A Name and a Place

I still struggled with what to call myself in this new world. My old name never quite fit the language here, and I had no proof of who I was. The villagers sometimes called me “Mari’s boy,” or the “lost child.” One evening, Mari showed me a little book of common names in this region—something she used to help illiterate parents pick names for newborns or teach children how to spell.

She asked, in her gentle manner, if I wanted to choose one. My heart pounded with both excitement and trepidation. Wasn’t picking a new name akin to saying goodbye to my old identity? Yet, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I was living a new life—maybe it was time I had a name that belonged in it.

We pored over the pages, reading each name’s meaning as best we could decipher. Finally, one caught my eye, something that sounded strong yet simple. I tested the syllables on my tongue. It felt foreign, but not unwelcome. Mari tilted her head, awaiting my decision.

“Yes,” I said in her language, nodding. “I’ll be…this name.” She nodded, pleased, and repeated it back to me, committing it to memory. I felt a curious sense of relief—like I had taken a step forward, away from the ghost of my old life and into something that was truly my own.

From that day on, the villagers started calling me by my chosen name, and for the first time since coming here, I felt a flicker of pride. A name meant belonging. And if I was Mari’s son, officially or not, I wanted to carry a name that fit this world.

Facing Village Gossip

Not everyone in the village looked upon our newfound bond with kindness. Some villagers—particularly the older, more traditional ones—were suspicious. Rumors circulated: “He came out of nowhere. How can she trust him?” or “She can barely feed herself; how will she feed another mouth?” Others muttered about me being a foreigner or an outcast. Some even hinted that Mari’s generosity bordered on foolishness.

Mari never confronted them directly. She greeted them each morning with the same calm respect she showed everyone, focusing on teaching their children to read and write. Whenever a biting remark reached her ears, she’d simply give a polite smile and continue about her day. If I seemed upset, she’d pat my shoulder, reminding me in soft tones that not everyone understands kindness the same way.

Still, it hurt. I’d spent much of my previous life battling feelings of insignificance. I didn’t want to be a burden here, too. Some evenings, I’d find myself slumping by the doorway, watching Mari pace back and forth as she tidied up her papers, trying to think of ways I could contribute. Could I gather more firewood? Repair the leaky roof? Find odd jobs for spare coins?

One late afternoon, as I carried a bucket of water from the well, a pair of women whispered loudly about how “that boy” was likely a bad omen. My hands clenched around the bucket’s handle. By the time I made it back to the cottage, my chest was tight with frustration. Mari noticed.

Without a word, she guided me inside. We sat by the fireplace. I tried explaining—halting, broken phrases—how their gossip bothered me, how I worried about her reputation. She listened with an empathetic gaze, then took my hand in hers and spoke earnestly: “In time, they will see. We show them…through goodness.” She used simple words so I’d understand clearly. “No one changes minds with anger. Show heart, be patient.”

I exhaled, letting her words sink in. I realized she was right. And so I made a promise to myself that I would prove my worth—by helping others, by studying diligently, by treating them with the same kindness Mari had shown me.

Uncovering the World’s Shadows

As the weeks passed, I noticed more details about this world—and they weren’t all pleasant. Merchants came to the village, sometimes bringing news of distant towns that had been attacked or razed by demons. The descriptions varied: some said the demons resembled beasts with fiery eyes, others spoke of winged creatures with razor-sharp claws. Regardless of the specifics, the weight of fear settled on everyone’s shoulders.

In class, Mari addressed it carefully. She’d explain basic safety measures: how the villagers should huddle together in case of danger, how the town watch (a handful of able-bodied men) practiced with spears and bows. But behind the children’s wide eyes was a collective sense of dread. Even I, who had known wars and conflicts in my old world only through news broadcasts or history books, felt a chill at the thought of monstrous beings that might show up without warning.

One evening, we heard distant howling that made the hairs on my neck stand on end. Mari glanced at me, her expression briefly troubled, but she maintained composure. She simply double-checked that our door was barred and patted the side of a rickety cupboard where she kept some sort of defensive tool—a wooden staff and a small dagger. An uneasy reassurance, but reassurance nonetheless.

Learning Through Love

Amidst these darker realities, my bond with Mari continued to deepen. She took me to gather herbs in the fields, teaching me which plants had medicinal properties. If a child in the village got a cut or a fever, Mari was often the first to check on them. Watching her, I realized she was more than just a schoolteacher—she was a nurturer for the entire community, offering care and knowledge to anyone in need.

I tried to emulate her, in my own small ways. When we finished lessons in the afternoon, I’d help her tidy up, carefully stacking papers and cleaning the ink brushes. Sometimes I’d fetch water or chop vegetables for stew. It was menial work, but it felt good to contribute—to lighten her load even just a little.

Every night, she’d sit with me to review letters and numbers, repeating them until I could recite them in my sleep. She’d test me on the names of local plants, animals, and village landmarks. Whenever I made a mistake, she corrected me gently, never out of impatience or frustration. The tenderness in her eyes as she guided my hand over the pages was something I cherished. It made me want to excel, just to see her proud smile.

More and more, I called her “Mother” without hesitation. At first, the word felt foreign on my tongue, tinged with guilt over the family I’d left behind in my old world—memories I only vaguely recalled. But each time I said it, she lit up with quiet joy, and eventually, it became as natural as breathing. I realized that while I’d lost one life, I had gained a new family—one bound not by blood, but by compassion and shared hope.

From Nothing to Son

Time can pass strangely when you’re immersed in daily life. I often woke at dawn, surprised at how comfortable I felt in this once-alien world. There was always the faint hum of anxiety about demons, about poverty, about sickness, but also a consistent undercurrent of warmth in Mari’s cottage.

One crisp morning, I found a small note beside my straw bed. In the local script—written in Mari’s careful hand—it read: “You have come so far. I am proud.” Those words caught me off guard. It might have been the simplest encouragement, but in that moment, I felt a tear slip down my cheek. Nobody in my old life had praised me quite like this, with such unadorned sincerity.

I looked across the room, and there she was—Mari, tying her hair back in its usual braid, smiling softly as she caught my reaction. I carefully folded the note and tucked it into the pocket of my tunic, silently vowing to keep it forever.

It dawned on me that I’d arrived here with nothing—no home, no real identity, no resources. Yet now, I had something: a place to sleep, a community (albeit a cautious one), an education in progress, and most importantly, a mother who truly cared for me. I’d gone from “nobody” to “somebody’s son,” and that transition felt more significant than any job promotion or salary raise I’d experienced in my previous life.

The Next Chapter

One evening, after the children had gone home and the sun was dipping low in the sky, Mari and I sat by the fire. The day’s lesson had been about local geography—rivers, mountains, and borders of nearby kingdoms. My head still buzzed with the flood of new information.

Mari sipped from a small cup of herbal tea, her expression thoughtful. “Soon,” she said, searching for the right words in my presence, “we learn new things…bigger things.” She made a sweeping gesture as if to encompass the entire world outside our little village. I sensed an undercurrent of seriousness in her voice.

I nodded, understanding that there was so much more out there—demons, other lands, perhaps even magic. A sliver of excitement welled up. I didn’t know what tomorrow held. But for the first time in either of my lives, I felt ready to face it head-on, bolstered by the unwavering love of a mother who had nothing—and yet, who had given me everything.

I glanced across the room at the meager shelves, the flickering shadows cast by our one lantern, and my heart overflowed with gratitude. I was no longer alone. I wasn’t just an orphaned wanderer or a man reborn into a strange world. I was her son.

And in that realization lay a quiet but profound truth: from absolute nothingness, I’d discovered a purpose worth living for—and, in time, perhaps a reason to protect this world that had adopted me.