The boy, now with a belly no longer crying out, gently lifted the wooden bowl and set it down upon the tray from which it had come. His movements were slow, not from weakness alone, but from a quiet reverence—for warmth, for fullness, for a silence not born of dread.
Then, for the first time in days—or perhaps weeks—he spoke.
A small voice, hoarse and barely above a whisper, edged its way from his lips.
"Hmmm... sir?"
The word hung in the air like a single thread of breath.
The man, seated not far, froze—not out of surprise at the sound, but at the strangeness of it. His brow furrowed slightly, though the calm in his eyes did not break. He tilted his head, as if listening more deeply might shape the meaning from the foreign syllables.
But it was no use.
He understood nothing of what the boy had said.
The boy, too, could feel it—the familiar gap between tongues. From the very moment he had been thrust into this wretched world, speech had always been a wall. The monsters did not speak in human ways, and even when they uttered sounds, they were vile things—groans, screeches, guttural snarls of madness and teeth.
The pirates had spoken differently—rough, loud, strange—but the boy had slowly begun to catch fragments, to understand intent even without meaning.
But this man… this place… it was new once more.
And the words were smooth, flowing like wind through reeds, soft yet unreadable.
The man, however, did not seem displeased.
Instead, he gave a short breath—a sound close to a chuckle—and stroked his beard as though pondering something mildly amusing.
"Oh well," he said at last, his voice still calm, his tone warm, though the boy caught none of it. "You've hair like sun-touched wheat and eyes of twin springs—'twould be more odd, perhaps, if you did speak my tongue."
He looked at the boy then, not with pity, but with the quiet curiosity of a man who had long since learned to listen beyond words.
He gestured lightly toward the boy's chest, then to his own mouth, then made a soft humming sound, as if to say, rest now; no need for talk.
And though the boy could not understand the man's words—
He understood enough.
The man's eyes lingered upon the boy for a moment longer—studying, weighing something unspoken behind those bruised, bandaged eyes. Then, with the same patience that marked every movement of his, he rose to his feet, the soft fabric of his robe whispering as he did.
He glanced once more toward the empty bowl, then back to the boy, whose gaze still tried to follow his every motion, still uncertain, still wary—but no longer afraid.
"I should leave you to rest now," the man said softly, knowing full well the boy would not grasp a single word. "We can think of a way to communicate later."
His tone was not that of a man speaking to a child—but of one speaking to a soul.
And though the words passed by the boy like wind in a foreign forest, something in their shape, their calm rhythm, seemed to reach him still.
The man turned, slid open the paper door with the ease of long habit, and stepped into the quiet hall beyond.
But just before the door closed behind him, he paused—and gave a faint nod.
Not of farewell.
But of promise.
Then the door slipped shut.
The room was silent once more.
Only the whisper of sakura petals at the window and the slow, tired breath of a child who had known too much pain.
After a long rest—his first in what felt like forever—the boy lay with his eyes open, the ceiling above him a plain sheet of quiet wood and shadows. His body, though still sore and wrapped in bandages, felt light in a way it hadn't before. Not from strength, but from stillness. A silence inside, not made of despair… but of thought.
He turned inward, speaking in the voice that had always remained his truest companion.
"I must follow the compass."
The thought struck gently, like a drop of water in a bowl. Not because he expected it to lead him home—not truly—but because it was the only thread he had left. The only thread that had not led to screams or blood.
Hope, even faint, was more than he'd had for weeks.
Slowly, he sat up. His muscles cried faintly, but they obeyed. He swung his legs from the low bed and let his bare feet touch the wooden floor. It was warm from the sun that had crept in all morning through the wide window, where sakura petals drifted with the breeze.
He rose to his feet.
The door was light, paper and wood. He slid it open with quiet hands and stepped into the hallway beyond.
It was long—lined on one side with windows, through which the garden's gentle beauty spilled in. The same simple design followed him along the walls: clean wood, soft light, no clutter. A calm born not of wealth, but of intention.
Outside, the trees were heavy with pale pink blossoms, many of which had fallen in silent heaps like snow onto the carefully raked paths below.
The boy walked forward. Slowly. Each step more certain than the last. He breathed in the scent of earth and flowers and clean air, and though his body still ached, his mind whispered something strange:
"This place… looks like heaven."
It was nothing like the broken cities or monster-filled forests of Gor'Sekra. No howls, no blood. Just the gentle murmur of wind and the soft hush of petals.
After what felt like a minute of walking, he saw the man again.
The middle-aged one.
He was crouched beneath one of the trees, gathering the fallen petals into a wooden basket with steady, practiced movements. His sword leaned against the trunk nearby, forgotten for now.
The boy did not call out.
Not from fear.
But from something quieter—a desire to be noticed, not to interrupt. A moment of respect.
So he stood, waiting.
And after only a few seconds, the man paused in his sweeping.
He did not look up immediately, but his hand stilled, and then he spoke:
"…I wondered when you would wake."
Then, he looked over his shoulder.
And smiled.
The boy stepped forward, quiet but certain. The man stood now, wiping his hands clean on a cloth tucked at his waist, his expression as calm as ever—neither expectant nor surprised. Just still. Like a tree that had seen all seasons.
The boy reached for the small object that hung from the thin cord around his neck.
The compass.
Its surface caught the sunlight, worn and chipped at the edges from storms and salt and suffering. But the needle—stubborn as ever—pointed clearly. Not to the sea. Not to the horizon. But to the man.
He stood there, right at the center of its quiet pull.
The boy looked at it, then at the man, then back again.
He hadn't come only to thank him. Though he meant that, truly. No one had shown him this much kindness without asking something in return. Not the pirates, not the cursed sea, and certainly not the monsters.
But this…
This was different.
The boy tightened his fingers around the compass.
"Does this mean…"He did not finish the thought aloud. It was too fragile.
"Is he… my way back?"
That idea… that hope—it was beautiful. Too beautiful. And beauty, in Gor'Sekra, always came with a price.
He wanted to believe it. That this quiet man, with eyes like calm rivers and brows shaped like swords, might be the start of something that led home. That perhaps this path pointed not to another nightmare, but to the arms of the only person he still longed for.
"Mother…"
The man watched him, his face unreadable, but not unkind. As if sensing that something unspoken had passed between them.
The boy lowered the compass slowly and held it in both hands. He looked down at it, letting the silence speak instead of him.
If this man was the way forward, even if he could not bring him home—then at least he was not alone anymore.
He hoped.