Kai had always lived in the shadows of his family. He was the third of five children, though the youngest had yet to arrive. Even when he tried, even when he excelled, they found ways to make him feel small.
The dry sunlight slanted through the small window of their house, catching dust in golden beams. Kai sat cross-legged on the cool floorboards, a worn copy of Robinson Crusoe open in his lap. His fingers traced the illustrations: the sailor stranded on an island, surviving storms, building fires, and making companions of unlikely creatures.
For a moment, the cramped room around him melted away.
"Kai!"
The voice sliced the quiet like a knife. His mother stood in the doorway, arms crossed, frown deep enough to cast shadows across the floor.
"Still with that book?" she said. "Stop staring at the ceiling like a fool. Go outside. Do something useful."
Kai's fingers tightened around the pages. "I… I just like reading…"
"And what good is that?" she snapped, stepping closer. "If danger came, if wolves or thieves appeared, would a book save you? Stop being foolish. Pay attention to your surroundings!"
She left before he could answer.
Kai's two older brothers ran outside, kicking sand, shouting, laughing. His younger sister slept quietly in her crib. No one had invited him. He returned to Crusoe, imagining the sailor building fires and tools, surviving with nothing but wits. Crusoe was alone… yet free.
Why can't I be free? he thought.
He hugged the book a little closer. At least here, he mattered. At least here, he was clever and brave.
Later that day, Kai walked to the market carrying a small sack of flour. The sun beat down on the cobblestones, heat radiating from the stone walls, the smell of spices and vegetables mingling with dust. His coins pressed uncomfortably in his palm, heavy with responsibility.
He approached a vegetable stall.
"How much for these carrots?" he asked.
"Three coins," the vendor replied, not looking at him.
Kai frowned. "Yesterday they were two."
"Prices change," the man said.
Kai stepped back, pretending to leave. The vendor's eyes followed him, and with a sigh: "Fine. Two and a half."
Kai considered it, then said, "Two. I'll take the onions too."
The man paused, then nodded reluctantly. "Two it is."
No praise, no smiles. Just respect.
Kai repeated this at several stalls, learning quickly which vendors liked him, which tolerated him, and which he would avoid unless absolutely necessary.
Then a large dog appeared—a barking, snarling blur. Kai froze. Its eyes glinted, fur bristling.
The owner yanked the leash, but his glare was sharp. "Scared of a dog? Stand firm, boy. Don't run like a coward."
Kai's legs shook. His chest heaved. He wanted to scream at the man, to tell him he was just a child—but words failed. He ran.
When he returned home, his mother barely glanced up.
"You shouldn't have run," she said. "Next time, try not to be foolish."
Kai lowered his head. I'm not foolish. I'm a child, he wanted to shout. But silence felt safer.
---
By the time Kai was nine, the air in the house had grown colder. Every action was a potential offense.
"Don't chew like that," his mother snapped one morning as he ate breakfast.
"Stop walking around making so much noise," she barked another day.
"Who taught you to laugh like that?" she demanded, glaring when his laughter escaped his lips at a funny comic panel he had secretly read.
Even victories at school earned little acknowledgment. Comics, fantasy stories, and spiritual texts became his sanctuaries. In hidden corners, he whispered prayers—not for miracles, but for strength. Strength to endure, to survive, to keep existing in a house where he was almost invisible.
Every shadowed corner of the house became a refuge. Every quiet moment, a reminder that someone—somewhere—cared. Even if it was only a voice on a page.
---
When Kai turned ten, a fifth sibling arrived—a tiny bundle of crying limbs and soft warmth. The house swelled with attention and affection—but none for him.
That summer, the family went on a picnic in the mountains. The road wound along cliffs and pine forests. The air was crisp, scented with pine needles and earth. Kai followed behind, small and quiet, while his parents fussed over the baby and his older siblings ran ahead.
Kai climbed a gentle hill, laying back on the soft grass. The sky stretched above him, painted in violet and gold. Stars began to twinkle. He traced constellations with his fingers, imagining stories behind each flickering light.
Then he noticed it: a faint purple shimmer, hovering just beyond the trees. He blinked, wondering if it was a trick of the twilight.
A rustle came from the underbrush. A shadow moved—a mountain predator, sleek and silent. His heart thumped violently.
He sprinted down the slope toward the car, helping his younger brother into the backseat. Just as he reached for the door, his mother slammed it shut in his face. Red-faced, bewildered, he pounded on the window, called out. She didn't look back. The engine roared to life.
Time slowed. He could see everything—the baby wailing, his parents' blurred expressions, the sun glinting off the car's metal. There was still space. He could have climbed in.
But his feet caught a hidden root.
The ground disappeared beneath him. He tumbled through air, limbs flailing, the cliff's edge gone in an instant.
Purple and gold light swirled around him. Colors he had never seen, shapes he could not name. Time stretched and compressed—an eternity passing in a blink, a moment stretching across endlessness.
When he landed, it was on soft, glowing ground, warm beneath his palms. Above him floated people in robes trailing light like ribbons. Houses hovered, tethered by golden chains. Strange creatures wandered streets paved with luminous stone.
The air hummed, electric with life. Kai's chest rose and fell rapidly. His heart raced—not from fear, but from wonder.
Here, in a world beyond comprehension, maybe he could be someone.
Somewhere he could matter.
Somewhere he could start over.