillness."
"Mountain air breeds quiet souls,"
the caretaker shrugged. "Or just broken ones. Doesn't matter here."
She said nothing more. But as her cart creaked away, her glance flickered back – a fleeting, unreadable thing – towards the small, still figure alone in the swallowing mist
That night, Rowe sat by the shed, knees drawn up. Beneath the mist veiled stars. He watched, studying them.
A few blinked, flickered, and vanished.
Cloud passing by...maybe... something else.
He didn't bother deducing the reason.
Something in his chest moved. Not pain. Not memory. Just shift. He curled his fingers into the hem of his trousers.
"Rowe," he whispered.
The name vanished into the cold.
He tested its sound. Its feel.
It fit his mouth. Not his heart.
He layed back. The sky yawned—vast, cold, dark, quiet, peaceful. Too big for someone with no roots.
Somewhere – beyond mountains, beyond seas –
– a name slept in dust.
Three words. Lost.
...
Here, he was Rowe.
A boy on a silent mountain.
And no one knew different.
Not yet.