"Where is this...Where on earth am I...?"

  In the hush of dawn, the mountain mist drifted over wooden shingles and crooked railings, wrapping the orphanage in pale silver. From the valley below, the world looked peaceful. From the top of that mountain, it looked far away.

  The boy opened his eyes.

  He had no name then.

  Just breath, and weight, and a mind filled with whispers of a world that did not match what his tiny limbs could touch.

  Wooden planks. The scent of moss. Cold air through the cracks of the wall.

  And a crib too rough to be a cradle.

  It had been like this for as long as he could remember.

  But "remembering" was a strange thing. He could recall the structure of bones, how light bended, how fire could make glass and heat. Yet he did not know what color his own eyes had been in the life before.

  The moment he first opened his eyes on this mountain, swaddled in a basket half-covered with a torn cloth, he had seen—distant, beyond the swaying trees—a black metal gate. Shadowed figures. Moving. Human.

  And that had been enough.

  His infant body, stiff with unfamiliar air and a brain buzzing with contradiction, had relaxed.

  He had closed his eyes and slept. Not in peace, but in certainty. He wasn’t in the right place, but he wasn’t alone. That was enough for now.

  Time inched forward.

  He did not cry.

  He did not flail his limbs for warmth, nor shriek when left hungry for hours. Not out of strength, but because he could not find it in himself to bother. His world was not here. His body was foreign. His needs were confusing.

  The caregivers noticed him quickly. Not because he was needy, but because he wasn’t.

  He lay quietly. He stared at ceilings. He drank when offered, ate when fed, and slept when left alone. Never loud. Never bright-eyed. The others called him strange, but obedient.

  The woman who ran the orphanage had eventually written a name beside his record, just so the papers didn’t look empty.

  Rowe.

  Short. Easy to say. Easy to forget.

  He kept it.

  Rowe was three years and one month old now.

  He didn’t feel three.

  He didn’t feel anything.

  He woke up before the others. Stepped off his rough bedding. Walked barefoot to the window and pressed his fingers to the glass.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The forest outside swayed with the wind. Beyond it, faint roofs in the valley marked the closest town. He could map the walk in his mind already—how long it would take, which turns to take, what corners the wind curved around.

  He had made the journey many times.

  The town was the orphanage’s lifeline. Its people—tailors, potters, smiths, bakers—shared their surplus with the orphanage children. In return, the kids helped with errands.

  At some point everyone had started to follow Rowe's lead, Quietly. Unasked.

  When others followed, the caretakers noticed. When shopkeepers praised him, the caretakers smiled. Not fondly—just with relief.

  More hands, less trouble.

  He was helpful.

  And that was enough.

  The orphanage wasn’t cruel.

  But it wasn’t warm either.

  There were no lullabies. No birthdays. No embraces unless a child was bleeding or choking. Most of the children didn’t mind. They had each other, after all. They fought, played, made up, clung in the dark.

  Rowe was outside that circle.

  Not disliked—just not needed.

  He didn’t join games. Didn’t cry when hit. Didn’t laugh when others did.

  He wasn’t cold to them. He wasn’t anything.

  When spoken to, he replied. Briefly. When offered food, he ate. When asked to help, he helped.

  That was all.

  He didn’t sleep much.

  Some nights, he lay awake listening to the wind scratch the windows. Some nights, he watched the moonlight shift across the floor. And some nights, when the forest grew too quiet, he would close his eyes and wonder what kind of child he had been in the world that was in his mind unasked.

  Had he been loud?

  Had someone waited for him at home?

  Had he had one?

  He didn’t know.

  Only that now—he had no one.

  And the strange knowledge in his head, the math and memory and sensibility, didn’t bring comfort.

  It just made life easier.

  By the time he was three, Rowe could predict which merchant would give them fruit on which day, and which town guard could be bribed with flattery or silence. He knew which firewood burned best in wet weather, how to clean oil from pots with sand, and how to fix a leaking roof with tree sap and rags.

  He shared none of it.

  But when others asked, he nodded, gestured, led by doing. Never explaining. Just... showing.

  The children followed.

  The staff called him a blessing.

  He didn’t care.

  One morning, while sweeping the steps, he paused.

  The mist was thicker than usual. The town rooftops were barely visible. A crow flew past overhead, crying into the wind.

  He looked up.

  And for a moment, it felt like something was watching.

  Not from the trees.

  Not from the town.

  But from the very air.

  As if the world itself had noticed him for the first time.

  He stood still for a long time.

  The crow circled once, then disappeared into the fog.

  He went back to sweeping.

  Later that day, a merchant from the town came by.

  She handed out bread. Gave the usual pat on the head to the boldest kid. Made the usual jokes with the caretaker.

  And then, she saw Rowe.

  "That one again," she murmured.

  The caretaker chuckled. "The quiet one. Never caused a day’s trouble."

  "He doesn’t smile much, does he?"

  "No need. He works more than the older boys. They follow him now, you know."

  The merchant tilted her head. "What’s his name again?"

  "Rowe."

  She frowned. "That’s not a real name."

  "It is now."

  She glanced at the boy, who was patching a crack in the watering barrel. His small fingers moved with a practiced rhythm.

  The merchant said nothing more.

  But when she left, she looked over her shoulder again.

  That night, Rowe sat by the back shed alone.

  The stars were out—dim through the fog, but visible.

  He stared at them.

  One blinked.

  Flickered. Then faded.

  Maybe a cloud passed.

  Or maybe it burned out.

  He didn’t know.

  But something in his chest shifted. Just a little.

  He curled his fingers into the fabric of his thin pants.

  “Rowe,” he murmured to himself, tasting the name like it was foreign.

  It didn’t sound wrong.

  But it didn’t feel right either.

  He leaned back against the wall and stared at the sky for a long time.

  Somewhere out there, the name Isenor Althier Velmire existed.

  But for now—he was just a quiet child, on a quiet mountain, where no one knew who he was, and he had no reason to believe otherwise.

  Not yet.