Cold.
That was his first thought. Not fear. Not pain. Just the biting chill crawling beneath his skin, sinking deep into his bones.
Zeke's eyes opened to a gray sky and the rhythmic crash of waves against jagged rocks. He lay half-buried in wet sand, the tide licking at his legs, trying to drag him back into the sea. Each breath burned his throat, dry and ragged, as though he hadn't spoken in years. He tried to sit up, but his body refused.
Salt sores and ruptured blisters covered his small body, skin raw from days of wet exposure. Filth clung to him, smeared into his tattered clothes where he hadn't been able to clean himself.
His stomach groaned in protest, a hollow sound echoing through him. His ribs jutted out like a cage, skin stretched tight and pale. His lips were cracked, his tongue heavy and useless.
He tried to remember why.
Then the pain hit.
A sharp, splitting ache tore through his skull, blinding and cruel. Flashes of fire, screams, the smell of ash flickered through his mind, vanishing before he could grasp them. He clutched his head, desperate to recall something, anything. But no matter how hard he tried, all that remained was a single word.
Zeke.
His name. That was all.
The realization sank slowly, like a stone dropped into a deep well. He was eight years old, alone on an unfamiliar shore, stripped of everything he had ever known.
He looked around. The coastline stretched endlessly, broken only by cliffs and the faint outline of a small port village in the distance. Smoke rose lazily from its chimneys, a sign of warmth and life.
His legs trembled at the idea of standing.
Zeke placed a trembling hand on the wet sand and pushed himself up. The effort stole what little strength he had left. He swayed, nearly collapsing again.
And yet, for reasons he couldn't name, something deep inside him refused to let him stop.
He walked north toward the faint outline of the village, because as painful as movement was in his condition, it was still better than sitting there and waiting for death.
Each step dragged his battered body forward, legs trembling beneath him. He scanned his surroundings for anything that might keep him alive. A clue. Shelter. Food. Water. Anything.
His vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges of his sight. Just as his strength threatened to give out completely, he found it. A small pool tucked between two rocks, its surface still and deceptively clear.
He didn't know if it was drinkable. He didn't care. He dropped to his knees and cupped the water with trembling hands, drinking so fast it spilled down his chin.
The cold liquid slid down his throat, easing the raw dryness that had scraped him since he opened his eyes.
He drank until his stomach felt full, or at least fooled itself into believing it was.
It was a thin, temporary fullness, yet he clung to the illusion as if it were life itself.
When he could drink no more, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and forced himself onward.
Eventually, the coastline curved and revealed a town. Not bustling. Not empty. Something in between.
The roads were clean but not ornate. The people wore clothes that were plain yet well cared for.
Vendors called out prices in steady voices, selling fruit, tools, woven cloth. Nothing extravagant.
Zeke's presence drew a few glances, quick and cautious. A filthy child, soaked and pale, stumbling through the street with an empty gaze.
He approached a food stall. The smell alone nearly brought him to his knees.
His stomach twisted painfully, begging for something solid. Anything at all.
The vendor turned to him. Zeke opened his mouth, trying to speak, trying to ask for help.
The words came out strange and broken, his voice barely more than a rasp.
The man frowned and shook his head, as if he couldn't understand.
But Zeke knew they spoke the same language.
Their words were the same. Only his accent was thicker, shaped by an island he could no longer remember.
It shouldn't have mattered.
Yet it did.
The vendor didn't even try.
He folded his arms and looked past Zeke, as if the boy were already gone.
Zeke stood there, confused. Why couldn't they understand him? Why didn't they want to?
He didn't know yet that people often chose the mask that kept them comfortable.
When kindness demanded effort, they hid behind the mask of ignorance.
It looked gentler than cruelty, even though it came from the same place.
So Zeke stood there in the middle of the town, cold, hungry, memoryless, and utterly alone.
And the world kept moving around him, as if he were invisible.
He waited.
For what, he wasn't sure.
A sip of water felt like fantasy. A loaf of bread seemed like a feast.
He did not ask for much, yet every passing face recoiled, as if his hunger itself were something contagious.
His insides gurgled loud enough for nearby vendors to glance at him with irritation before turning away.
He hugged himself, curling inward, as if strength might spill out if he loosened his grip.
Then something inside him shifted.
It was not courage. It was not anger. It was survival. Pure and animal.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
One moment he stood frozen on shaking legs. The next he bolted forward, instinct overpowering reason.
His fingers closed around two loaves of bread from a nearby stall.
His hands were so thin they barely held the loaves, yet he clutched them with a desperation that felt feral.
A shout exploded behind him. Angry and sharp.
Zeke didn't look back. He couldn't. His feet pounded against stone as he darted into the narrow alleys between buildings, breath tearing at his chest. The sounds of the market faded behind him, replaced by his own ragged gasps and the frantic thud of his heart.
He didn't stop until the world went quiet.
Only then did he collapse against a wall, sliding down into the dirt, clutching the bread to his chest as if it might be taken even now.
He tore into it so fast his jaw throbbed with pain. He did not chew properly. He barely breathed between bites.
So he ate as though time itself were trying to steal the food away.
And for the first time since waking on the shore, the ache in his stomach eased.
Just enough to keep him moving.