The cry of a baby rose softly into the morning air, breaking the silence of dawn like a gentle wave upon still water.
The mist drifted low across the valley, curling above fields of green and gold. Each rice stalk swayed with the wind, heavy with dew, shimmering beneath the light of the new sun. Birds stirred in the trees, and the quiet hum of a waking village began to fill the air.
This was Fernstead a small, peaceful village far from any kingdom or war.
No soldiers passed its roads, no banners waved above its gates.
Only farmers and fishermen, wives and children people whose lives were shaped by the rhythm of rain and harvest, not by steel or blood.
No more than thirty-six people lived here.
And yet, to those who called it home, it was a whole world.
That morning, everyone in Fernstead paused when they heard it the cry of a newborn.
It echoed from a small house at the edge of the paddies, where the wind carried the sound through the bamboo fences and across the open fields.
The villagers smiled. Some whispered a quick prayer of blessing; others hurried to fetch gifts small bundles of rice, fish, or cloth anything to welcome new life into their quiet world.
Inside the house, a young woman lay resting, her golden hair clinging to her cheeks with sweat, her face glowing with exhaustion and joy.
Her name was Elisha.
The youngest woman in the village, soft-spoken and gentle, her laughter was said to bring calm to even the most restless heart.
Beside her stood her husband, Paul a strong man with arms built by years of labor and a heart large enough to hold the whole village.
He had once been a warrior before laying down his sword to till the earth. His hair was sun-browned, his smile wide and unrestrained.
When the midwife stepped out and called to him, "Paul! It's a boy!"
The young father froze for a heartbeat then broke into laughter so loud it startled the chickens in the yard.
He ran through the village barefoot, shouting,
"Elisha has given me a son!"
Children followed him, giggling and cheering, as he dashed from one house to another, shaking hands, hugging old men, and calling his friends to drink.
The bell at the old meeting post rang once, twice, then over and over a sound of joy, not alarm.
The people of Fernstead gathered together that evening.
They built fires along the riverbank.
Women brought out their best rice cakes and grilled fish caught fresh that morning.
Men poured jars of rice wine until the smell of laughter filled the air.
The music of drums and wooden flutes rose, and under the faint stars, Fernstead came alive.
Inside her home, Elisha sat by the window, cradling her newborn.
The baby's tiny fingers curled around hers, his breath soft and steady.
Outside, she could hear Paul's booming laughter and the cheerful teasing of his friends.
She smiled.
Her heart was full of peace, of love, of something beyond words.
Through the open door came voices:
"Paul, don't drink it all yourself!"
"To the young chief and his new son!"
And the laughter followed, blending with the rustle of rice fields and the whisper of the wind.
That night, the whole village celebrated together old and young, rich and poor, laughing, singing, eating until the moon reached its highest place in the sky.
No one argued. No one fought.
There was no fear, no sorrow only peace.
The baby slept soundly in his mother's arms, the sound of the village's joy wrapping around him like a lullaby.
My name… was not known that night.
I was just a child born into warmth, into laughter, into Fernstead the rice village that never knew war, and never needed anything beyond the life it already had.
That was the night my story began
in the glow of lanterns,
beneath a sky filled with stars,
and in the endless peace that would last forever.