The first day began without hurry.
He woke to the distant sound of the sea, a constant noise that never truly slept. The hut still smelled of old wood and salt, and his small body took a while to remember where it was. His muscles ached—not like before, when hunger bit from the inside, but in a bearable way, almost familiar. His stomach did not growl. That alone was strange enough to make him smile for a second.
The pain in his head came afterward, precise, like an old warning that refused to be forgotten. He touched the spot carefully, testing it. It hurt, but not enough to stop him from thinking. And thinking, now, seemed to be the most important thing he had.
He left the hut slowly, as if the world might be startled by sudden movement.
The city was already waking up. Not all at once, but in pieces. A door slamming here, a hoarse voice there, the sound of something heavy being dragged over damp ground. The sun had not climbed high enough to warm everything yet, but life did not wait for him.
He stood still, just watching.
The crooked streets did not seem random after a while. There was a logic to the way they bent and narrowed, as if they had been shaped by repeated footsteps over many years. The houses—if they could be called that—were made of leftovers: planks from broken ships, cloth hardened by salt, doors that had never really been doors before. Everything there looked reused. Everything had lived another life.
Children ran past, weaving around one another with ease. Some carried small baskets of bruised fruit. Others ran simply because running was better than standing still. He began to notice that they were never alone for long. Even when they seemed scattered, there was always someone watching from some corner.
He learned that without anyone explaining it.
The whole day went like that: standing in different spots, moving only a little, letting the world pass by him. He noticed who shouted the loudest. Who never shouted at all. Who took up space just by existing, and who had to ask permission even to breathe.
When night came, the city changed its sound.
Voices grew lower, but sharper. Lanterns appeared like watchful eyes in the alleys. He hid behind a crooked wall, smelling dampness and mold, and observed.
Older children gathered in small groups. They did not play like they did during the day. Now there was challenge in their looks, expectation in their restless hands. They bet on short races, shoving matches, small fights that ended in laughter or tightly held anger. Coins passed from hand to hand. Sometimes nothing passed at all—just the need to prove something.
He did not understand everything. But he understood enough.
The second day carried his feet farther.
The port was something else entirely. Bigger. Heavier. The air there felt different, as if it had been crushed by ropes, barrels, and clipped orders. Large men worked in silence, moving cargo as if they were parts of a single body. Dried fish, thick sacks, crates that no one opened near strangers.
He quickly noticed who was not working.
Men who stood too still, watching too much. Some bore marks on their skin—ink, scars, symbols he did not recognize, but could feel were not just decoration. They carried nothing. They only watched. And everyone seemed to know it.
The port had invisible rules. He did not know them, but he felt when he was close to breaking them.
On the third day, the market.
There, the world spoke loudly.
Smells mixed together: fresh fish, overripe fruit, sweat, hot grease. People argued over prices as if it were a small, daily war. Guards walked slowly, in no hurry to solve anything, only reminding everyone that they were there.
Between one stall and the next, what was not supposed to exist existed. Quick games, hidden cards, small races that began and ended in seconds. Children went back and forth with messages they could not read, coins they did not count. He watched who trusted them—and who only pretended to.
Nothing seemed accidental.
On the fourth day, he walked where footsteps usually avoided.
Taverns that woke too early. Brothels hidden behind discreet doors. Trading houses where conversations lasted longer than the purchases. In each place, a different rhythm. A particular way of entering, staying, and leaving.
Some alleys swallowed people. Others spat them back out.
He learned where he could stand without being noticed. Where a wrong look drew attention. Where no one cared about a child standing still for too long—and where that was dangerous.
At night, he always returned to the hut.
He lay on the hard ground and replayed everything in his head, like someone arranging invisible objects. The city, once a frightening tangle, was beginning to make sense. Not because it was fair. But because it followed patterns.
At the end of the fourth day, he climbed the embankment near the hut.
From there, he saw everything at once: the port that never slept, the market breathing with people, the alleys that kept secrets, the distant lights of the taverns. The city looked alive. Not good. Not bad. Just alive.
He understood, then, that surviving was not only about eating or hiding.
It was about understanding.
And understanding, alone, would not be enough forever.
But that could wait.
For now, he only observed.
And the world, without knowing it, was beginning to be learned.