The mountain was silent.
Mist coiled over shingles and splintered railings, shrouding the distant small building in silver. From the valley below, it might have seemed peaceful—serene, almost. And from the hilltop, the world looked distant.
Out of reach.
An Infant boy opened 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 an Infant.
Wooden planks, scent of damp moss, Cold air slipping through the cracks in a straw-lined coarse basket. Too rough to be a cradle.
That was the beginning.
Or at least the first thing he could hold on to.
The first time he opened his eyes on this mountain—wrapped in a tattered piece of cloth, abandoned near creaking tall woods—he saw, beyond the trees, a black iron gate, and behind it—moving shapes. Human silhouettes.
Where is this... Where on earth am I...?"
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.
He didn't cry for help. neither scream.
Just… breathed. And drifted off to sleep from all the built up stress.
Not peacefully. But with certainty.
He was not where he was meant to be.
But he was not alone he was among living beings.
That was enough.
Time passed slowly.
He didn't wail when cold nor when hungry. His limbs obeyed slowly, like borrowed tools. His needs felt like someone else's.
The other children throwed tantrums. He did not.
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, rooftops blurred by fog marked the nearby town.
He had memorized the walk. Which turns to take. Which hills sloped shallow. Which stones slipped when wet.
This building called orphanage—this place—wasn't a home. But it had its rhythms.
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.
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.
Just…as...A presence. A function.
He did not push others away. But no one clung to him either. When hit, 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. Sometimes he lay awake, watching the moon stretch it's pale limbs across the floorboards. Sometimes he counted stars behind the mist., and sometimes—when the world was too quiet—he closed his eyes and searched inward.
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 sweeping the front yard, Rowe paused. The mist was thicker than usual. The valley rooftops vanished behind white.
A crow flapped overhead, cutting the silence with a single cry.
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 to sweeping.
That afternoon, the regular merchant visited. She handed out loaves and daily necessities ordered by the donators. Ruffled the bold kid's hair. Laughed with the caretaker at something unimportant.
Then she saw Rowe, crouched near the well, drawing on the ground with a wooden stick 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 said nothing. But when she turned to leave, she pitifully glanced over to the lone kid again and left.
That night, Rowe sat by the shed, knees drawn up beneath the misted stars. He watched studying them.
A few blinked, flickered, and vanished.
A cloud passing by...maybe. Or 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 to himself.
Testing it.
Tasting it.
It didn't sound wrong.
But it didn't feel his.
He leaned back to the ground. The sky was vast. Far too large for a place he didn't belong to.
Somewhere—beyond this mountain, beyond these trees and land—a name Isenor Althier Velmire was kept among dust written on dead papers.
…
Here he was just a child.
On a quiet mountain.
And no one knew different.
Not yet.