You didn't know that the world could change just because a single night had passed.
Back then, the world felt permanent to you. Morning always returned. The house always stood. Your mother's voice always reached you before your eyes fully opened.
There were no cracks between those days—no signs that something could be taken from you without asking.
Your name was Azana Soloen.
It was a light name when spoken aloud, as if it had been made for a child who had never known the weight of living. You were seven years old, and at that age, everything felt safe simply because you didn't yet understand what loss meant.
Morning arrived with pale light slipping through the gaps in the wooden window. It wasn't warm—just bright enough to wake the shadows on the floor. You often stared at those shadows before getting up, making sure they still followed the shape of your body. As if, should they disappear, you would disappear with them.
"Are you awake?"
Your mother's voice came from the kitchen, as it always did. Unhurried. Unworried. You answered with a soft hum and slowly sat up on your low bed. Your small feet touched the cold floor, and you curled your toes, adjusting yourself to the temperature of the world.
The house was small, but full. Its wooden walls carried the scent of old smoke, the floor slanted slightly near the door, and the roof often groaned when the night wind grew restless. You knew every corner of it. You knew which floorboards would creak and where dust always gathered no matter how often it was swept away.
Your mother stood by the stove, her back to you. Her hair was tied simply, with loose strands that always escaped and brushed against her neck. You watched the way her shoulders rose and fell as she stirred the pot—slowly, as though she were holding something heavy inside her chest.
"Did you dream?" she asked.
You hadn't answered.
"I dreamed I was falling," you said.
She stopped stirring. "And then?"
"I didn't get hurt."
She smiled. "Then you landed properly."
You didn't know what she meant, but you smiled anyway.
The food on the table was simple. You ate quietly, blowing on your spoon before bringing it to your mouth. Sometimes, you looked at your mother's hands—hands that were always moving, always working—and wondered if they ever wanted to rest.
You never asked.
After that, you stepped outside without much thought. Morning in Greendoor felt heavy, like air that resisted movement. People began their routines, but no one ever seemed rushed. Their steps were slow, as if the village itself taught everyone not to run too fast.
You ran anyway.
Not because you were being chased, but because your legs wanted to move. Damp earth clung to your soles. You liked the feeling. It made you feel connected to something larger than yourself, even though you didn't yet know what that something was.
The old tree at the edge of the village waited for you, as it always did.
Its trunk was rough, its branches high, and from the top of it, the world looked smaller. You climbed with movements that were still clumsy, your knees and hands often scraped raw.
The sting didn't bother you. You considered it part of the game.
From the tree, you could see your house.
Its roof looked fragile. Too thin. As though a heavy enough rain might make it collapse. Yet the house remained standing every day, and that made you believe it always would.
You didn't know that something could look strong simply because it had never been tested.
As you sat on one of the branches, you noticed someone you didn't recognize.
He walked along the village road with steps that never hesitated. His clothes were darker than those of the others, and the way he carried himself made him feel… different. As though the world made space for him without being asked.
You stared too long.
He looked up.
"Come down," he said.
His voice was flat, but you obeyed. You climbed down carefully, leaping from the final branch and landing with a slight wobble. The man stood before you, and for the first time, you realized how tall adults could feel.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Azana."
He repeated it slowly, as though tasting the sound. "Do you live here?"
You nodded. "That's my house."
He turned his gaze toward it. His stare lingered—too long for a stranger.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
"With my mother."
He didn't ask anything else.
"What do you want to be someday?" he asked after a moment.
The question left a hollow feeling in your chest. You had never thought about the future. To you, tomorrow was simply today continuing.
"I want… not to fall," you finally said.
He looked at you with an expression you didn't understand. Not a smile. Not sadness. Just something heavy.
"I hope," he murmured, "you won't have to learn how."
You didn't ask what he meant. You rarely asked when you felt the answer would only confuse you.
The day went on as usual. You helped your mother carry water from the well. The bucket was heavy, and water often spilled. Each drop darkened the ground beneath it.
"You don't have to force yourself," your mother said.
"But I want to be able to," you replied.
She was silent for a moment. Then she nodded. "All right. Just don't rush."
In the afternoon, you played with the other children. Laughing. Running. Teasing one another without malice. One of them pointed toward the forest.
"They say there's a huge beast in there," he said.
"Big things only exist in stories," you answered quickly.
You believed that.
The forest in the distance looked dark, but still. It didn't move. It didn't call. Like something patient.
Night fell slowly. The sky changed colors one by one until darkness claimed it entirely. You sat outside the house with your mother, watching stars appear without sound.
"Mother," you said.
"Yes?"
"Is the world big?"
She thought for a moment. "Bigger than you think."
"If I'm strong, can I go anywhere?"
She looked at you for a long time. "Strength doesn't always make you safe."
You didn't understand, but her words felt heavy.
That night, your mother sat beside your bed for a long time. Her hand brushed through your hair gently, as if afraid you might disappear if she stopped. You closed your eyes with warmth filling your chest.
You didn't know she was memorizing your face.
Outside, the forest rustled softly. The wind carried sounds you couldn't recognize. Not a threat.
Not yet.
You fell asleep with an empty mind.
You didn't know the world favored children who didn't ask questions.
You didn't know houses could become fragile without a sound.
You didn't know that one day, the name Azana Soloen would feel too light to carry memory.
For now,
you still believed the world would catch you
if you fell.
And the world—
was still pretending it would.