“He’s awake,” the woman whispered, her voice trembling.
“Thank god” the man said, his voice cracking. “Our boy is alive.”
The frail 10-year-old boy blinked as his eyes fluttered open, his head spinning. He was lying in a small bed, the blanket scratchy and faded, its edges frayed from years of use. The room around him was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a flickering candle on a nearby wooden table. The walls of the tiny room were rough, made of stone and timber, with a patch of fabric covering a window, blocking the outside world from his view.
His mind was a blank slate, a void of memories, and he couldn’t even recall his own name. The voices of the man and woman filled the space around him, but the words didn’t make sense. They spoke in a language he couldn’t understand, and it frightened him. A deep feeling of loss washed over him—of being adrift in an unfamiliar world with no anchor, no sense of identity. Who were these people? Why was he here?
He shifted slightly, trying to sit up, his body weak and stiff. Every movement felt as though it took all his energy. The man, with kind but worried eyes, reached out to gently help him. “Take it easy, son. You’ve been through a lot.”
The boy looked at them, trying to make sense of what they were saying, but all that rose within him was a sense of confusion. Nothing felt right, nothing made sense. His head throbbed, his body felt foreign to him, and the confusion was suffocating.
His father took a deep breath and bent down, speaking softly, as though to himself more than the boy. “We thought we’d lost you, my son. But you’re strong, you’re a fighter. You’ve always been a fighter. Like your father”
His father's voice caught slightly as he continued. "Even when the healer said you wouldn’t survive this fever … we watched helplessly as it took its toll on your frail body. But you proved them wrong. You fought with every ounce of strength you had, and you came back to us."
A flicker of emotion passed over his face, his rugged features softening. "So don’t forget that, you’ve been through worse. Whatever life throws at you, you’ll overcome it"
As the boy struggled to piece together fragments of the past, flashes of memories began to flicker in his mind like faint echoes as if they belong to someone else, from another life and in another world. Each image struck him with a jarring intensity, sending sharp pangs of pain through his head. He saw flashes of lights on a screen, followed by rows of numbers scrolling rapidly. Then, a haunting vision of a man in his twenties being stabbed filled his mind. The pain in his head became unbearable, as if his skull might crack under the weight of these disjointed recollections.
Noticing his distress, his mother’s worried eyes softened as she reached out, pulling him into a protective embrace. She whispered soothing words he couldn’t understand, her tone laced with both fear and comfort. Gently, she guided him back down onto the bed, urging him to rest. Though the language was foreign, the boy somehow understood her intention—she wanted him to sleep, to find peace from the turmoil within his mind. Reluctantly, he closed his eyes, letting her warmth lull him into an uneasy rest
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