The graveyard was silent in the soft breath of dawn, broken only by the rustling of dry leaves and the quiet murmur of a boy's prayer.
A boy, no more than ten, knelt alone before a simple mound of earth no marble headstone, only a freshly plucked white lily laid gently at its base. His mother's favorite flower. A weather-worn wooden plank, carved by trembling hands, marked the grave:
Mirae Aetherin.
His mother.
The only arms he had ever called home.
Elyom didn't cry.
Not anymore.
The tears had dried days ago back when he dug her grave himself. Bare hands blistered. Eyes hollow. He hadn't waited for help.
There was no one to wait for.
The villagers came later.
They left offerings. Whispered empty condolences. Words like "kind soul" and "such a tragedy" fell from lips that hadn't spoken to her in years.
None asked Elyom where he would sleep that night.None asked how he would eat.No one offered to stay.
He didn't blame them.
They were poor just like he and his mother had been. Kindness, he'd learned, was often conditional. But his mother's kindness had never been.
Their grief was performative.
And Elyom felt it cold and distant.
He stayed only to say goodbye, because she had taught him to never leave without it.
"I'm sorry I couldn't save you mother," he whispered, placing the lily at her grave."I hope you're not hurting anymore."
He stood, pale and thin, far too small for his age. In his satchel were the last pieces of her he had left:
A faded photograph of the two of them smiling worn soft from being held too many times. Often remind him to smile in the dark times.
Her prayer book, its corners curled with years of use.
A silver locket around his neck her final gift, now his anchor. Holding memories for letting him know he is not alone.
And with that, he turned toward the only place left for boys like him.
The Church.
A haven for the lost.A forge for the faithful.A place cloaked in light though many who entered had only known darkness.
As Elyom approached the church gates, laughter floated through the air.
Children played in the garden, their voices bright and free. They ran barefoot across the stone paths, chasing sunlight, laughter trailing behind them like warmth.
It struck him like sunlight on cold skin.
Warm… but distant.
He knocked.
A young sister answered, her eyes kind.
"Yes, child?"
"My name is Elyom Aetherin. I… I have nowhere else to go."
She paused, then opened the door wider.
"Come. The Father will see you."
As they walked the halls, Elyom watched the other children.
Some scrubbed floors, sleeves rolled and cheeks flushed. Others played quietly. They weren't bound by blood, but by something stronger shared safety, routine, acceptance.
Would we have been happy here, Mama?Would you have laughed with me here?
They stopped before a tall oak door. The sister knocked once and stepped aside.
Inside, Father Caldus sat behind a wide desk of dark wood, parchment and flickering candles crowding its surface. His robes were simple, his gaze weighed down by years.
"Your name?"
"Elyom Aetherin."
The priest frowned slightly, glancing at the open ledger.
"I'm sorry, child. This church is at capacity. I can write to other sanctuaries see if any have space."
Elyom nodded.
No protest. No plea.
Father Caldus murmured a prayer, wrote a letter, and sealed it with wax. With a flick of his fingers, a glowing owl of divine light formed from thin air and flew into the dawn.
"For tonight," he said, "you may stay."
A sister led Elyom to a small washroom. The water was lukewarm but clean. She gave him plain robes and sandals. He scrubbed away days of dirt—the soil of graves, the silence of grief.
Later, he was given a bowl of warm stew and bread.
At a long wooden table, he sat among strangers. Some younger. Some older. Yet for the first time since her passing, he didn't feel invisible.
No one knew his name.No one asked.
But they smiled.
And he smiled back.
There was no warmth like his mother's.
But there was comfort here.
That night, staring at the ceiling above his cot, he whispered a final prayer:
"Don't worry about me, Mama. I'll be okay. You can rest now."
He rose with the sun, as he had every day since she left.
Kneeling before the chapel altar, he pressed his forehead to the cold marble.
He didn't ask for miracles.
Just peace.
And the strength to carry her light forward.
Later that morning, Father Caldus called him in.
A sealed scroll in hand.
"One of the churches replied," he said, gaze unreadable."They've accepted you."
Elyom's heart stirred.
"Where?"
"Near the Darkwood. Beyond the old roads."
Even as he smiled, Father Caldus's expression dimmed with concern.
"You'll find it… different."
Elyom packed his few belongings—the photo, the locket, the prayer book.
And her memory.
Before he left, Father Caldus handed him a small bundle of dried fruit and bread.
"You have a gentle soul, Elyom. Don't let the world twist it."
The journey was long.Quiet.Lonely.
As the carriage passed the edge of the Darkwood, the air thickened.
The trees grew ancient and gnarled, their branches clawing at the sky. Moss blanketed everything. The light dimmed, as if swallowed by the forest.
And somewhere in the back of his mind…
He felt the silence watching him.
The church near the forest was nothing like the one he'd just left.
Tall.
Iron-wrought.
Cold.
A silhouette of stone wrapped in shadows.
Even the forest behind it dark and endless felt more inviting than the building itself.
He knocked.
A middle-aged sister answered. Her expression unreadable.
"You're the new arrival."
"Yes, Sister. Elyom Aetherin."
She nodded once.
"Come."
The halls were dim. Lit only by flickering lanterns that cast long, shifting shadows.
The air was heavy. Still.
The children here didn't speak.
They didn't smile.
They moved like ghosts trained to work in silence.
Elyom's steps slowed.
This place feels wrong, he thought.Empty… even with people.
He was shown to the communal sleeping quarters—gray walls, thin blankets, stiff cots.
Before that, he was given a plain set of robes and a cold wash basin.
Dinner was a bowl of thin, watery stew.
And nothing else.
Before he could speak, the sister gave her instructions:
"You'll meet the Father tomorrow. He will assign your duties. Do not be late."
And then she left.
Elyom sat alone on his cot.
The blanket was heavy.
The silence heavier.
But he didn't cry.
Not this time.
Because he still carried her light.
In his memories.In his voice.In the locket on his chest.
And he wasn't ready to let it die.