Chapter 4: First Understandings
The sun rose slowly, painting the small room in soft orange light. Rai's eyes opened before he even realized it. He stretched, tiny fingers curling and uncurling, legs kicking softly against the bed.
The room was filled with voices. Words he didn't know. Sounds he didn't recognize. And yet, over the months, he had begun to notice small differences.
Some sounds were gentle, comforting. Some sharp, warning. Some full of laughter. Some full of worry.
He didn't understand the words themselves, but he could feel the meaning.
A shadow moved near the bed. The woman's hand reached for him. She spoke softly—words he could not translate. And yet, the tone told him to come closer, to reach out, to respond.
Rai wiggled forward, small and clumsy. His hand brushed against hers. She smiled. The warmth in her eyes told him, again, that he had done well.
The man entered the room, holding something small and colorful. He crouched beside the bed, murmuring words Rai could not understand. But he watched the way the man's hands moved, the careful placement of the object, the way his eyes met Rai's.
The child reached out instinctively, grasping the bright object. It was soft, round, and pleasant to touch. He squeezed it once, twice. The man nodded, approving, and muttered more words that made no sense to Rai—but somehow, he felt the meaning: good job.
Day by day, Rai began recognizing gestures, tones, and repetition.
When his mother held him close and hummed, he understood calm. When his father's deep voice called, he recognized attention. When the voices raised in alarm, he felt caution.
Not words. Not language. But meaning.
By the time he could crawl, he had learned more than most infants. He noticed patterns in steps, motions, even in the way his parents moved around the room. Objects that were dangerous, objects that were safe. Objects that were theirs, and objects that were not.
He began pointing, reaching, even murmuring small sounds, trying to imitate tones he had heard. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. But each attempt was met with smiles, gentle laughter, and quiet encouragement.
One evening, after a long day of observing, listening, and testing, Rai lay in his mother's arms. She stroked his hair, murmuring words he could not understand, but the rhythm was comforting. The man sat nearby, reading, occasionally glancing at Rai, a soft smile on his face.
And in the quiet, his mind drifted briefly. Memories of Earth—streets, machines, voices he had known—flashed through him, strange and distant. He had been born here, but a part of him was still elsewhere.
He did not yet know what that meant, nor did he question it. For now, he had parents, warmth, and a small world to learn. And that was enough.
Sleep claimed him, and the voices softened. Outside, the village continued its quiet life. Inside, a child lay in bed, slowly understanding not words, but the world around him.
And somewhere deep in his consciousness, a quiet note lingered, silent but persistent:
This space will open again in ten years.
Nothing more. No explanation. No power. Just a reminder that one day, the world inside him would awaken.
For now, he was simply Rai. An infant. A child. Loved. Observing. Growing.