I used to drift in silence.
Not the kind you hear at night in a quiet home, but the deeper kind—the silence found at the bottom of oceans. A stillness too wide to measure, too ancient to name. It wrapped around me like the skin of the world, heavy and eternal.
And then—light.Hands pulling me from the dark.Voices I did not recognize, but somehow trusted.
I never forgot who I was.I only buried it.
Now I wake in a little room made of wood and sunlight. The walls creak gently when the wind presses against them. There is always something warm cooking in the kitchen—something that smells of herbs and salt. And laughter. Always laughter.
Salah rises early to prepare the fishing nets. He whistles sometimes—loud and off-key. He says I'm the quietest child he's ever known. I don't tell him that I've had entire centuries of quiet. I just smile and help him roll the ropes.
Xena moves more slowly now. Her belly is round, full of life. I watch her closely—every step, every breath. Not because I'm afraid, but because I'm curious. This world builds life in such strange, beautiful ways.
Sometimes she winces when she stands. I am always nearby to offer a hand.
"You're growing faster than I expected," she teases, patting my head. "Soon you'll be taller than Salah."
I don't answer. She knows I don't talk much.
She doesn't mind.
I've learned the rhythm of this home: morning chores, midday rest, evening stories. Sometimes I sit outside and listen to the birds. Other times I help Xena in the garden, or watch Salah fix things with too much effort. He doesn't like to admit he's not good with tools, but I see his hands fumble with the wood.
I could fix it in seconds.
But I don't.
Because he likes to be useful.And I… I like to watch people try.
One afternoon, Xena lets me rest my hand on her stomach. The baby moves beneath it—twice. She laughs, surprised.
"He knows you," she says.
I tilt my head. I don't answer, but I feel it too. Not in my skin, but somewhere deeper. A thread, maybe. Something binding me to what's coming. To who is coming.
The child doesn't speak yet, of course. But there is something strong there. Like a spark waiting for fire.
Sometimes I wonder if this is why I returned.Not to fight.Not to rule.But to witness.
At night, I lie in the grass behind the house. I watch the stars and try to remember the names of the constellations from long ago. I used to know them all. Now they feel like shadows—flickering just beyond reach.
I hear Xena's laughter through the window. Salah is telling her another one of his impossible fishing stories. I think he adds an extra meter to the fish every time.
I close my eyes and imagine what it would have been like to grow up like this. To be born in a small village. To chase chickens, fall in the mud, cry over scraped knees.
I never had that.
I was born in a war.
But now—here—I am someone else.
Just a boy.
One morning, after a long night of rain, Salah takes me down to the beach. The sea is crashing hard against the rocks. He stands there with his hands on his hips, staring at the broken dock.
"I swear this thing hates me."
I offer to help. Quietly, without words. He just shakes his head and ruffles my hair.
"Nah. You just keep me company."
So I do.
We spend the morning pulling driftwood and tying new planks. I don't use my strength, even though it hums beneath my skin. Instead, I copy Salah's movements—clumsy, careful, imperfect.
It feels… honest.
Later, while Xena naps, I sit beside her and listen to her breathing. It is slower now. Heavier. She stirs and reaches out, thinking I am Salah.
Her hand finds mine.
Her fingers curl around it.
"You're always there," she whispers, still half asleep.
I don't answer.
But I stay until she drifts off again.
Sometimes I dream.
In the dream, I stand on a battlefield made of black stone and shattered glass. The sky is torn open. There are voices—millions of them—crying out at once. And I am not a child there. I am light and fury, bones made of power, hair made of flame. I raise my hand, and the sea splits in two.
I always wake before the end.
Every time, I am back in this little room. Safe. Small. Human.
I don't know how long this peace will last. I can feel something tugging at its edges—a whisper on the wind, a flicker in the sky. But here, I have Xena's hand. Salah's laughter. A tiny life growing slowly in the next room.
So I will wait.
I will stay.
I will protect this peace for as long as it allows me.
Because even if I was made to destroy, I have learned something they never taught me in the old day:
You can be strong and gentle.You can be born again—and choose love over power.
And maybe…just maybe…that is what I was always meant to do.