The mountains were quiet that morning, colder than usual for early spring. Snow still lingered on the peaks, and the wind moved in long, sharp gusts that cut through the trees. Few people came this far, and those who did usually stuck to the paths.
But today, something unusual waited among the rocks.
It was a sound that didn't belong in the stillness—a baby crying. The wail was high and fragile, carried on the wind through the narrow valley. Two hikers, moving along a ridge in the early hours, stopped abruptly.
"Did you hear that?" one whispered. His voice sounded small against the emptiness.
The other nodded, eyes scanning the slope. "It… sounded like a child. But who would be out here?"
They moved carefully, following the sound down the narrow path that wound between jagged rocks. The crying grew louder, more urgent, and then they saw it: a small bundle, swaddled in thin blankets, lying on a flat stone. The baby's tiny fists were clenched, and his mouth is open in a steady, unbroken cry.
The hikers froze. There was no one else around, no sign of where the child had come from, no footprints except their own. The blankets were simple, pale, almost ordinary. And yet, something about the baby made them pause—an instinct they couldn't name.
"He's alone," one said finally, his voice shaking. "We… we should take him somewhere safe."
The other nodded, bending carefully to pick up the infant. The bundle was warm, surprisingly strong for a newborn, as if the child had more life than seemed possible. The crying didn't stop, though it softened when held against the warmth of the man's chest.
They wrapped the baby tighter, adjusting the blanket. One of them noticed a thin silver band on the infant's tiny wrist. It caught the early light of dawn, shining faintly, almost like it was reflecting something from inside itself.
"It's… just a bracelet, right?" the first hiker asked, but even as he said it, he felt an odd chill.
The baby's cries continued, high and insistent, and yet there was something steady in its rhythm, almost commanding attention. The men moved carefully down the slope, unsure if they should rush or take their time. Every step seemed measured, as though the mountains themselves were holding their breath.
They reached a small clearing near the base of the ridge. The sun had risen higher now, spilling pale light across the rocks and patches of snow. Villagers sometimes passed through this area, and a dirt road led to the nearest town. The men hurried, carrying the child as gently as possible, careful not to jostle him too much.
By the time they reached the village, a few curious eyes had already turned toward them. People paused in their morning chores, glancing at the stranger and the small bundle in his arms.
"Found him in the mountains," one man explained quickly to anyone who asked. "No one knows where he came from. He was just… there."
A nurse from the local clinic approached, her eyes soft but wary. She took the baby into her arms, checking his breathing and warmth. "He's healthy," she said finally. "Clean, strong… but no one knows who he belongs to?"
The men nodded, relief passing briefly across their faces. The baby had been found, safe for the moment. But even as the nurse wrapped him in a fresh blanket, something about the child seemed… different. Not in a way they could name, but in a quiet way that made them pause.
"He's not like other babies," one whispered under his breath.
The nurse looked up, but they shrugged. "All newborns seem strange at first," she said, though a small part of her wondered if this one really was.
Soon, arrangements were made to bring the child to the local orphanage. The roads were clear, the morning calm, and the baby slept fitfully in the nurse's arms, occasionally stirring, tiny fists opening and closing. No one noticed the faint glimmer on his wrist as he shifted, only that he was a child in need—and for now, that was enough.
Flashback...(The night before)
The village lay under a quiet, star-filled sky. Most people were asleep, the wind whispering softly through the mountains.
But some noticed something unusual.
A few early risers and late-night wanderers saw it first—a strange, glittering light moving across the sky. It wasn't a shooting star, exactly, and it didn't burn like a meteor. It drifted, almost deliberately, leaving a faint trail that shimmered like silver dust.
"Did you see that?" a shepherd whispered to his dog, though the dog merely tilted its head.
"Probably just some weird reflection from the snow," another villager muttered, though he kept glancing upward as he locked his barn.
The light moved slowly, hovering above the highest peaks for a few moments before vanishing behind the mountains. Those who saw it felt a strange shiver—not fear exactly, but a sense that something significant was coming.
By morning, people had mostly forgotten it. Only the memory lingered, a whisper in the mind of those who were awake, a fleeting impression that something extraordinary had passed through the sky.
A few days had passed since the infant was found in the mountains. The villagers had debated endlessly about what to do. Some wanted to keep him, claiming he was an omen. Others thought the baby might be dangerous—or cursed.
In the end, the local authorities decided to take him to the nearest orphanage, a small, overcrowded building at the edge of town. The job fell to Mr. Barlow, the town constable, and Mrs. Pevens, a nurse from the clinic. Neither was particularly brave, but they had no choice.
The journey to the orphanage was chaotic from the start. The baby, swaddled tightly in a blanket, fussed and wailed with a persistence that would have broken the patience of any ordinary adult. Mr. Barlow grumbled under his breath, his hat slipping every time he bent to soothe the child.
"Hold still!" Mrs. Pevens snapped, juggling the baby, a basket of supplies, and a small thermos of hot tea. The baby yanked on the blanket, and the thermos tipped over. Tea sloshed across her shoes.
"I swear," Mr. Barlow muttered, "he's trying to ruin my life."
The baby, oblivious, kicked his tiny feet and cooed as if he understood perfectly. A faint glimmer caught Mrs. Pevens' eye. "What's that on his wrist?" she asked, leaning closer.
"It's just a bracelet," Mr. Barlow said, waving it off. "Babies get bracelets all the time. Nothing magical about it."
Still, the silver band caught the morning sun and flickered faintly. Mrs. Pevens frowned but said nothing. Babies were strange anyway—they always had some weird habit or quirk.
When they finally reached the orphanage, it was a small brick building with peeling paint and a sign that read "Little Hands Orphanage". The caretaker, Mrs. Grindle, met them at the gate. She squinted at the baby, one eyebrow raised.
"Well, this is a surprise," she said dryly. "We weren't expecting a guest today."
"He was found… in the mountains," Mrs. Pevens explained, carefully handing the baby over. "Healthy, strong… though he cries a lot."
Mrs. Grindle took the infant in her arms. The baby immediately fussed and squirmed, tiny fists flying. She sighed. "Of course he does. Every child thinks the world owes them something."
As she carried him through the doorway, the baby's blanket slipped just enough to reveal the faint glimmer of the bracelet again. Mrs. Grindle glanced at it, frowned, and muttered to herself: "I've seen a lot in my years… but this one might be trouble."
Inside, the orphanage was a mix of chaos and routine. Children ran through the hallways, some laughing, some crying, others bickering over toys. One boy tripped over a laundry basket, spilling clean clothes everywhere. Another tried to sneak a cookie from the kitchen and ended up with frosting all over his face.
The baby, for his part, fussed at the noise. He kicked and wriggled, as if he were already deciding he didn't belong here. Mrs. Grindle set him in a small crib, secured with soft blankets, and stepped back.
"All right, little one," she said, shaking her head, "let's see if you survive your first day among humans."
The baby stared up at her, eyes wide, and cooed softly. For just a moment, the room seemed quieter. The children, busy with their antics, paused and glanced at the new arrival. Even the dogs in the yard seemed to sniff the air differently.
It was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but the baby's presence made the world around him feel… slightly off. And yet, for now, he was just another child in the orphanage—fussy, squirming, and causing more than his fair share of trouble.
Mrs. Grindle sighed again and muttered, "Well, if he's half as troublesome as I think, we're in for a long few years."
The baby cooed again, as if agreeing...