The morning began like any other, with the sun spilling gold across the village. It touched the roofs of mossy cottages, warmed the cobblestone paths, and painted long, soft shadows beneath the trees. But even in this familiar light, the world felt a little too quiet.
Aion was awake long before the sun had fully risen. He lay on his side in the small bed that creaked under his weight, listening to the faint rhythm of Mara's breathing and the occasional sigh of the wind through the cracks in the wooden walls. For a long moment, he did not move. He simply watched the ceiling, tracing the jagged lines of the wood with his eyes as though they might reveal a secret if he stared long enough.
His small hands twitched against the blanket, remembering something he had felt in the night: a warmth that was not entirely his own, a gentle pulse that moved through him like a whisper. He did not understand it, and he was not certain whether he wanted to. All he knew was that it frightened him.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Barefoot, he padded to the window and leaned against the sill. The fields stretched out before him, soft and golden, rolling under the morning sun. Children's laughter drifted faintly from the dirt road, carried by the wind that touched the wheat. And above it all, the sky arched endlessly, immense and impossibly vast.
Aion's eyes were drawn upward. He tilted his head and squinted at the horizon, feeling something tug at the inside of his chest. It was not longing. Not exactly. It was… a question without a question. A presence without a shape. Something that watched, silently, patiently, as if waiting for him to notice.
He had felt it before, in small ways: the way the wind seemed to pause when he ran, the way sunlight lingered on the patches of his hair, the way the stream behind the village hummed faintly when he touched the water. But this was different. This morning, it was stronger. Clearer.
"Mama?" he called softly.
She stepped into the room, her hands still damp from washing dishes. Her eyes, warm and tired, met his. "Good morning, little one," she said.
"I… I think the sky is talking to me," Aion admitted.
Mara smiled faintly, brushing a lock of dark hair from his forehead. "The sky always talks. You just have to learn to listen."
Aion nodded, but his gaze lingered outside the window. He felt the pulse again, faint and insistent beneath his ribs, as if the earth itself were whispering to him.
Breakfast was quiet. Mara spread thick slices of bread on the table, Elden poured honey into small bowls. Aion ate slowly, his thoughts elsewhere. The warmth of the food and the gentle chatter of his parents felt comforting, but he could not shake the sensation that the world had shifted slightly overnight, that something vast had noticed him and was waiting for him to act.
After breakfast, he wandered outside. The village was alive with routine: smoke rising from chimneys, chickens pecking in the dirt, the faint clatter of tools as the blacksmith began his day. Aion moved among it all, present yet distant, as if the village were a stage and he were a spectator rather than a participant.
He found his way to the old oak at the edge of the fields, the one that had stood longer than anyone could remember. Its trunk was wide and gnarled, its roots curling into the earth like the fingers of some ancient hand. Aion climbed into its branches, perching where he could see the entire village. From here, he could see the cottages, the stream, the smoke from cooking fires, and beyond it all, the horizon where the sky met the fields.
He sat there for a long while, humming a tune he had made up the day before. It was soft, fragile, incomplete — a melody built from half-remembered lullabies, the rhythm of the wind, the laughter of children, and the quiet pulse he felt beneath his own skin. He did not remember how it had begun, only that it existed and that it mattered.
A small wooden horse lay on the branch beside him, one leg slightly cracked. He had carved it himself, carefully smoothing its edges, polishing it until it caught the light just right. It was imperfect, but that imperfection made it real. That was what he liked about it.
Below, Mara and Elden moved about the yard. She was tending to the chickens, he was repairing a fence. They were ordinary, mortal, finite — and they were everything Aion loved about the world. He wanted to stay here forever, perched above the fields, feeling the wind brush his hair and listening to the earth hum beneath him.
But the pulse beneath his skin reminded him that he could not. He could not stay a small, ordinary boy forever. Something within him had already begun to awaken, something larger than his own understanding, something that would demand more of him than bread, or laughter, or play.
He glanced toward the forest at the edge of the village. It had always been a place of quiet mystery, dark and dense, the trees thick and tall, roots twisting over one another like ancient knots. He had explored it often, though never far, and always returned with scraped knees and stories to tell. Today, however, it called to him differently. The air at its edge seemed to shimmer, almost vibrate, as if the trees themselves were aware of him, waiting.
He wanted to go. And yet, he hesitated.
"Mama," he said aloud, though she was still busy tending the chickens, "what happens if you can feel something… inside you that no one else can see?"
Mara paused, her hands in the straw, and looked at him. Her expression softened, but her eyes held the shadow of worry he had seen before. "Then you must be careful," she said. "Because not everyone will understand, and some may fear it. But that does not mean you must hide who you are. You must only choose when to share it, and with whom."
Aion nodded, though he did not fully understand. The pulse beneath his skin had grown stronger, responding to the words as if they carried weight. He pressed his fingers to his chest, feeling it there, steady and bright.
The day passed slowly, measured by the rhythm of simple tasks: helping Mara carry water from the stream, sweeping the yard, collecting eggs, tending to small wounds of scraped knees and torn clothes. The villagers went about their lives, blissfully unaware of the boy who glowed softly beneath his skin, who hummed melodies the world had never heard, who watched the sky as though it were speaking directly to him.
By evening, Aion returned to his perch in the oak tree. The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the fields. The wind had picked up slightly, carrying the scent of earth and smoke and the faint tang of something unfamiliar — something vast and patient that lingered just beyond the village.
He hugged the wooden horse to his chest and whispered, "I don't want to be anything more than me."
The branches swayed gently as if answering.
And somewhere far beyond the hills, beyond the reach of mortal eyes, something stirred.
It had waited a long time.
And now it knew.