The sound of running water still filled the air, soft and steady like a stream weaving through a quiet valley at dawn. The gentle rhythm echoed faintly against the wooden walls of the kitchen, blending with the silence in a way that made the whole room feel alive yet peaceful.
Morning sunlight poured through the wide, dust-covered windows, falling across the cracked wooden walls and worn stone floor. The beams of light stretched long and golden, illuminating the drifting dust that floated lazily in the air like glimmering motes suspended in time. They turned slowly, shimmering like pollen caught in a breeze, and the entire room seemed wrapped in a tranquil glow.
The air smelled faintly of soap, warm bread, and the faint smokiness of fried bacon — scents that belonged wholly to morning, to a home filled with quiet care. It was an atmosphere that could ease even the most restless of hearts, a peace that lingered in every breath.
From across the room, a gentle voice spoke — warm, kind, and carrying the softness of sunlight filtering through clouds.
"Oh, good morning, Asfinne. How was your breakfast?"
Her voice was melodic, touched with warmth that seemed to melt into the morning air itself. As she spoke, a faint smile lifted her lips — one so gentle it could soften even the hardest heart. That smile, calm and sincere, glowed with the warmth of a hearth fire on a cold winter morning.
She stood near the wooden counter, her sleeves rolled up neatly to her elbows, her hands still holding a damp cloth she used to wipe the table. The sunlight caught in her hair — a soft brown brushed with gold — making it shimmer as if it held threads of sunlight itself.
She was Mira Elseth, the caretaker of the orphanage, the woman everyone here called Mother. She had lived within these walls longer than anyone else — a figure both nurturing and quietly strong, who carried warmth wherever she walked.
Her eyes reflected patience and understanding, shaped by years of tending to the children who had no one else. There was no sharpness in her expression, only calm affection and quiet wisdom.
Asfinne hesitated for a heartbeat before replying. He wasn't one to speak much; his words always carried a sense of seriousness, even when they were simple. Yet his tone, though quiet, always bore an unmistakable honesty — the kind that came from someone who meant every word he said.
He exhaled softly, his lips curving into a faint smile.
"Your breakfast was really good, Miss Mira," he said finally, his voice steady and polite. "The flavor was perfect — the eggs were cooked just right, soft and warm, the yolk still creamy without being too runny. The bacon was crisp, but not too hard, and the bread was soft inside with a slightly toasted crust. The jam's sweetness balanced it all perfectly. It was… a wonderful start to the morning."
His words were spoken simply but with remarkable precision — not flattery, but genuine thought. Each description carried weight, as if he had taken the time to notice every detail. His tone wasn't loud, but the sincerity in it made the words ring with quiet truth.
Mira blinked once, then laughed softly — a small, melodic laugh that seemed to fill the kitchen with warmth. Her laughter was light and airy, like the sound of a small bell chiming in the distance on a foggy morning.
Her smile deepened, her eyes glimmering with affection as she replied,
"I'm glad to hear that."
It was a simple answer, yet filled with so much genuine joy that it made the moment brighter. There was a softness in her face that only years of caring for others could create — a mixture of pride, love, and peace.
Asfinne looked at her quietly. Something inside his chest felt lighter, as though her smile had reached inside him and untied a knot he hadn't noticed before. The warmth of the kitchen, the sunlight, her kindness — all of it blended together into a comfort deeper than words.
But more than that — he realized something else.
Mira wasn't scolding him.
She wasn't bringing up the one thing he thought she surely would — the fact that he had snuck out of the city the night before to train behind the mountains. He had broken the rules. He had risked being caught, risked his safety, and worried everyone at the orphanage. He had half-expected her to frown, to sigh, to remind him of the dangers.
But she didn't.
She said nothing of it. Her face held no disappointment, no anger. Only calm understanding. The kind that said I already know, without ever needing to say a word.
It wasn't that she didn't care — quite the opposite. It was because she understood. She understood that he wasn't reckless out of rebellion. He was trying — striving — to be better. To reach something beyond what he was given. And even if she worried, she also respected that quiet fire burning inside him.
That realization made his chest tighten in a way that wasn't painful — it was gratitude. Gratitude mixed with guilt, and something softer.
The sunlight from the window fell across Mira's face as she moved again, folding the cleaning cloth neatly in her hands. Then, she spoke once more, her tone light but firm — the way only a caretaker's voice could be when reminding a child of his responsibilities.
"It's almost time for assembly," she said. "Don't forget to come to the main hall."
Her words drifted gently across the kitchen, yet they carried quiet authority.
At once, Asfinne straightened a little. In his mind, he could already see it — the great hall of the orphanage. It stood in the center of the building, its tall wooden beams supporting a high ceiling that had long since lost its shine. The floorboards creaked underfoot, but they were always spotless, polished by countless small hands. Rows of benches filled the space, where the children would gather every morning for announcements, lessons, or shared meals.
The thought of it brought a faint smile to his face. That hall wasn't grand or luxurious, but it was the heart of their world — a place of belonging.
He nodded slowly, strands of his golden hair glinting softly as he did. His blue eyes reflected the warm sunlight, calm and resolute.
"Understood," he said. "I'll be there soon. See you later, Miss Mira."
His voice was polite, his tone unwavering. Though he didn't speak loudly, the sincerity behind his words carried through the room.
Mira's smile returned, her eyes softening further. She didn't say anything more, but her gaze followed him quietly as he turned and made his way toward the door. Her expression was one of gentle pride — the same look a mother gives her child as he begins to stand on his own.
The sound of Asfinne's footsteps echoed faintly against the stone floor. Each step grew softer until it faded completely beyond the hallway.
Silence fell again. The faint murmur of the breeze slipping through the window replaced it, making the curtains sway gently. The kitchen smelled faintly of soap and the remnants of breakfast — eggs, toast, and a trace of lavender that always lingered in the air when Mira was nearby.
She turned toward the window, resting her hand lightly on the sill. Her eyes wandered past the glass, where the world outside glowed under the soft light of morning.
Beyond the orphanage, the village stirred to life. Thin trails of gray smoke rose from chimneys. The distant chatter of townsfolk floated on the breeze. Horses' hooves clopped faintly against cobblestone, and the metallic clang of a blacksmith's hammer echoed from somewhere farther off.
Mira's gaze softened. She could see the rooftops of small houses, the pale mist that lingered between them, and the faint shimmer of sunlight catching the dew still clinging to the leaves of trees surrounding the orphanage grounds.
The warmth of the morning washed over her face as she stood there quietly, lost in her thoughts.
Then, she smiled faintly to herself — a wistful smile touched by memory.
"That boy…" she murmured softly, her voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind. "He's just like his father."
Her words faded into the still air, almost as if she hadn't spoken them aloud.
Meanwhile, Asfinne walked down the quiet hallway beyond the kitchen. His hands still felt slightly damp from washing the dishes, and the faint scent of soap lingered on his fingers. Each breath he took carried the smell of warm wood and sunlight.
The building was old, and the creak of the floorboards accompanied him as he moved. But it wasn't an empty sound — it was familiar, comforting. The orphanage had been his home for as long as he could remember. Every wall, every step, every scent carried a memory.
He walked slowly, his thoughts drifting. Mira's smile replayed in his mind, and he couldn't help but feel the lingering warmth it left behind. She hadn't needed to say much; her silence had said everything already.
He knew she worried. He knew she probably stayed up the previous night waiting for him to return. And yet, when she saw him this morning, there was no anger — only relief and quiet understanding.
He exhaled softly. The air was cool in the hallway, the faint breeze carrying the scent of the forest that surrounded the orphanage. As he passed a window, a ray of sunlight brushed against his cheek, and for a moment, everything felt still.
He didn't know what awaited him at the morning assembly — perhaps just another ordinary day, perhaps not. But it didn't matter. Because in that moment, with Mira's words still lingering in his ears, he felt something he hadn't in a long while: peace.
It wasn't born of magic or strength or success. It came from something simpler — the quiet, enduring care of someone who believed in him.
And as he walked toward the hall, each step felt a little lighter than the last.