He remembered the sound of water before he remembered pain.
It was loud. Endless. A roar that swallowed thought.
When he tried to br
He remembered the sound of water before he remembered pain.
This memory returned to him later in life in the same way it did now—without warning, without mercy, and without sequence. It was not the image of the river that surfaced first, nor the color of the water or the shape of its banks. It was the sound. Loud. Endless. A roar that swallowed thought and erased scale. The kind of sound that did not grow louder or softer, because it already occupied every space it could.
At the time, he had not known what a river truly was.
In the Lower City, water moved in channels, basins, and leaks. It dripped. It pooled. It stagnated. It did not run free. Rivers belonged to the world beyond the city, the places where the ground was allowed to slope without permission and where mistakes were not contained by walls.
He had been running.
Not playfully. Not aimlessly. Running because bodies behind him were moving faster, because shouting had sharpened into something more dangerous, because a narrow path that usually offered escape had been blocked by carts that were never there before.
He remembered stumbling.
Then the sound.
It was loud. Endless. A roar that swallowed thought.
When he tried to breathe, water filled his mouth and nose—cold enough to burn. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. Small fingers clawed at nothing. Legs kicked against a current that did not slow. His back struck something hard once, then again, the impacts uneven, unpredictable.
The river did not hesitate.
It did not turn.
It did not notice him.
This was the first law the city taught him outside its walls.
Panic flared—sharp and animal—then dulled as his chest burned and his limbs grew heavy. He tried to shout. His mouth filled with water instead. The current forced his head under again, spinning him so that direction lost meaning. Up and down inverted. The sky vanished.
He let go.
Not because he wanted to.
Because his body could not hold on any longer.
The river took him.
It took him the way it took broken wood and refuse washed from the city's edges. Without malice. Without intention. Simply because he was there and it was moving.
Awareness returned in fragments.
Cold, first.
Then weight.
Then pain.
He was no longer moving, but the sensation of motion remained, as if the river had carved itself into his bones. A distant pulse throbbed in time with his heart, spreading outward until it filled his arm. The pain had mass. It pressed him down, made thinking slippery and slow.
He tried to open his eyes. Light stabbed. He closed them again.
Something firm pressed against his chest. Not violent. Not gentle. Steady. Air was forced back into him in measured intervals, compressing ribs that protested weakly. He coughed, water tearing from his throat in ragged pulls, each breath scraping raw paths through his lungs.
He cried out.
The sound barely made it past his lips.
Hands turned him onto his side. Rough hands. Calloused. They did not shake. More coughing. More burning. River water spilled onto stone.
"Easy," someone said.
The voice did not belong to the river. It did not echo or roar. It was flat, low, accustomed to being obeyed without urgency.
Not kind.Not cruel.Present.
Then stillness.
The pressure stopped. The hands withdrew. The sound of water receded, replaced by quieter noises—the scrape of boots, the mutter of distant voices, the rustle of cloth. No one lingered long enough for gratitude to become possible.
He woke again to light.
Not bright. Filtered. Dusty.
Stone framed the sky above him, the edges uneven, suggesting an alley rather than a room. He lay on something hard, wrapped in cloth that smelled old and clean at the same time, the scent of reused bandages boiled too many times.
Not home.
His arm hurt.
Not like a scrape. Not like a bruise.
It hurt in a way that made his breath hitch when he tried to move, as if the pain had replaced the limb entirely. The sensation was wrong, heavy, swollen beyond proportion, its presence so overwhelming that it erased everything else.
He whimpered and tried to draw it closer.
Someone stopped him.
"Don't," a voice said.
Flat. Measured.
The word did not come with explanation. It did not need to.
He turned his head with effort. An old man sat beside him, sleeves rolled past his elbows. His back was straight in a way that suggested long habit rather than strength. His hands were dark with dried blood—not fresh, but layered, the stains of work rather than violence. A metal tray rested nearby, tools arranged with care that bordered on reverence.
The boy did not know what the tools were for.
He knew they were meant for him.
"Where…?" he whispered.
The word came out wrong, caught halfway between breath and sound.
The man did not answer.
He had already categorized the boy. Answers were not part of the exchange.
Instead, he placed a folded cloth between the boy's teeth. Gently. Firmly. The pressure was precise, practiced. This was not the first time he had done this, and it would not be the last.
"Bite."
The boy's eyes widened.
"No," he said around the cloth. "Please."
The plea was thin. Untrained. It assumed a world where refusal altered outcomes.
The man did not react.
Pressure came next.
Then fire.
The pain erased the world.
There was no gradual escalation, no warning curve. It arrived whole, total, consuming thought and sensation alike. The scream existed, but the boy did not hear it. His body convulsed, muscles locking, teeth biting down until his jaw ached.
When awareness returned, it returned cleanly.
Too clean.
The pain was gone.
That absence was worse.
He turned his head.
Where his arm should have been, there was only bandaged absence. Thick layers, tight, already stiffening. The shape beneath them was wrong. Short. Final.
For a long moment, he did not understand what he was seeing.
Children did not expect permanence. Injury, to them, was something that healed or was forgotten. This was neither.
Then understanding arrived.
Not gently.Not slowly.
It arrived all at once, with clarity that did not dull.
The scream followed.
eathe, water filled his mouth and nose—cold enough to burn. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. Small fingers clawed at nothing. Legs kicked against a current that did not slow.
The river did not hesitate.
It did not turn.
It did not notice him.
Panic flared—sharp and animal—then dulled as his chest burned and his limbs grew heavy. He tried to shout. His mouth filled with water instead.
He let go.
Not because he wanted to.
Because his body could not hold on any longer.
The river took him.
Awareness returned in fragments.
Cold, first.Then weight.Then pain.
A distant pulse throbbed in time with his heart, spreading outward until it filled his arm. The pain had mass. It pressed him down, made thinking slippery and slow.
He tried to open his eyes. Light stabbed. He closed them again.
Something firm pressed against his chest. Not violent. Not gentle. Steady. Air was forced back into him. He coughed weakly as breath returned in ragged pulls, each one scraping his throat raw.
He cried out.
The sound barely made it past his lips.
Hands turned him onto his side. Rough hands. Calloused. They did not shake. More coughing. More burning. River water spilled onto stone.
"Easy," someone said.
Not kind.Not cruel.Present.
Then stillness.
He woke again to light.
Not bright. Filtered. Dusty.
Stone framed the sky above him. He lay on something hard, wrapped in cloth that smelled old and clean at the same time.
Not home.
His arm hurt.
Not like a scrape. Not like a bruise.
It hurt in a way that made his breath hitch when he tried to move, as if the pain had replaced the limb entirely.
He whimpered and tried to draw it closer.
Someone stopped him.
"Don't," a voice said.
Flat. Measured.
He turned his head with effort. An old man sat beside him, sleeves rolled past his elbows. His hands were dark with dried blood. A metal tray rested nearby, tools arranged with care.
The boy did not know what the tools were for.
He knew they were meant for him.
"Where…?" he whispered.
The word came out wrong.
The man did not answer.
Instead, he placed a folded cloth between the boy's teeth. Gently. Firmly.
"Bite."
The boy's eyes widened.
"No," he said around the cloth. "Please."
The man did not react.
Pressure came next.
Then fire.
The pain erased the world.
When awareness returned, it returned cleanly.
Too clean.
He turned his head.
Where his arm should have been, there was only bandaged absence.
For a long moment, he did not understand what he was seeing.
Then understanding arrived.
The scream followed.