The villagers buried them side by side.

  The ground was hard.

  It took longer than it should have.

  Men avoided looking at the boy.

  Women whispered softly.

  Someone placed a rough wooden marker at each mound.

  No names carved.

  Names cost money.

  He stood without moving.

  Snow reflected too much light.

  The world felt brighter than it had any right to be.

  —

  When he returned to the hut alone, the silence was different.

  Before, silence meant listening.

  Now it meant absence.

  The mat where his father once slept lay rolled in the corner.

  His mother’s bowl still sat near the hearth.

  There was a faint crack along its edge from the night she dropped it.

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  He stared at it for a long time.

  Then he sat down.

  No tears.

  No scream.

  Just breathing.

  In.

  Out.

  The air felt heavier without three sets of lungs sharing it.

  —

  Anger came quietly.

  Not a roar.

  A question.

  Why?

  He had done nothing wrong.

  He had tried to be good.

  He had endured beatings.

  He had worked.

  He had prayed.

  His father had sacrificed.

  His mother had been kind.

  So why?

  The question burned hotter than grief.

  His hands clenched slowly.

  Nails pressing into skin.

  If there was something watching—

  If there was some order—

  It was cruel.

  The thought formed fully.

  Clear.

  Dangerous.

  The hut seemed to shrink.

  The air thickened.

  His heartbeat quickened.

  For a brief moment—

  He wanted to hate.

  Hate the cold.

  Hate the healer.

  Hate the sky.

  Hate whatever force decided which child lost everything.

  It would be easy.

  Hatred is warm.

  It fills empty spaces quickly.

  He could let it grow.

  He could promise himself never to care again.

  Never to be soft.

  Never to be kind.

  The world did not reward kindness.

  It buried it.

  His breathing grew uneven.

  Something inside him trembled—

  Not breaking.

  But choosing.

  He remembered her voice.

  You must be kind.

  No matter what the world does.

  The sentence returned like a quiet hand on his shoulder.

  His anger did not disappear.

  But it stopped expanding.

  He unclenched his fists slowly.

  Blood dotted his palm where nails had pierced skin.

  He looked at it.

  Pain.

  Real.

  Immediate.

  Understandable.

  He exhaled.

  Long.

  Controlled.

  “I don’t understand,” he whispered into the empty hut.

  “And I may never understand.”

  The wind outside did not answer.

  The sky did not explain.

  He sat there until dusk.

  The anger remained.

  But it did not become hatred.

  That was the choice.

  No one saw it.

  No cosmic voice acknowledged it.

  But somewhere—

  A thread thinned again.

  And for the first time since his rebirth—

  He felt something subtle beneath the grief.

  Not hope.

  Not strength.

  But direction.

  He stood.

  The hut was empty.

  But he was still alive.

  —

  End of Arc One