The rain fell slowly, as if it had forgotten where it was supposed to land. No sound on the horizon but its soft tapping on the tin roof, and the delicate ring of droplets over damp wood. The mountain was blanketed in fog, the trees devoid of color, and the wind passed through their branches like someone regretful, lacking the courage to apologize.
Amid this grey world stood a wooden cabin, as if it hadn't been built, but grown from the earth. A single-story hut with a crooked door and the remains of a window that looked out onto nothing. Just the ghost of the forest, and a jagged thread of rain.
Inside the cabin, a fire burned in the stone hearth—not fiercely, but with persistence. Its glow cast dancing shadows across the walls, shadows that didn't resemble the things that made them.
Oren sat by the window. Eight years old, but not like other children. Not because he did something unusual, but because he did nothing the way he was supposed to. His eyes were wide, watching tirelessly, as if trying to understand the world before someone imposed a ready-made meaning on it.
His chin rested on his arms, watching the forest that barely revealed itself through the fog. He spoke, as though to someone behind the glass:
"The forest hasn't changed… but I feel like it doesn't know me today."
Behind him, Theodore was sharpening his axe. The man with the long grey beard didn't speak much, and didn't seem to love silence, but rather didn't trust noise. His eyes were deep, like they had seen things that shouldn't be spoken of, and his hands still remembered the weight of pain when holding an axe.
Oren asked without turning: "Is the rain angry today?"
Theodore replied slowly, as if pulling the words from somewhere distant: "No. Just sad… and it knows no one is listening."
Silence returned. The axe came down heavily. The logs split with a single note. The rain continued, like time itself had soaked its robe and forgotten how to dry it.
Oren asked: "Is the forest looking at me?"
Theodore, placing another log on the table, answered: "If you don't know… that's answer enough."
Oren stood, walked to the woodpile, and tried to lift one of the larger pieces. He barely nudged it.
With a scowl, he said: "I hate this wood."
Theodore raised an eyebrow, replying softly: "It hates you back."
Oren sat on the floor, frustrated but not truly angry. Just that kind of frustration that comes when you don't know why you feel something—but you feel it anyway.
"Why do I cut wood every day?" he asked. "Is it training?"
Theodore, lighting his wooden pipe, replied: "No. It's the trees taking revenge on you for breathing."
Oren laughed, briefly—a laugh like it came from a mouth unaccustomed to laughter.
Just then, Titi entered.
A large, grey crow, with a bent left wing, as if it had long lost its function. It hovered above the door, then landed roughly on the floor, flapping awkwardly, then waddled toward the corner near the hearth, where an old piece of cloth lay.
Oren said: "Titi tries to fly every morning… and crashes every morning. Why doesn't he stop?"
Theodore, not turning: "Because he's dumber than you… or the only one here still brave enough to dream."
Oren replied, his voice carrying a broken cheer: "I think Titi thinks he's still a bird."
Theodore, reaching for a dry crust of bread: "Let the crow believe his lie… that's what everyone does."
He tossed the crust to the corner. Titi leapt at it hungrily, pecking as if digging through the earth to find his name.
Oren asked: "Does he have a real name?"
Theodore said: "All names are lies… some are just slower to forget."
Oren lay down on the wooden floor, eyes on the ceiling.
"Did I have parents?"
Silence.
Then Theodore answered: "We all came from the unknown… but some stayed there."
Oren whispered: "Am I one of those?"
Theodore replied: "I don't know. But you walk like someone who forgot where he came from… and wants to make sure he'll never know where he's going."
Oren said nothing. The fire dimmed slightly, the sound of the rain still whispering on the roof, carrying something like ancient sorrow.
Oren said: "I hear the sea sometimes… not always… only when everything's silent."
"And what do you hear?"
"Like something singing—but angrily. Not quite singing… more like sighing in pain."
Theodore said: "A lie that survived drowning."
Oren asked: "Will we go to it?"
Theodore: "When you long to die—yes."
The room froze. Even Titi stopped pecking.
Oren didn't respond—just leaned his head back, as if his heart had shrunken a little.
Theodore added after a pause: "The sea doesn't hate anyone… it just doesn't know mercy."
Night fell on the mountain like a shroud of ink-dust, erasing shapes and leaving only sound. The rain softened, but didn't stop. It became a whisper between the forest and the roof. Titi, the crow, had fallen asleep in his corner, his head twisted onto his back, as if trying to forget his broken wing.
Theodore sat in the rocking chair, his eyes looking at nothing—only inward.
Oren couldn't sleep. He lay on his wooden bed, staring at the slanted ceiling, watching the firelight dance across the wood. A feeling stirred in his chest without a name—something like being a stranger in the only place that was supposed to be home.
He heard a droplet fall.
Then another.
Then a stillness like waiting.
He rose quietly. Walked softly to the door and opened it slowly.
The cold struck his face. But he didn't retreat.
He stepped outside.
The forest wasn't still—it was cautious.
Oren walked to the small river behind the cabin, where the water flowed without urgency, as if knowing no one awaited it.
He knelt at the edge and gazed at the surface.
He saw his face.
But it wasn't his.
Something in the reflection was off: the eyes deeper, the shadows darker, and the smile… wasn't his.
He whispered: "That's not me."
But the water didn't reply. It only trembled, as if the wind were whispering something from far away.
Then he heard it.
A whisper within—not from thought, not from dream.
A voice saying:
"And you… are not yours either."
His body trembled—not from the cold, but from the thought that something inside him didn't belong to him.
Something watching from within—as if a metaphor had taken residence in his flesh without permission.
He returned to the cabin slowly, glancing behind as if the trees might follow if he didn't.
When he entered, Theodore was still awake. He said nothing. Just looked at him with eyes that didn't scold his leaving, nor welcome his return.
Oren stood in the doorway:
"Is water alive?"
Theodore replied: "If it were, it would've killed us long ago… but don't worry, we're too dumb to understand it."
Titi laughed suddenly.
Yes, laughed. It wasn't a human sound, nor a crow's. More like a tiny choking sound as he rolled over the old cloth.
Oren asked: "Can a crow laugh?"
Theodore: "When you live long enough—you laugh. Doesn't matter if you're a crow or a rock."
Oren sat by the hearth.
He took a piece of bread, chewed without appetite.
"Is there anyone else here besides us?"
"Here? No."
"In the world?"
"Yes."
"Do they look like us?"
"No one looks like anyone, Oren. Only lies resemble each other."
"When will we see them?"
Theodore stared into the fire for a while, then said:
"When you stop asking… maybe they'll appear."
Oren fell silent.
He looked at the crow.
"Titi… did he have a home?"
Theodore: "Anyone who fell from the sky had a home. The question isn't about the home—but why they fell."
Oren rubbed his hands together, then muttered:
"I didn't fall… but I feel like I never arrived."
Theodore responded in a hushed tone, closer to confession:
"Because you weren't born to arrive… but to search."
A piece of wood collapsed in the fire, scattering tiny sparks.
One landed near Titi's cloth, and the crow jumped away, sniffing the smell.
Oren rushed to extinguish it with his hand:
"He almost burned."
Theodore, exhaling smoke:
"Even the ash would've laughed at him."
They sat in silence.
Then Oren said:
"Why don't you ever call me by my name?"
Theodore didn't look at him. He simply said:
"Names are dangerous. They're not spoken—they're summoned."
"But no one says mine."
"Maybe because you haven't decided who you are yet."
Oren whispered:
"Can I be no one?"
Theodore:
"Nothingness doesn't ask questions."
Silence returned.
Then the sound of Titi pecking hard on a wooden board.
Oren:
"He's looking for something."
Theodore:
"We all are… some outside, some under their own skin."
Oren slid to the ground, covered himself with an old blanket.
"Can I dream tonight… without hearing anything?"
Theodore:
"Dreams aren't choices, Oren. They're guests that come when you have nothing left to offer."
The boy closed his eyes.
But inside him, a voice began to whisper… it wasn't foreign.
It was his. But older. Bruised. Regretful.
And it said:
"Listen… no one belongs. Some just pretend well."
> [To be continued in Chapter 2...]