The sun was a golden coin rolling lazily across the blue sky when Oisla Faverish tore across the meadow, laughter spilling from his lips like music. At thirteen, Oisla carried an energy that seemed endless—a boy born of wind and grass, forever running, forever chasing something just beyond his reach.
"Catch me if you can!" he shouted, his bare feet pounding the soft earth as his friends gave chase. Their laughter rang through the countryside, echoing against the distant hills. Dust swirled at their heels, and the scent of wildflowers filled the summer air.
"Not fair! You're faster!" one of the boys yelled, his voice half frustration, half admiration.
Oisla turned his head just long enough to flash a grin—a grin that spoke of mischief and innocence in equal measure. In that moment, life was nothing but sunlight and play. The world was small, simple, and safe.
They played until the shadows grew long and their throats burned from laughter. Eventually, the calls of mothers carried on the wind, summoning them home for supper. One by one, his friends scattered, until only Oisla remained, sitting under an old oak tree, cheeks flushed and heart pounding.
He stayed there for a moment longer, watching the sky bleed into shades of orange and crimson. He loved this time of day—the hour when everything seemed soft and forgiving, as if the world itself sighed in relief after a hard day of living.
"Boy, there you are!"
The voice broke his thoughts. He looked up to see his father standing by the worn wooden fence that bordered their land. Clad in a sweat-stained shirt and heavy boots, his father looked like a man carved out of the very soil he worked—strong, weathered, and stubbornly alive.
"Come on," his father said, a tired smile tugging at his lips. "Need your hands on the farm before dinner."
Oisla sprang to his feet and jogged over. His father ruffled his hair affectionately before leading him toward the farm. The land stretched wide, dotted with patches of green and gold, the fences like scars etched into the earth. To Oisla, it was home—every corner of it held a memory.
They walked in comfortable silence, broken only by the distant song of crickets and the low murmur of cows. When they reached the barn, his father handed him a small sack of grain.
"Feed the chickens, will you? And make sure the water trough isn't dry."
"Yes, sir."
Oisla loved these moments—not because farm work was fun, but because it made him feel important. Needed. He scattered the grain, watched the chickens rush in a flurry of feathers, and refilled the trough until the water shimmered like glass.
When he was done, he stood still for a moment, breathing in the earthy scent of hay, the sweet sharpness of manure, the rustic heartbeat of the farm.
Everything seemed so normal. So ordinary.
But only for now.
That evening, the Faverish household glowed with warmth. The table groaned under the weight of a hearty dinner—roast chicken, buttery potatoes, fresh bread, and a pot of thick stew that smelled like heaven. The oil lamp flickered gently, casting soft shadows on the wooden walls.
Oisla sat across from his mother, who wore the day's exhaustion like a second skin yet smiled as if joy were her birthright. His younger sister, barely seven, swung her legs under the table and hummed a tune only she seemed to know.
"Eat up, boy," his father said, ladling stew into his bowl. "You'll need the strength tomorrow."
Oisla grinned and obeyed, savoring every bite. He didn't know why, but nights like these always felt special—fragile, as though the happiness might shatter if he held it too tightly.
They talked about small things—the weather, the crops, the stubborn old cow that refused to be milked. Laughter filled the gaps between words, weaving a tapestry of simple, unassuming love.
If someone had asked Oisla then what his life was like, he would have said perfect. Ordinary, maybe, but perfect in the way only childhood can be.
But perfection never lasts.
It was past midnight when the screams came.
Sharp. Shattering. A sound that did not belong to the quiet countryside.
Oisla woke with a jolt, heart thudding, breath caught in his throat. At first, he thought he had dreamed it—but then came another sound. Not a scream this time. A muffled sob.
He slipped out of bed, feet silent on the wooden floor. His parents' room was dark, their breathing deep and even. They hadn't heard. Or maybe they had and chose to ignore it, trusting the night to swallow its own horrors.
But Oisla couldn't.
The sound pulled him like a string, tugging him out the back door, across the cold grass, toward the barn.
And then he saw.
The old wooden door stood ajar, the moonlight spilling inside like spilled milk. And in that pale light—he froze.
A girl.
She couldn't have been much older than him. Her dress was torn, her hair a tangled mess of gold and shadow. She lay motionless on the hay-strewn floor, her eyes wide open, staring at something far beyond this world.
And above her—
No. He couldn't think about it. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
He had seen everything.
Every. Single. Thing.
The shape of the man. The violence. The way life drained from her like water through cracked earth.
And Oisla Faverish, thirteen years old, stood there—silent, trembling, a child carved out of fear and disbelief.
The night swallowed his voice before he could even try to scream.