Chapter 4: The Waiting Years

Ryen was seven when he first realized the weight of understanding too much.

He wasn't particularly special—just another boy in a nameless town, another face in the crowd of dull stone buildings and narrow streets where merchants called out their wares. He had no grand ambitions, no dreams that stretched beyond the small world he knew. But even at that age, he was different in a way that had nothing to do with skill or strength.

It was in his eyes.

He watched people. Their gestures, the way their expressions flickered between emotions, the way their words didn't always match the truth in their eyes. He understood things about them they probably didn't understand about themselves. And because of that, he never asked too many questions.

A merchant might fake a laugh while overcharging a nervous buyer. A child might steal a piece of fruit, clutching it tight like it was the difference between life and death. A man might lie about how much he made in a day, afraid of how his family would see him if they knew the truth.

Ryen saw all of it, and he never judged them for it.

But in knowing, he found himself alone.

Even among other children, he felt separate. Their arguments, their small fights, their petty rivalries—they all seemed meaningless. Why argue when both sides already knew they weren't going to change? Why get angry at someone's insults when they were only saying them to protect their own pride?

It made playing with them difficult. It made fitting in impossible.

He never told anyone about it. He wasn't sure how. But at times, when he caught glimpses of things he wasn't meant to see, he wondered—was there something wrong with him?

The first time Seid spoke to Ryen, it wasn't because of some profound moment of connection. It wasn't fate or destiny. It was because Seid was bored.

"Hey," the boy had said, plopping down beside him on the steps of an old shop. He had the kind of grin that people either loved or found annoying—full of mischief, too wide for his face. "You always sit here like some old man. What, watching people is more fun than running around?"

Ryen shrugged. He wasn't sure what to say.

Seid, clearly unimpressed by the lack of response, pressed on. "You're weird."

"You talk too much," Ryen countered.

That made Seid laugh. "Okay, fair."

And just like that, it started.

Seid was a force of nature—loud, reckless, constantly getting himself into trouble. He had a way of making people laugh, of twisting situations in his favor. He was the type to talk his way out of punishment even when he was clearly guilty.

Ryen wasn't sure why Seid kept hanging around him. Maybe he found it entertaining how Ryen never reacted the way other kids did. Or maybe, deep down, he sensed that Ryen understood him in a way no one else did.

Seid loved attention, but Ryen could tell—he hated being alone.

And so, without ever really meaning to, Ryen became his friend.

Sally was different. She wasn't like Seid, with his easy confidence and endless energy. She was quiet. Sharp-eyed. The kind of person who chose her words carefully, who didn't waste energy on things she didn't care about.

And she cursed people.

Not literally. But if someone angered her, she'd mutter things under her breath—promises of bad luck, whispered threats of terrible things happening. People learned not to mess with her.

Seid found it hilarious.

"She's scary," he told Ryen once. "She'd kill us both in our sleep if she could."

Sally, standing nearby, didn't even look up. "I wouldn't waste my time."

Ryen liked her. She wasn't cruel, not really. Her curses weren't real, and she didn't start fights—she just ended them. And despite everything, despite the sharp tongue and the cold demeanor, she was kind in a way most people weren't.

If she cared about someone, she'd protect them. Without hesitation.

And for some reason, she decided Ryen was worth protecting.

The years passed, and the three of them became inseparable.

Ryen, with his quiet observations and unshakable patience.

Seid, with his endless energy and reckless ideas.

Sally, with her sharp words and unwavering loyalty.

They weren't the strongest, or the smartest, or the most important people in town. But together, they carved out a place for themselves. They belonged.

For a time, that was enough.

Until, one day, it wasn't.

Seid left first.

It wasn't his choice. His family was moving—far enough that he wouldn't be able to visit. He tried to act like it didn't bother him, like it was just another adventure. But Ryen could see it. The lie in his smile.

"I'll come back one day," Seid said.

"You won't," Sally replied bluntly.

Seid forced a laugh. "Yeah. Maybe not."

And just like that, he was gone.

Sally stayed for a while longer. But something in her changed after Seid left. She grew quieter. Meaner. The sharpness in her words became a wall, one even Ryen couldn't break through.

Then, one day, she was gone too.

Ryen didn't know all the details. He only knew that her father was a terrible man, and that her mother had left, and that something had happened. Something bad enough that Sally's grandmother took her away—far away.

She didn't say goodbye.

And just like that, Ryen was alone.

He had always been different. Always stood apart from others. But with Seid and Sally, he had never felt truly alone.

Now, the silence was unbearable.

For the first time in his life, he felt something close to anger. Not the kind that exploded outward, not the kind that lashed out at others. It was a quiet, suffocating thing.

He had understood them. He had accepted them. He had never asked them to be different, had never judged them for their flaws. And in return, they had left him.

Not by choice. Not because they wanted to.

But they left.

And Ryen was left with the uncomfortable truth—understanding people didn't mean you could keep them.

It was a lesson he wouldn't forget.

A lesson that, in time, would shape him into something else.

Something colder.

Something stronger.

Because kindness meant nothing if the world didn't care.

And Ryen was starting to think that maybe—just maybe—he shouldn't care either.