The morning began with a soft hush, the kind that stretches across the village before the first sound of labor or laughter. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, catching the sunlight in golden spirals. Chickens stirred in the yard, scratching at the earth, and somewhere a dog barked faintly, a single note in the waking chorus of the village.
Aion lay on his small bed, wrapped in the thin blanket Mara had patched so many times it was more thread than cloth. He did not stir at first, letting the warmth of the room and the rhythm of his parents' movements wash over him. He listened to Elden chopping wood outside, the dull thud of the axe against the log, and to Mara humming softly as she prepared breakfast. The sounds were ordinary, comforting, and yet, beneath them, something stirred.
It was faint, almost imperceptible, like a heartbeat not his own. Aion had felt it before — in the sway of the wheat, in the trickle of the stream, in the way sunlight lingered on his hair. But today it was stronger. Insistent. He pressed a hand to his chest and felt the pulse beneath his skin, and for the first time, he shivered with awareness.
"Mama," he whispered.
Mara appeared at the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes were soft, tired, yet curious. "Good morning, little one. Did you sleep well?"
"I think… something is awake," he said, his small voice trembling slightly. "Something in me."
Mara came closer, brushing a dark lock of hair from his forehead. "Change is always awake, Aion," she said gently. "Sometimes it's frightening. Sometimes it's beautiful. But it is always part of life."
He nodded, though the words offered little comfort. The pulse beneath his skin thrummed in response, as if it had heard her and was listening carefully. He could not name it. It was more than warmth, more than breath — something that felt alive, patient, and ancient.
Breakfast was quiet. Mara laid out bread, honey, and warm milk in chipped bowls, while Elden moved about the yard, preparing the fences and tending to the animals. Aion ate slowly, chewing thoughtfully, his mind half on the taste of honey and half on the strange hum beneath his ribs.
After breakfast, he wandered outside. The fields were gold under the morning sun, rolling softly to meet the distant horizon. Children ran along the dirt road, laughing and shouting, sticks raised as swords. Aion watched them, the wooden horse in his hands, and for a moment, he felt the tug of something larger than their games.
He stepped away from the road and toward the old oak at the edge of the fields. Its gnarled trunk and curling roots had been a playground for him before, a place to climb, hide, and imagine worlds of his own. Today, however, it felt different — not a playground, but a threshold.
Aion climbed carefully into the branches, the wood pressing against his palms, the moss soft beneath his feet. From here, he could see the village spread beneath him, the stream winding like silver through the fields, smoke from the cottages curling skyward. And beyond all of it, the sky stretched vast and impossible, arched in silent grandeur.
He rested his chin on his arms, letting the wind whip softly through his hair. He hummed a tune he had made up the night before, half-lullaby, half-song of the forest, unaware that the melody carried beyond the fields and into the spaces between worlds.
The pulse beneath his skin responded to the hum, brightening faintly. Aion felt a flicker of warmth travel from his chest to his fingertips. For a moment, he believed the forest was answering him, though he could not say why.
"Who's there?" he called aloud, though no one was near. Only the rustle of leaves replied.
He leaned closer to the edge of the branch, squinting toward the forest. It had always been quiet, mysterious, a place that whispered rather than shouted. Today it seemed alive in a different way, as if it had been waiting. He pressed his hand to the trunk of the tree and felt the pulse in his chest respond, steady and insistent.
The wind shifted suddenly, stronger now, whistling through the branches. Aion hugged his wooden horse, holding it tight. It was imperfect, with a crack in one leg, but to him, it was alive. He whispered to it, "Stay with me. We'll face whatever it is together."
He did not notice Mara at first. She had come to the edge of the field, her eyes scanning him with worry. Elden followed silently behind, his hands on his hips, sensing that something in the boy had changed.
"Aion," Mara called gently, "come down. You're going to hurt yourself."
"I'm… I'm fine," he said, though his voice lacked conviction. The wind carried a strange energy, pressing softly against his skin, tugging at the small hairs on his arms. He felt watched. Not by a person, not by any villager, but by something vast, patient, and unseen.
Elden stepped closer. "The sky isn't going anywhere, little one. Come down now."
Aion hesitated, then slowly lowered himself, feet touching the soft grass. The pulse beneath his skin had dimmed slightly, though it had not stopped. He glanced at the forest one last time, sensing that the quiet presence there would not leave him again.
The rest of the day passed in ordinary ways. He helped Mara gather herbs, carried water from the stream, swept the floor, and tended the small animals. But all the while, his mind lingered on the pulse, on the wind that had brushed against his skin, on the feeling that he was both part of the world and something apart from it.
By evening, he returned to the oak tree. The sun had dipped low, painting the fields in gold and amber. Aion climbed to his favorite branch, hugged his wooden horse, and whispered to it, "I don't want to be more than me. I just want to stay small, with Mama and Papa, and this forest."
The wind rustled through the leaves, carrying faint whispers. The pulse beneath his skin throbbed brighter, almost as if it had heard him. Somewhere, far beyond the village, beyond the hills, beyond even the sky itself, something shifted.
It had been waiting.
And now, at last, it knew.