Morning sunlight poured all over the countryside, lighting up fields which were soaked with rain and steam rising from the cold earth. Birds returned cautiously. They were doing a roll call.
There, the wooden door of that large house opened with a cracking sound.
A middle-aged man stepped outside. His shoulders were broad because of years of hard work and his hands were rough and scarred. There was a hoe held by his hand and rested against his shoulder. His name was Mikhail Petrov, a farmer who lived his life in seasons, soil and silence, all alone.
He paused.
Something was wrong.
There was a baby on the doorstep of his house.
And beside the door,there was a woman, sprawled on the wet ground.
Mikhail's breath got caught. He threw the hoe in the house and rushed forward.
"By saints," he muttered.
He first knelt beside the woman, pressing his fingers against her neck, but there was no sign, then he checked from her wrist and again no sign —old habits learned from village life.
So he tried the CPR. Pressing the chest firmly, but nothing worked.
"She's gone," he whispered, his voice was heavy. Then he turned towards the child.
The baby's skin was pale, its lips tinged blue, and its breath was shallow but he was still there.
"He's barely alive."
Mikhail lifted the child gently and wrapped the child in the blanket tightly. As he did, a folded note slipped into view. It fell down on the ground. He hesitated but he bent his back and took the note and opened it.
"KAEL."
The name echoed softly in the quiet morning.
"Kael," He repeated. "Alright, little buddy. Hold on."
The baby was very cold.
And without any hesitation, Mikhail ran into his small car, placed the child carefully inside on the passenger seat, and sped down the muddy road toward the nearest hospital. Every bump felt like threatening. And every second was counted.
But Kael lived.
Doctors worked quickly, from warming his body to stabilizing his breathing. They asked questions which Mikhail couldn't answer.
"Who is the mother?"
"Where is she from?"
"Any records?"
Mikhail shook his head. "I found him at my door."
They looked at him with suspicion, but Kael survived.
Mikhail brought Kael home. He had lived alone for so long and for him, Kael felt like a blessing from above.
From that day onwards, the house was no longer empty.
_________________________________________________________________
Years Later—2020
Kael was fourteen.
But he was thin, pale, and noticeably weaker than boys at his age, he used to move cautiously through life, as if he was trying to conserve energy. His body lacked strength, but his eyes were very sharp—always watching and always thinking.
Mikhail Petrov was his father in every way except from blood.
"Kael!" Mikhail called from the field. "Do not lift that crate alone. I told you to wait for me!"
"I can manage it," Kael replied, but his arms were trembling slightly as he adjusted the load.
Mikhail sighed. "Stubborn like your mother Huh," he muttered, then paused. "Hey kid, where are you going now?"
Kael held up his hand with a small bundle of wildflowers. "To her."
Mikhail nodded slowly. "Alright, I'll be here."
Behind the house, beneath an old birch tree, there was a grave, rested simply. No name was carved—only a date. Kael knelt and placed the flowers gently near the grave.
"It's been fourteen years mother," he whispered. "I don't know how you look, but I won't forget you."
The wind brushed past him, carrying silence.
Later on that day, as Kael returned from the fields, laughter the filled the air.
Four boys stood near the fence, they were the sons of nearby farmers. Bigger, louder, and crueler.
"Well, look who it is," one of them sneered. "The weakling."
Another one nudged him. "Careful, he might break."
Kael tried to walk past. "Leave me alone."
One of them noticed the flowers. "What's that? More dead offerings?"
"For my mother," Kael said quietly.
They laughed.
"Oh, the dead woman again," one mocked. "Probably ran away from you after seeing you."
Another one stepped forward and kicked the flowers into the dirt and stamped them into mud.
Kael froze.
Something twisted inside him.
"Stop," he whispered.
"What was that?" the boy leaned closer. "Speak up weakling."
Tears burned his eyes. His hands shook, it was not just from fear but from something hotter.
"You people don't know anything," Kael said, his voice was breaking.
"And you don't know your place, sucker," the boy said, shoving him onto the ground.
Kael fell hard. Mud stained his sleeves, and laughter of them was echoing above him.
When they left, the field felt empty, no, too empty.
Kael gathered all the crushed flowers with trembling hands and wiped his tears with his long sleeves.
He collapsed near his mother's grave.
"Why?" he whispered. "Why am I like this?"
His chest was burning. His heart pounded harder than ever before.
He was filled with anger. The thought of ending his life crossed his mind, but he felt helpless. Because the image of his father, Mikhail, came in mind.
But he was filled with rage.
The ground beneath him felt cold.
He stood, walked back to the house, and passed Mikhail without even saying a word.
"Kael?" Mikhail called. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Kael said quickly, disappearing into his room.
Mikhail frowned.
That night, as Kael lay awake staring at the ceiling, a low, wet and hungry growl echoed from the field.
Kael heard it and sat up.
The sound echoed again.
But now, it was closer.
And it was coming closer.