The world was never silent — but Ernest James always found silence within it.
While other children laughed, chased butterflies, and dirtied their knees in the dusty fields, Ernest sat beneath the great oak tree behind his small home. Its roots coiled like ancient serpents around the soil, whispering secrets only he could hear. He often sat there with a worn-out notebook, sketching lines that only made sense to him — mountains that touched the stars, cities made of glass, and skies painted crimson.
His parents thought he was simply "different." His mother smiled softly at his quietness; his father sighed at his solitude. "He's not like other boys," they'd say. But Ernest didn't mind. The world was too loud, too cruel, too fast — and he preferred the stillness where thoughts could bloom freely.
Yet sometimes, in that silence, he felt something tug inside him — a strange weight beneath his chest. It wasn't loneliness, not exactly. It was something deeper, like an echo of a life waiting to begin. He didn't know it then, but the blood moon that watched over his birth had left its mark, etching destiny into his soul.
It was a gray afternoon when it happened. The wind smelled of rain, and the sky hung heavy with clouds. Ernest had wandered near the old playground — a place he rarely visited. He didn't like noise, but that day, he heard it: the cruel laughter of children.
Near the swings, a small girl sat crying. Her hair was a curtain of gold, streaked with mud, her little hands gripping her dress tightly. Around her stood three older boys, their sneers sharp as knives.
"Crybaby!" one shouted. "Go back to your fancy house!"
Ernest froze. He didn't know her — but something about her trembling shoulders made his chest ache. Maybe it was because he'd seen that same pain in the mirror before. He should have walked away; after all, what could a frail five-year-old do against three?
But he didn't.
He stepped forward, heart pounding, hands shaking.
"Leave her alone."
The bullies turned, laughter twisting their faces. "Or what?" one asked, shoving him back. Ernest stumbled but didn't fall. He could feel fear crawling through him, but something fiercer rose to meet it. He didn't understand why — he just knew he couldn't stand by and do nothing.
The punches came fast — one to his stomach, another to his face. He fell to his knees, the world spinning. He tasted blood. But he didn't move. He planted himself like a wall before her.
When the rain began to fall, the boys ran off, muttering curses.
Felicia — that was her name. He learned it later, as she knelt beside him, eyes full of tears that shimmered in the rain.
"You didn't have to do that," she whispered, voice trembling.
Ernest looked up, blood on his lip, mud on his cheek — and smiled. It was small, weak, but real.
"Someone had to."
Her tears fell harder, and she hugged him tightly, the rain soaking them both. The scent of earth, metal, and rain filled the air. For the first time, Ernest felt something unfamiliar — warmth.
From that day, they were inseparable. Every morning, she waited by the oak tree, waving as he came running. She spoke endlessly about her dreams — of painting the sky, of becoming someone the world would remember. He just listened, sketching quietly beside her, content.
When she laughed, it was like sunlight breaking through clouds. When she smiled, even the quiet boy who preferred shadows couldn't help but feel the world brighten a little.
People began to whisper. "The quiet boy has a friend." But Ernest didn't care. He had someone who saw him — truly saw him.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, Felicia turned to him.
"Ernest," she said softly, "what do you want to be when you grow up?"
He hesitated. "I... want to build something," he murmured. "Something great. I want to create a world where no one has to cry like you did that day."
Her eyes widened. "Then I'll be there too," she said, smiling. "We'll do it together."
They sealed their promise with a pinky swear beneath the same oak tree where it all began.
But destiny, cruel and relentless, does not favor innocence for long.
Years later, when the world began to demand extraordinary, Felicia's father tore their promise apart.
"You're not meant for him," he told her coldly. "He's just a commoner. The world only recognizes the extraordinary."
And just like that — the boy who once protected her with his body was left standing alone, beneath the same oak tree, rain falling just as it had that first day.
He looked to the sky, whispering to no one:
"I'll become extraordinary... even if it kills me."
The wind carried his words to the heavens — where, high above, the blood moon waited, silently watching its chosen child begin his long, tragic path.