The wind howled outside like a hungry wolf, sweeping through the bare trees, forcing its way through the worn-out doors, and slapping the helpless walls. The wooden hut was nothing more than a crumbling pile of cracked planks and rusty nails, barely standing against the fury of winter—as if it groaned with every gust of the storm. And yet, despite its fragility, the hut was witnessing the greatest moment life could offer: a birth.
Inside, everything pulsed with the tension of the moment. The air was heavy with the scent of damp wood, and the faint smoke rising from the tiny stove barely held the cold at bay. Everything here spoke of poverty, of isolation, of a time that showed no mercy to anyone.
On a simple bed of straw covered with a gray cloth, a woman writhed under the weight of pain. She had no one to help her except a man standing silently by the door, staring out without moving or showing any emotion. His face was expressionless—neither worried nor compassionate—as if what was happening behind him meant nothing, or as if he was simply waiting for it all to end so he could leave.
The woman, whose name no one knew. Her tired face, curly hair, and dark circles under her eyes told the story of a long and exhausting road—a path lined with nothing but disappointments. With every breath from her chest, she tried to stifle another scream, as if she feared that death might hear her and come too soon.
The labor was difficult, long—an ultimate test of the body's endurance and the will to live. With each passing moment, her eyes clung to something unseen, something unspoken, yet strongly present in her silence: fear. Not fear of death, but fear of bringing this child into such a world—unprotected, unloved, cold.
As for the man, he remained as he was. Not a step forward, not a word spoken, not a hand offered. Only his icy silence filled the space, making the moment all the more brutal. He stood like a phantom—untouched by exhaustion or doubt—as if he had already decided how it would all end.
Then, finally, with a torn cry, the child came into the world.
His cry was short, but loud—piercing the stillness of the night and cutting through the wind, as if announcing a new life in the heart of death. That cry, simple as it was, felt like defiance—the first protest of a child against a world that had not welcomed him.
Despite her pale face, the woman smiled. It was the smile of a mother worn out by time, but who found in that tiny voice enough to say: "This is worth it."
She stared at the child, touched his face with trembling fingers, and smiled as if she were looking at the last light in her life. Then, in a whisper barely audible, she said:
"Stay strong… no matter what, you are my son after all."
Those were her last words.
They were not just a sentence. They were a will, a hope, a love condensed into a farewell moment. Something that would remain with the child for a long time, even after her memory faded. Something not easily erased.
When her eyes closed forever, there was nothing left in the room but silence, a shiver of cold, and a child crying endlessly.
The man moved slowly. He did not look at the child. He did not pick him up. He did not approach the woman's body. He simply walked toward the door, then paused for a moment, as if giving himself a final second to be sure of what he was about to do. He cast one last glance—cold, dry, carrying no warmth. No sorrow, no regret, no hesitation. Only a decision.
Then he walked out.
He left behind an open door to the wind, a storm of emotions, and a child whose voice still trembled in the air.
No one knew what had happened that night except those who arrived late the next morning. The villagers were neither kind nor concerned. Poverty, disease, and hunger had made them see life from a different lens—one that had no room for sympathy or care for what wasn't theirs.
They found the woman's corpse already cold, and the child's eyes staring at them with a strange silence, as if asking: "Why?"
But no one answered.
The child was taken to the orphanage, which was not much better than the hut. The building was old, the walls cracked, and the staff harsh—not always by choice, but because life had shaped them that way. The children there were just numbers, lists to be filled, mouths to be fed with the bare minimum.
And the child had no name.
No one asked for his name, and no one tried to give him one. No one came looking for him, and no birth certificate was ever issued with his date of birth. He existed, but was unseen.
As the days passed, the child began to show something different.
He did not cry as much as other babies. He did not scream for food or attention. He simply watched. He watched everything. His eyes, despite his young age, held something others couldn't understand. Sharp, deep looks, as if searching through faces for answers no child should be asking.
One of the caretakers once joked:
"This kid… his eyes bother me. It's like he knows too much."
But no one paid it any mind.
Months passed. Then years. The children around him changed. Some were adopted. Some ran away. Some died. Only he remained. He had no friends, and he never tried to make any. He wasn't completely isolated, but he never truly belonged.
At night, when the others slept, he would lie still, staring at the ceiling, remembering the voice of that woman whose name he never knew, whose face he could only see in blurry flashes. He remembered her words. He held onto them like the only thread keeping him standing in this cruel world.
"Stay strong…"
He repeated them inside himself whenever he felt weak, whenever he was hungry, beaten, or cold.
And over time, he began to understand.
He was not like the others.
Not in the sense of having something supernatural. But his awareness, his sensitivity, his perception of the world—were different. He could see relationships, understand lies, sense when people were afraid, greedy, or pretending. All of this from a single look, a voice tone, a simple movement.
And he remembered everything.
Everything he saw, everything he heard. Not because he wanted to, but because his mind did it on its own. He remembered the stories told, the conversations between the staff, the reactions of the other children. Slowly, he built an internal map of the world around him.
And despite his loneliness, he did not feel weak.
He knew the road ahead was long, and that he would get nothing unless he took it by himself. He no longer waited—for a father to return, for a mother to rise, for someone to hold his hand.
He was alone. But he did not fear being alone.
He made it his ally.
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End of Chapter Three
Note from the author:
"I hope this work finds its way into your hearts. It is a piece of my writing that I've decided to share here. Five chapters will be published each week. I truly hope everyone who reads it will leave their opinion in the comments."