The small house smelled of fresh bread, simmering herbs, and something earthy that reminded Hunnt faintly of home — though the memory was blurred and fleeting. Grandma Mel led the way to the kitchen, her steps soft but deliberate, a comforting rhythm that filled the silence.
The kitchen was modest but warm. Sunlight poured through the small window, highlighting the rough-hewn table scarred with dents and scratches, each mark telling a story of years gone by. A steaming bowl of porridge sat at Hunnt's place, a few slices of golden fruit beside it. The aroma was simple, yet it carried a weight of care, as if the house itself was trying to soothe the boy's restless mind.
Hunnt climbed into his chair, fingers brushing against the worn wood, feeling the grooves and ridges. He studied the bowl, watching the steam curl upward in lazy spirals. Each curl seemed to whisper memories he could almost grasp — a warm hearth, a gentle hand guiding him, laughter floating in the air — then they vanished, leaving him hollow and tense.
Mel noticed his hesitation and smiled softly, a kind of patience born of years tending to the fragile and the frightened.
"Your grandpa left early again," she said, settling into the chair across from him. "The villagers needed him. Being the village chief is no easy task."
Hunnt's spoon paused midair. Chief. The word felt heavy, important, though he didn't fully understand why. His gaze drifted toward the empty chair beside Mel, imagining the broad shoulders and weathered face of the man she called her husband.
Mel's eyes softened as she noticed his quiet stare.
"Don't worry, child. Your grandpa will be back after lunch. He'll be happy to see you up and about."
Hunnt lowered his gaze to the porridge, still uncertain. The word "grandpa" felt strange on his tongue, yet something in him stirred — small, fragmented memories of a kind, firm presence watching over him, of lessons given gently, of hands guiding him through tasks too big for his small frame.
The door creaked open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared in the doorway. Sunlight kissed the top of his graying hair, highlighting the lines of age and wisdom etched into his face. His eyes, though weary, softened as they landed on the boy.
"Ah… Hunnt. You're up, boy," he said, voice deep but gentle.
Hunnt hesitated, heart hammering. Then, as if testing the sound of it, he murmured, "Yes… Granpa Dom."
Dom chuckled, the low rumble reverberating in the quiet room. "Good. It's nice to see you awake. We've got a long day ahead, boy… but for now, just rest and eat."
---
The hours passed slowly, marked by the rhythm of shared routine. The house was filled with quiet conversation: Mel asking Hunnt if he wanted more stew, Dom grumbling about the hunters' endless troubles, and Hunnt listening, absorbing every word, every inflection, every subtle gesture.
Outside, the world was restless. The clatter of carts over dirt roads, boots crunching, low murmurs of villagers returning from work. Occasionally, a faint roar drifted from the distant forest, and Hunnt's chest tightened. He didn't know what kind of beast it was, or whether it was friend or foe. He only knew the sound set his nerves on edge.
Even dinner couldn't dispel the tension. Dom's hands gripped his bowl tightly, eyes darting to the door, alert for any sign of danger. Mel tried to lighten the mood with stories of village children and the harvest, but the worry in her eyes betrayed the calm tone of her voice. Hunnt ate slowly, small hands trembling as he clutched his spoon, tasting the warm porridge but thinking of the roars, the forest, the unknown.
---
When night fell and the house finally quieted, Hunnt lay on the small bed, staring at the ceiling's rough wooden beams. Shadows stretched and shifted as the moonlight filtered through the window, forming strange patterns across the floor. His thoughts were a tangle of confusion, fear, and curiosity.
This world. These noises. The monsters that prowled unseen. He didn't know if this body — this life — truly belonged to him, or if it was borrowed from some other fate.
His hands clenched into tiny fists, pulling the blanket tight around him. Memories bubbled up unbidden: flashes of a home left behind, of parents' warm smiles, laughter, and then… screams. The roar of something inhuman. Faces, twisted in terror. The helplessness that had clawed at his chest.
"What… what do I need to do now…?" he whispered into the darkness, voice trembling.
No answer came, only the muffled echoes of the hunters outside, their voices fading into the quiet of the night.
A single thought anchored him, fragile but steady: I'm not alone. I have Granma Mel, Granpa Dom. I'll find my way.
He took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the hearth and the presence of his grandparents seep into him. And for the first time since he woke in this strange world, he felt a flicker of hope — small, fragile, but undeniably there.