I slowly opened my eyes from the dark void behind my eyelids to see a beautiful face hovering above me. Her features were flawless dark, curly hair cascading down like silk, nearly brushing my face and silencing my cries with its comforting warmth. Her left eye was a piercing blue, her right a glowing yellow, both framed by long, expressive lashes. Her smile trembled, soft and radiant, even as emotion overcame her.
Tears welled in her eyes and spilled freely, falling onto my forehead and cheeks warm, sincere, and filled with love. I felt the weight of those tears. They weren't just water; they were acceptance, affection, and something that reached deeper than memory.
"I... Is this my mom?" The thought stirred within me, surreal and grounding all at once. My mind was clouded with unfamiliar sensations, but I was entirely fixated on her. There was something sacred about her grief, something unspoken in her joy.
Abruptly, I was lifted away from her warm embrace. My tiny body dangled in the hands of someone else, and the world around me slowly came into view beyond the veil of hair and softness.
The room was small and cramped, a modest home carved from humble means. There was a single bed large enough for two, a few aged dressers pressed against the wall, and dusty wooden cabinets. A cobweb clung to one corner of the ceiling, its spider still resident, undisturbed. Across from the bed stood a battered dresser, beside a plain wooden door.
I was born here. In this confined space. It must have been a difficult home birth, cramped and chaotic.
Then I saw him the man who had lifted me. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his long dark hair streaked with gray, his face weathered and smudged with dust. His eyes both blue met mine with surprising gentleness. Though he didn't cry, his lips quivered with the effort to remain composed.
"I love you," he whispered.
That was my father.
So, this is my new life.
It's been a couple of months since I was born into this world. My current world is the living room of our tiny home a modest space that doubles as a kitchen, dining area, and nursery. There's a single rickety kitchen chair beside a well-worn desk, and everything we own is crammed into just a few rooms. The house is so Small that we don't even have an indoor bathroom. That much I learned the day Father came down with a stomach bug and was stuck on the toilet outside in the rain, crouched over a bucket. I can only imagine what growing up will be like with that arrangement. But this is my new world, and I have to get used to it.
"Alright, little guy, let's go." My mother gently wraps her slender fingers around my body, lifts me into her arms, and nestles me against her in a makeshift sling. It's a morning ritual after Father leaves for work, when she gathers me up, and we head into the village.
The market surrounds the town hall like a wreath of life, bustling with voices and the scent of open-air food stalls. Colorful fruits, cured meats, wild game, and local breads are piled high on merchant carts. Vendors shout their prices and greet neighbors each with a display of the region's survival skills. I've seen apples and grains, and even more exotic fare, thick slabs of Auroch meat, glistening with marbling.
Based on the murmurs of nearby farmers, I've pieced together that Aurochs here are massive, temperamental creatures, domesticated but wild enough to break bones if handled wrong. And then there's the Deeralope a towering deer-like beast with curved antlers and muscular hind legs, prized for both its meat and its agility. It's no surprise that this village has a strong hunting culture and beast-handling guilds.
Mother always lingers at the same stalls, bartering with a familiar rhythm. Her name is Dorathy or at least that's what Mom called her with the ease of an old friend. The way they talked, I wouldn't be surprised if they'd grown up together. Everyone here used first names; it gave the town a familiarity that made it feel smaller than it really was.
That morning, Mother traded three copper coins for three bricks of tack-thick, dense loaves of hardened dough that seemed nearly impossible to bite through. I've watched one sit above our stove for weeks without rotting or changing shape. It was a meal for the poor, for the surviving. And for my mother, it was a symbol of perseverance.
Dorathy handed over the tack with a practiced motion. Mother added half a loaf of bread to her bag and handed the vendor five more coins. "See you tomorrow, Elizabeth," Dorathy said warmly, waving us off as we started our walk home.
Our house lies at the edge of the village one of the farthest homes from the central square. It's only a single story, barely large enough for two adults and a child, but Mother takes care of it with a kind of fierce pride. Every day she scrubs the walls, turning the weather-worn brown stone into a softer orange hue. Watching her from my crib or sling became a sort of meditation for me. The way she moves, focused and graceful, felt oddly comforting.
I sometimes wonder what the house would look like if Father lived alone. The thought always conjured up an image of dust and broken hinges.
At home, Mother would set the tack into a pot one of the few that hung from hooks along the ceiling beams. She'd fill it with water, a pinch of salt, and let the bricks boil for an hour over the fire. It was tasteless but filling. A survival meal. She'd slice off a bit of the bread to share with Father, and together they'd sit by the fire, eating their humble feast.
While they ate, she'd hold me in her lap and feed me with tiny spoonfuls of mashed grains. And as I watched the flicker of firelight against the stone walls, I'd think back to the meals I once prepared for the homeless. I remember how it felt offering comfort to those who had none.
But here… I am the one being cared for.
And strangely, despite the poverty, despite the hardship, it feels nice. It feels… human.
"One, deux, trois, quatre, viisi..." The evenings always ended the same way in our one-room home, with a story, a song, or a quiet counting lesson. It had become our little tradition. My father's voice, deep and steady like the low hum of an old cello, would mix with my mother's light, slightly squeaky, but sweet like wind chimes in a breeze. Together, they created a lullaby of memory and sound.
They took turns telling stories tales of talking animals, heroic warriors, and magical forests. Sometimes, they recited the alphabet or counted in different languages they barely knew, stitching together what little they remembered from wandering traders or travelers.
My favorite part was when Father got sleepy, his eyes drooping, his voice drifting mid-sentence into a faint snore. Mother would laugh softly, pick up where he left off, and continue the story until my eyelids, too, gave up.
I realized, even as an infant, that they didn't do this just for me. These bedtime rituals weren't only to lull me to sleep; they were also for themselves to remember, to preserve what they never got the chance to fully learn. The stories weren't written down. The letters were unfamiliar. Numbers beyond eight were vague in Father's mind his pay never stretching high enough to teach him more. But Mother…
Mother remembered. She was smart, with a sharp and vast memory that surprised me. She taught me the names of the local trees, the layout of our town, the seasons, and their importance. From my little bed, wrapped in worn clothes, I watched them piece together an education from scraps and sounds, determination, and love.
And though they were poor, uneducated by modern standards, and far from the world I once knew, they were giving me something far more valuable than my previous world ever had.
In that other life, my family never really cared about me. My father had left vanished like fog in the morning sun. My mother was distant, more like a ghost than a guide. She didn't teach, didn't discipline, didn't direct. She let me lose myself in a fantasy of self-sacrifice, spending every bit of money and energy I had on people just as lost as I was people at the shelters, the edge of society.
She was never home. School became my surrogate mother, the only place with consistency, routine, and a kind word. But even school was limited. When the bell rang, the building emptied. My teachers vanished to their own lives, and I walked home alone to a mother already asleep or lost in some half-lived existence.
Emotionally and physically, they were miles away. No anchor. No warmth. But here... here, in this tiny room, this modest life, I was held. This was my real family. These were the people who saw me. This is where I belong. And not long after, my thoughts faded as I fell asleep, snuggled in the arms of my mother, the crackle of the fire a quiet hymn in the background, her heartbeat my lullaby.