The dawn came thin and cold, a gray wash that painted every roof with the same weary color. Smoke rose reluctant from a dozen chimneys, curling as if even it wanted to sink back into the coals. The boy was already awake, crouched at the edge of the yard with a crude basket of reeds on his lap. He had spent the night weaving it for a woman who had sighed the day before about how nothing would hold her eggs. She had not asked him outright—few ever did—but he had caught the glance she gave the cracked basket at her feet, and that was enough.
By the time she found it leaning against her door, he was already gone, mud on his boots, shoulders carrying the weight of other tasks.
The world asked much of him without words. Fences leaned; carts broke; children cried when their kites tangled. He was always there, always mending, always fetching. He worked with the silent faith that kindness planted itself in the ground and grew roots where no one could see. But morning after morning, he returned home with nothing but calluses and the ache of hunger in his belly.
That day, it was the farmer Garren who spotted him first, huffing in the field where his sow had thrown a rail fence aside to get at the scraps meant for chickens. The boy vaulted the gap, set his feet against the churned mud, and heaved until the sow grunted back into her pen. His arms shook with the effort, but he slammed the gate closed before she could bolt again.
Garren trudged up, boots caked in muck, eyes narrowing at the sight. "What are you doing here, boy? Can't even keep to your own chores?"
"I thought—" The boy started, but Garren cut him off with a spit into the mud.
"You thought wrong. That sow's spooked half to death now. If she don't eat, it'll be your fault when there's no meat come winter."
The boy bowed his head, swallowing back the words that crowded at his teeth. He had only wanted to help. That was all he ever wanted.
By midday, he was hauling water for Old Mara, who leaned on a cane and complained the whole while that he sloshed too much. "Clumsy," she muttered as if speaking to herself. "Not worth the bother."
He smiled anyway, setting the bucket by her fire before slipping out.
In the square, he found himself pulled into mending a wheel that had cracked beneath a peddler's wagon. The man didn't thank him when it held, only grumbled about the wasted daylight and drove on. Children darted after the wagon, laughing, while the boy stood in the dust with pitch still staining his fingers.
Evening brought no rest. At the fire circle, the youths who had jeered at him the night before were loud again. Bram spotted him lingering at the rim and leaned back with a smirk.
"Look there," he called to his friends. "Our little servant. Did you fix the whole village today, Ox-boy? Or just the parts too heavy for us to lift?"
Laughter scattered like kindling sparks. The boy felt his face burn, but he said nothing. If he spoke, it would only feed them. If he stayed quiet, perhaps they would forget him quicker.
But forgetting was the curse that stung worse than any mockery. He was always useful, always near, and always invisible once the task was done.
That night, lying on his mat, he turned his blistered hands palm up. He stared at them until his vision blurred, half-expecting them to glow with something—magic, maybe, or proof that kindness had weight in the world. They stayed dark and raw.
He remembered the old tale Jaren had spoken: the Spiral Mountain, the pond of awakening. A place where the forgotten might be seen. The thought pressed against his ribs like a secret too large to keep.
"I give everything," he whispered to the dark, "and still I am nothing."
The rafters creaked. Outside, the wolves sang to one another in the forest, voices long and mournful. The boy closed his eyes and wished—not for thanks, not even for love—but for the world to see him, just once, and not look away.