My life had never been lacking. Not in the way that mattered, anyway. People often imagined that losing parents at a young age carved an emptiness into your chest that nothing could fill, but I never felt that. My parents' absence was simply a quiet backdrop to the rhythm of my days—like the faint hum of wind against the mountains, there but not intrusive. I was never lonely. I had friends in town, yes, but more than that, I had the woods. I had the rivers and the fields and the abandoned ruins of old farms that only I knew the paths to. I had stories, half-real and half-imagined, that I could wander through for hours without ever reaching the end.
I was never bored. Even the smallest things contained their own adventures. A sudden storm meant racing to catch the cows before they scattered, or finding a safe place to watch the lightning streak across the clouds without feeling foolish. A simple walk to the river could turn into a full expedition—slipping over mossy stones, chasing the flight of birds, listening to the croak of frogs as if they were reciting some secret poetry. Everything had texture. Everything had a pulse.
I was never unnerved. Fear was a concept I understood, but it rarely had reason to linger. I knew which paths were safe, which corners of the forest to avoid, and when to trust instinct over rumor. Shadows moved where shadows should, and noises belonged to the world they came from, not some lurking danger waiting for me. That sense of security didn't come from naivety; it came from knowledge, from experience, from moving through the world in a way that left very little unknown.
The village—small, uneven, and leaning with age—was the center of my universe, yet it never confined me. There was always a market to visit, always chores to complete, always someone to greet with a nod or a teasing smile. I had a rhythm, a balance, a sense of place that carried me forward. My life, though quiet to an outsider, was vivid to me. The wind could be sharp or soft; the river could be playful or cruel; the forest could be a friend or a challenge depending on how you treated it. Every day had a color, a scent, a sound, a small thrill tucked into its folds.
I had never thought about what else might exist beyond that—the things people whispered about in the stories, the tales of creatures taller than houses, of fires that burned without consuming, of voices that carried across the mountains and forests. Those were fantasies, meant for entertainment or caution, but they didn't touch me. I had enough wonder right here, enough excitement, enough life. I never thought of my world as small, because I had always believed the world was exactly the size it needed to be for someone like me.
And so I moved through it with steady steps, feeling the texture of bark beneath my fingers, the splash of water against my boots, the sharp, tangy scent of rain on stone. I laughed often, walked often, explored often. Nothing about my life demanded heroics. Nothing demanded courage beyond common sense and a sharp eye. It was enough. It had always been enough.
That was, until the day it wasn't.