I never expected to find true warmth or a sense of belonging in a modest cottage on the outskirts of a tiny village, yet here I am—propped up on a simple wooden stool, a bowl of steaming porridge in my hands, and a faint smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I can’t help but think how bizarre it is that I’m finally starting to feel at home in a world I knew nothing about just a short while ago.

A House of Kindness

Mari—the woman who found me half-dead in the dirt—officially welcomed me into her home. She’d already been caring for me like a mother, but in the days after she nursed me back to health, she made it clear that I was free to stay. Her exact words, pieced together from the language lessons she’d been giving me, were something like: “This is your home if you wish it to be.” The gravity of those words weighed on my heart; I’d never had someone offer me so much without any strings attached.

The cottage itself is small, barely enough space for two people, but Mari insists we’ll make do. One corner is devoted to a short-legged table strewn with papers and ink—her makeshift “office” for lesson planning. The rest of the room has meager furnishings: a worn shelf of books, a couple of rough chairs, and a small, smoky fireplace that provides warmth and a place to cook simple meals. There’s a single window that lets in rays of early morning sunlight, revealing motes of dust dancing in the air.

I sleep on a straw mattress pushed against the far wall, beneath a thin blanket that’s missing a few patches. She sleeps on a similarly humble bedding arrangement on the opposite side, though I suspect hers is even more worn than mine—by choice. She’s that kind of person: always giving me the better portion, the larger bowl of stew, the thicker blanket. I argue about it sometimes, feeling guilty, but she just waves a hand and tells me, in her gentle but firm manner, that I’m still recovering.

At first, I couldn’t bring myself to call her “Mother.” It felt… disloyal to some part of me I couldn’t quite define, as if admitting to a parent here would sever all ties to my old life. But Mari doesn’t push. She never pressures me to address her a certain way. She simply cares for me in every practical sense—cooking, teaching, sheltering—and a deeper, emotional sense, too: listening to my struggles with this new language, soothing my nightmares when they jolt me awake at night.

Little by little, our bond grows.

First Lessons in a New World

When I was finally strong enough to walk around without wobbling, Mari brought me to a small clearing beside the cottage where a makeshift clothesline hung. She had several of her older students—a handful of local kids—gathered there, papers in hand. I watched them chatter and giggle, occasionally glancing in my direction with curiosity. My throat tightened; I was nervous. I’d never exactly been the new kid in a medieval village class before.

Mari introduced me to them, speaking slowly so I could catch her words. I mustered a shy wave. Most responded with polite nods. A few looked uncertain—maybe because of my strange accent, or because they’d heard rumors that Mari had taken in a half-dead orphan who had stumbled out of nowhere. Still, no one was openly hostile, and that was a relief.

“Come,” Mari urged, leading me to a bench near the line of firewood stacked against the cottage wall. “We learn together.” She repeated her words in different ways until I understood: I was to join her class.

Despite how anxious I was, a spark of excitement flickered inside me. My prior life had been drowned in adult responsibilities—taxes, jobs, rent—yet here I was, being offered a fresh start at learning in a simpler environment. I sat with the other kids, trying to mimic their posture, their attentiveness, even the way they held their writing quills. They laughed when I fumbled, but not unkindly.

Mari’s lessons began with the basics. She showed me letters—oddly familiar yet distinctly different from any alphabet I’d known. She patiently guided my hand to form each character with a piece of charcoal on a scrap of paper. Over and over, she’d gently correct my stroke until I got it right. Her presence behind me was steady and reassuring, reminding me of a caretaker teaching a toddler to walk.

And bit by bit, I learned. I began to recognize signs, words, phrases. She taught me simple greetings and the proper way to address elders. In a village like this, manners mattered—respect for older farmers, for the village chief, for the traveling merchant who occasionally passed by. It was a lot to take in, but Mari never lost patience.

The Rhythm of Daily Life

Before long, I settled into a daily routine—arguably more structured and pleasant than the corporate grind I’d once endured. Mornings started early. Mari would wake me before dawn, and we’d head outside to fetch water from the well. It was cold at that hour, and I’d shiver in my threadbare clothes, but she’d always give me a comforting smile. After breakfast (often plain porridge or stale bread dipped in broth), the children of the village would gather. We’d sit for reading and writing lessons in the open air, or sometimes we’d cram ourselves into Mari’s cottage if the weather threatened rain.

Afternoons varied. Sometimes Mari would teach basic arithmetic: how to measure crops, count coin, and tally harvests. Other times, she’d lead a small group of older students in reading old texts from her cherished bookshelf—texts about local history and legends. I’d listen with rapt attention, picking up words and phrases as quickly as I could, trying to piece together the puzzle of this new world.

One thing that came up often in these stories was the looming threat of demons. At first, I thought it was just folklore or superstition—like how my old world had myths of dragons or evil spirits. But the way Mari spoke about it, the way the children’s faces grew solemn, I realized it was more than bedtime stories. These “demons” had been terrorizing distant villages for years, maybe decades. Some texts hinted at a long-standing conflict between humankind and these monstrous entities. It was a sobering topic, especially given how peaceful and humble our village seemed on the surface.

More Than Teacher and Student

As the days turned into weeks, my bond with Mari went beyond just teacher and student—or landlady and tenant. She’d noticed my nightmares, for instance. Almost every night, I’d bolt upright in bed, a silent scream stuck in my throat, sweat drenching my shirt. Flashes of my old life—crowded subways, flickering office lights, the moment of blacking out on the train—haunted me. There were also new nightmares: images of twisted creatures lurking in the dark, things I’d never even known existed. Each time, Mari would rise from her own makeshift bed and cross the room. She’d kneel beside me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, murmuring soothing words in her language. Even if I couldn’t decipher her exact phrases, the tone was unmistakable: I’m here. You’re safe.

She never pried into the details of my dreams, but she offered a silent acceptance of my trauma. Somehow, that was enough. Those nights, with her beside me, I realized how far I’d come from the lonely desperation of wandering the forest. I still didn’t call her “Mother,” yet I felt an emotional kinship forming—something I hadn’t felt since I was a child in my old world.

The Best Meal

One day, Mari announced we’d have a “special dinner.” She’d been saving up for it, she said, though I couldn’t imagine how. I often saw her counting her meager coins, lips pressed tight in concentration. As far as I could tell, her teacher’s pay was practically nonexistent—she taught mostly out of goodwill, relying on small donations of food or coin from grateful parents. Yet she insisted on celebrating.

When evening came, she presented a steaming pot of stew—richer and thicker than anything I’d ever seen her cook. It had chunks of root vegetables, bits of dried meat, and even a dash of fragrant herbs. The aroma filled the cottage in a way that made my stomach rumble embarrassingly loud. We shared it at the low table, each spoonful a little bite of heaven in an otherwise austere life.

“Why?” I asked as best I could in her language, between spoonfuls. “Why special?”

Her smile widened. She tapped her chest and then pointed at me. In halting words, she explained that it was a small celebration—because I was healthy now, and because I was, in her eyes, officially part of her family. She’d do this for any milestone: a student learning to read their first paragraph flawlessly, a harvest festival, or a personal event she found worth rejoicing. For a moment, my throat felt tight. No one had ever bothered to mark my achievements so kindly before, and certainly not a surrogate mother I’d met under such desperate circumstances.

I choked back tears, wanting to show gratitude. So I did something that felt both awkward and deeply meaningful: I reached out and took her hand, giving it a small squeeze. My words were clumsy, but I managed, “Thank you…Mother.”

She froze, just for a second, her eyes brimming with an emotion I couldn’t fully place—was it joy? Relief? Maybe both. Then she squeezed back. A moment later, we returned to our stew, conversation resuming, but the atmosphere felt warmer than any hearth fire could provide. In that instant, something shifted. We weren’t just teacher and pupil anymore, nor housemates. We were, in some ineffable way, family.