The morning light seeped through the cracks in the wooden walls, casting long shadows across the room. The boy stirred under the blanket, his body heavy as if he'd slept for days. His eyes fluttered open—wooden beams above, an earthen floor below. The faint scent of burning wood lingered in the air.
He tried to sit up, but his muscles protested, weak from exhaustion. The last thing he remembered was collapsing in the forest, swallowed by the cold and darkness. Now, he was here. Before he could make sense of his surroundings, the creak of a door caught his attention.
Ceng-tae entered the room, carrying a tray with a bowl of hot soup and bread. His long black hair flowed down his back, and faint scars traced his face and arms. His dark eyes, tinged with a faint red hue, studied the boy with a calm but intense gaze.
"You're awake," Ceng-tae said. His voice was calm and deep, almost soothing, though there was an air of quiet authority in his tone. He placed the tray beside the boy and sat on the edge of the bed, observing him closely.
"Do you know who you are? Where you're from?"
The boy's brow furrowed as he tried to process the question. The words should have made sense, but they felt distant. Who… am I? He searched his mind for an answer, but all he found was an unsettling emptiness. Slowly, he shook his head.
Ceng-tae sighed, his expression softening.
"You don't remember anything?"
The boy's voice was weak, barely a whisper.
"N-No…"
"No memory, no name…" Ceng-tae muttered under his breath, glancing toward the window. He stood and motioned for the boy to follow.
"Come. You should get some fresh air. Your body needs to wake up, and staying in bed won't help. We'll get you cleaned up."
The boy swung his legs over the side of the bed. A dull pain shot up his spine, making him wince. His movements were stiff and uncertain, as though his body had only just remembered how to move. Ceng-tae noticed but said nothing. He waited patiently, letting the boy find his balance before leading him outside.
When the door opened, a blast of winter air brushed against his face—sharp and clean. He blinked against the light as the world outside revealed itself in shades of white and gray.
A layer of fresh snow crunched beneath their feet as they approached a small wash area. The boy hesitated with each step, unsure, but Ceng-tae's steady presence was reassuring.
The cottage sat at the edge of a vast forest, surrounded by evergreen trees and mist-covered hills. Birds chirped faintly in the distance, and a narrow brook cut through the land nearby. Ceng-tae folded his arms, looking out over the trees.
"You're lucky I found you when I did. Most don't survive a night alone in that forest."
He looked down at the boy, his expression unreadable.
The boy washed his face and hands in the cool water. The grime that clung to his skin faded away, revealing a medium tan complexion beneath. Ceng-tae worked quietly beside him.
"You've been through a lot," Ceng-tae murmured, washing the boy's hair. "But not knowing who you are… that's a heavy burden." His tone carried a note of understanding, as if he'd known that same struggle himself.
He nodded thoughtfully.
"And while that may be true, it's not the end. You're alive—and that's what matters now. You have a chance to start over."
He picked up a pair of shears and began trimming the boy's long, tangled hair. The boy stayed silent, eyes closed, feeling the tension leave his body with every soft snip. It was oddly comforting—as if with each lock of hair that fell away, so did a bit of the confusion and fear.
Gradually, Ceng-tae shaped the hair into something neat, leaving the bangs just brushing the boy's eyes while tying the rest into a loose bun. Near the end, he noticed something—a blonde streak hidden beneath the black strands.
"Interesting…" Ceng-tae murmured, tilting his head as he studied it. "You've got a mark of distinction."
The boy blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?"
Ceng-tae stepped back, admiring his work with a faint smirk.
"A blonde streak at the back of your hair," he said. "You look more like yourself now."
The boy reached up, running his fingers through his freshly cut hair. The soft strands felt strange, but good. Then Ceng-tae's words sank in.
"But… who am I?" he asked quietly. "I don't even have a name."
Ceng-tae considered for a moment, gaze drifting toward the snow-covered trees.
"Kiyoshi," he said finally. "It means 'pure.' I think it suits you."
"Kiyoshi…" the boy repeated softly. The name felt unfamiliar, yet warm—like a blanket draped over an ache he hadn't known he carried.
Ceng-tae smiled, a rare, subtle curve of his lips.
"It may not be your true name, but it's yours now. And a name is where all beginnings start."
Kiyoshi glanced up at Ceng-tae, a flicker of hope breaking through the uncertainty in his eyes. He still didn't know who he was, or why he had lost his memories.But for the first time since waking up, he felt like he had something to hold onto.A name—Kiyoshi.
It was a small beginning, but it was a beginning nonetheless.
──⊱◈◈⊰───⊱◈◈⊰──⊱◈◈⊰──⊱◈◈⊰──