The creak of old wood pulled Hunnt from the restless fog of his thoughts.
The door to the small room opened slowly, and a stream of pale morning light spilled across the floor, cutting through the dim shadows like a ribbon of warmth. Dust motes swirled lazily in the air, dancing in the sunbeams, tiny specks of gold suspended in silence. Hunnt's small hands gripped the edge of the rough blanket, knuckles white, heart hammering in his chest.
In the doorway stood an old woman. Her back was slightly hunched, gray hair tied neatly into a bun, a few stray wisps framing a lined but gentle face. Warm brown eyes met his, soft yet piercing, as if she could see through the haze clouding his mind.
For a heartbeat, Hunnt froze. Something stirred inside him — a flicker of memory, fragile as glass. Images collided in his mind: a hut surrounded by trees, quiet nights by a crackling fire, the smell of herbs simmering on a stove, a warm blanket on cold nights. Each fragment tugged at him, teasing and incomplete, like a dream half-remembered.
The old woman tilted her head, voice soft and melodic, carrying warmth and concern.
"Hunnt… are you okay?"
The words rolled over him, familiar yet distant, like a melody from a half-forgotten song. He didn't answer. He couldn't find the words. Or perhaps he feared they would shatter the fragile thread connecting him to this present moment.
She stepped closer, careful, each motion measured, the floorboards groaning under her weight. Her eyes softened, worry deepening the gentle lines of her face.
"Hunnt," she repeated, voice coaxing, "are you feeling sick?"
And then — like a spark hitting dry tinder — something inside him ignited. Memories surged: flickering, broken, sharp and bright. This woman… she had taken him in. After… after his parents…
The images came in flashes. Smiles. Laughter. Warm hands holding his own. And then screams. Blood and smoke and a roar that tore through the night. He could not remember the face, the shape, only the terror. The helplessness. The cold, hard realization that he had been powerless.
His throat tightened. Words slipped out before he could stop them, trembling, fragile:
"…Granma… Mel."
The old woman froze, expression caught between shock and relief. Then slowly, a smile softened her features, warm and unwavering.
"There you are," she murmured, her voice like sunlight filtering through the trees. "I was worried, child. Breakfast is ready. Come along now."
Hunnt blinked, unsure if this was real — if he was awake, or still trapped in the shadows of his memories. Yet something in her gaze steadied the frantic beating of his heart. Slowly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Bare feet brushed against the cool, uneven wooden floor, and a shiver ran through him — grounding, real.
Memories pressed against him again, sharper this time. His parents' laughter… the roar… the collapse of the home… the cold ground beneath him. He shivered, gripping the edge of the blanket, heart pounding. And yet, in the warmth of her presence, the terror began to ebb, replaced by a fragile, cautious hope.
He took a tentative step toward her, then another, each movement careful, measured. The smells of cooking drifted in from the small kitchen: bread baking, herbs simmering, stew rich and savory. It wrapped around him like a shield, a promise that he was safe here. That, for now, he could breathe.
He stopped for a moment, looking back at the bed, the shadows of the night, the memories that still clawed at him. Slowly, he let a small, unsteady breath escape. Fear still lingered, but a spark of trust, of belonging, had begun to take root.
For a child who had lost so much, that fragile spark — the warmth of his grandmother's smile, the steady presence of her voice — was enough. For now, it was enough to step forward, to face the day.