Chapter 10: Two Years of Curiosity
Rai's world had changed. The once confusing jumble of sounds now had structure. Words, gestures, and tone all carried meaning. He could now understand short sentences and simple instructions. He could ask for things—sometimes clumsily, sometimes clearly—and his parents understood him.
The morning sunlight filtered through the wooden beams of the house. Rai toddled into the kitchen, tiny feet unsteady but determined.
"Rai! Breakfast!" his mother called, smiling brightly.
He grinned and held up a small bowl. "Eat!" he said, his voice high and eager. The word wasn't perfect, but it carried meaning—and his mother laughed, clapping her hands softly.
The man leaned down, guiding Rai's hands as he tried to pour water from a small jug. "Careful," he said. Rai froze, understanding immediately, and nodded. He carefully poured, spilling only a little. The man's smile was quiet, approving.
After breakfast, Rai explored the small courtyard outside. Flowers, stones, and sticks were all fascinating. He touched, picked up, examined. Sometimes he spoke the words he had learned, naming them aloud: "Flower," "Stone," "Stick." His tongue stumbled over some sounds, but his meaning was clear.
He began experimenting with combinations. Pointing to the flower and saying, "Big flower," he looked at his mother expectantly. She laughed softly, repeating the words slowly, exaggerating them: "Yes, Rai! Big flower."
It clicked. Words could describe not just objects, but qualities. He could express ideas.
The afternoon passed with small discoveries. Rai noticed how water flowed from the small basin, how sunlight warmed the stones, how shadows changed as the day moved on. He tested gestures and sounds, pointing, repeating words, and sometimes even trying to ask questions with gestures and tone.
His parents encouraged him constantly, smiling at his clumsy experiments, guiding him with soft words and patient hands. He noticed patterns in their behavior, predicting their reactions before they even spoke.
By evening, Rai was tired but exhilarated. Sitting on his mother's lap, he pointed at a small wooden cup. "Drink… water," he said, carefully articulating the words. She handed it to him with a smile, praising him gently.
In the quiet of the night, lying against his mother's chest, Rai reflected—though not fully consciously—on how much he had learned. Sounds were no longer mysteries. Words could shape reality. Actions had meaning. The world was something he could navigate, understand, and interact with.
And deep inside, the quiet note remained, untouched:
This space will open again in ten years.
For now, it was silent.
Rai, Earth-born in this foreign world, smiled faintly, feeling the rhythm of life around him. Words, gestures, warmth, love—they were enough.
He had begun to understand.
He had begun to belong.
And most importantly, he was ready to grow.