Morning arrived gently in High Quiet, wrapped in mist and silence.
The mountain always woke slowly, as if it needed time to decide whether the day was worth beginning. Pale fog drifted between pine trees, clinging to stone and soil, dampening every sound. From the small stone house nestled against the slope, Liora Everett stepped outside with a woven basket strapped securely across her shoulders.
Inside the basket were vegetables harvested the previous day—leafy greens still fresh with dew, root crops wrapped carefully in cloth. They were not plentiful, but they were honest. High Quiet gave little, and what it gave had to be earned.
Liora adjusted the strap, feeling its familiar weight settle against her back.
Behind her, the house stirred. Gabriel stood near the doorway, already awake despite the early hour. At seven, he was still a child, but his posture was calm, his movements deliberate. His brown eyes followed her quietly, absorbing everything as he always did.
"I'll be back before sunset," Liora said, smoothing his hair once.
"I'll help Father," Gabriel replied. He always did.
Lucas yawned somewhere behind him, and Mira slept, unaware of mornings or mountains or work. Liora took one last look at her children, then turned and began her descent.
…
The path down from High Quiet was narrow and steep, carved by years of footsteps and rain. Liora walked it carefully, her steps practiced, her breathing measured. She had learned long ago that rushing only invited injury.
As she descended, the mountain gradually loosened its grip. The air grew warmer. The silence softened into distant sounds—voices, carts, the faint clang of metal. By the time she reached the lower town, the sun had fully risen.
The town was already alive.
Vendors lined the square, calling out prices and greetings. Children ran between stalls. The smell of bread and oil mingled with dust and smoke. It was louder here, faster. Liora always felt slightly out of place among the stone buildings and polished shoes.
She found her usual spot near the edge of the square and set down her basket.
"Fresh vegetables!" she called, lifting her voice. "From High Quiet!"
Some glanced at her basket and moved on. Others stopped briefly, examined the produce, and bought what they could afford. Liora smiled politely, thanked each buyer, and continued.
It was an ordinary morning.
Until it wasn't.
As she rearranged the vegetables, Liora heard a voice rise above the noise—clear, firm, practiced.
"…the entrance examination will be held in three days' time."
Her hands stilled.
The voice came from near the old notice board by the town hall. A man stood there, well-dressed, holding papers. His posture was straight, his tone confident.
A teacher, she realized.
Liora turned slightly, pretending to adjust her basket, listening.
"The Elderone School will be accepting new students," the teacher continued. "Children of age may apply. The exam will be written and oral."
A small crowd began to gather.
Liora's heart began to beat faster.
Elderone School.
She had heard the name before—everyone had. It was the school spoken of in hushed admiration. The school for bright children. For children with futures. For children who did not come from the mountain.
"The examination is open," the teacher said. "Background and status do not matter. Only ability."
Anyone may enter.
The words struck Liora like a sudden wind.
Someone beside her scoffed. "That's easy to say," a vendor muttered. "We know who really gets in."
The teacher raised his voice, undeterred. "The exam is fair. If a child passes, the school accepts them."
Liora felt her fingers tremble.
She thought of Gabriel.
The way he watched the world. The way he learned without being taught. The way Elias tested him unknowingly, asking questions no seven-year-old should answer so thoughtfully.
She tried to dismiss the thought.
School meant cost. Time. Distance. Risk.
But the words would not leave her.
Three days.
By the time the crowd dispersed, Liora realized she had sold nothing further. She packed her basket in silence and began the long climb back up the mountain.
…
The path felt steeper on the way home.
With each step, Liora's thoughts tangled tighter. She remembered Gabriel as a toddler watching Elias work. As a five-year-old learning too quickly. As a seven-year-old carrying responsibility in his eyes.
What would happen if he stayed?
What would happen if he left?
By the time she reached the house, the sun was already drifting west.
Gabriel looked up immediately when he saw her.
"You're back," he said.
"Yes," Liora replied softly.
Elias glanced up from repairing a tool. "How was the market?"
"Fine," she said, though her voice carried something else beneath it.
They ate together that evening—quietly, as they often did. Gabriel served Lucas first. Mira stirred, and Liora rocked her gently with her foot.
Only when the fire burned low did Liora speak.
"I heard something today."
Elias looked at her, attentive.
"There's an exam," she said carefully. "For a school in town. Elderone."
Gabriel's head lifted.
Elias frowned slightly. "That school?"
"They said anyone can take it," Liora continued. "Status doesn't matter. Only results."
Silence settled over the room.
Elias exhaled slowly. "We'll talk about it another day."
"When?" she asked quietly.
"The exam is soon?"
"In three days."
Another pause.
Gabriel said nothing. But his hands clenched slowly in his lap.
That night, the mountain was quieter than usual.
Gabriel lay awake, staring at the dark ceiling, his mind racing. High Quiet was the only world he had ever known. But somewhere beyond it, a door had opened—just slightly.
He didn't know yet if he would step through.
Only that he wanted to.