A Parent

The sun had risen slowly that morning, as if reluctant to touch the earth. A thin veil of clouds softened its light, casting the village in gentle hues of blue and gold. The sea was still. Birds called in low, sleepy tones from the trees near the cliffs. It was the kind of morning where seemingly nothing could go wrong.

Kaien sat on the porch steps, knees drawn up to his chest, watching dew slide from the tips of the grass.

Maren's house creaked behind him—quiet domestic sounds, the groan of old floorboards, the clink of clay mugs, the soft breath of a woman rising with the day.

She joined him a few minutes later, wrapped in a faded shawl, a mug of tea steaming in her hands. She didn't say anything at first. Just sat beside him, shoulders just close enough to touch but not quite.

"Morning's slower now," she said eventually.

Kaien didn't look away from the horizon. "Is that good or bad?"

Maren smiled behind her mug. "I haven't decided yet."

They sat in comfortable silence. Kaien didn't speak much unless something needed to be said. Maren had learned to let his silences speak for themselves.

"You've grown a little," she said after a while.

He blinked, then looked down at his legs. "Maybe."

"You have. I can tell by how the sleeves don't fit anymore. You're stretching out of your skin like it doesn't want to keep up."

Kaien gave a ghost of a smile. "That's just because you don't sew fast enough."

Maren laughed—a short, warm sound that startled a crow from above.

"Smart mouth," she said, nudging him gently with her shoulder.

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Later that morning, they left the village together. The trees were still damp from the night's breath, and the earth smelled rich with life. Maren carried a basket on one hip, and Kaien walked beside her, not quite touching, but never far.

They were looking for herbs—a slow task, but one Maren insisted on doing herself.

"You could stay home and read," she told him.

"I read better after walking," Kaien replied.

She didn't argue.

The forest thinned near the western ridge, giving way to sun-dappled moss and stone. Maren crouched low near a patch of wild sage, fingers brushing through the green. 

"My son used to hate the smell of sage," she said quietly.

Kaien paused, tilting his head. "You don't talk about him often."

"No," she agreed. "I don't."

He didn't press her. But she went on.

"He was loud. Always moving. His feet barely touched the ground. Drove me mad most days."

She smiled at the memory, though it cracked at the edges.

"After he was gone, the silence was worse. At first, I hated it. Then I got used to it. Then… I stopped hoping it would end."

Kaien studied her face, the way her eyes didn't quite look at anything.

"Do I remind you of him?" he asked.

Maren looked at him then, surprised. "No. Not even a little."

Kaien nodded slowly, as if this confirmed something he'd already suspected.

"You're nothing like him," she said again, softer this time. "But that's not bad."

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They returned home in the late afternoon, the basket half full. Maren moved more slowly than usual. Kaien noticed the way her hand trembled slightly when she turned the door handle, the way her breath caught when she sat down.

He said nothing. But he made her tea without being asked, and folded her shawl neatly over the back of her chair.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as he moved.

"You take care of me too much," she murmured.

"You took care of me first."

"That's not how it works, Kaien. I'm supposed to be the parent." She laughed.

He tilted his head, then returned to stirring the tea. "What if we both are?"

Maren didn't answer that. But when he brought her the cup, her fingers lingered on his just a little longer than usual.

That evening, the fire crackled low in the hearth. Kaien sat cross-legged on the floor, drawing spirals in the dust with a bit of burnt wood. Maren sat nearby, combing her hair with slow, thoughtful strokes.

"Do you ever wonder where you came from?" she asked suddenly.

Kaien didn't look up. "Yes."

"Do you ever want to know?"

He paused. "Sometimes. But, for some reason, I think I'm supposed to wait."

"Wait for what?"

"I don't know yet. But it doesn't feel ready. Almost like a book I'm not supposed to open."

Maren chuckled softly. "You and your books."

She reached over, brushing a lock of his hair away from his eyes. For once, he didn't flinch.

"You've always been gentle, Kaien. Even when you may seem unkind."

He looked at her then, searching her face.

"Is that good?"

"It's rare, is what it is." She smiled.

They ate dinner in comfortable quiet. After, Kaien cleaned the dishes while Maren hummed an old song from her youth—one he'd never heard before. He didn't ask what it was. He just listened.

When the house was dark, and the moon hung silver and strange over the sea, Maren stood in the doorway of Kaien's room.

"You know," she said, "I won't always be here."

Kaien looked up from his bed. "I know."

She leaned against the frame, her eyes shadowed. "You'll be alright, though. Won't you?"

"I will learn to be."

Maren smiled, faint and tired. "You always say the right thing. Even when you don't mean it."

She crossed the room and brushed her fingers through his hair again. This time, he reached up and held her hand in place.

It surprised her. It surprised him too.

"Thank you," he suddenly said.

"For what?"

"For staying. For making it feel like this is where I belong." Kaien had observed and watched her throughout the years, always silently grateful for what she had done for him. It wasn't until just now that he realized she deserved to hear him give his thanks for all her blessings. 

Maren sat on the edge of the bed, quiet.

"You do belong," she whispered. "And you always will. No matter what comes."

She kissed his forehead, stood, and walked back into the dark.

Kaien lay awake for a long time.

The world outside was silent. But he could feel the wind shifting. Not with sound. Not with pressure.

Just… with change.

Something was coming. He didn't know what.

But the threads had begun to shift.

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Maren stood quietly in the kitchen, watching the last of the fire's glow fade into the coals. The house had settled into stillness. She could hear Kaien's soft breath through the thin wall between their rooms, even and calm, flowing like the tide.

She ran a hand along the table, grazing her fingertips against the worn wood. There were no sharp edges left. Everything had been smoothed down by time and use. 

She thought of how small Kaien had been when she first pulled him from the sea—how impossibly silent, how wide his eyes were. But not afraid. Just... aware.

She'd thought at the time that she had rescued him.

But more and more, she wondered if he had been the one to rescue her.

He wasn't like other children. She'd known that early on. The way he observed everything. The way he moved only when he needed to. The way he listened.

And yet, he had never made her feel small. He was never cruel. Never cold.

He was strange, yes. But his strangeness had never made her love him less.

She poured herself a final cup of tea and took a seat by the window. She watched outside as the waves whispered across the shore, the same as every night before.

Maren took a slow sip, closed her eyes, and smiled to herself.

"Although I could never assume how unique you truly are, you're growing beautifully, Kaien," she said softly to no one. "And I'm so proud."