Chapter 3: Sounds and Shadows
Rai's world was full of noise. Every day, new sounds tumbled into his ears—words he could not understand, laughter that seemed strange, and cries that were not his own. Sometimes the voices were soft, sometimes loud, sometimes angry, sometimes gentle. He could not distinguish most of them.
And yet… he listened.
Listening had meaning.
Even without words, he noticed patterns. When the woman picked him up and hummed a soft tune, the room became warm, the light softer, and his body relaxed. When the man bent down, speaking in a low, steady voice, he felt a weight in the chest—attention, presence, focus.
He tried to imitate the sounds. A soft coo. A small squeak. He flailed his tiny arms and kicked his legs, watching for reaction. Sometimes the woman laughed. Sometimes the man smiled. Sometimes they spoke quickly to each other, shaking their heads, but always keeping him in their sight.
I don't know what they are saying… but I know it's about me.
He began noticing shadows and movements in ways he never had before. The way a hand reached out for him. The way they adjusted their steps to avoid knocking into him. The way light fell across the room, shifting with the day. Even before he could focus clearly, he could see patterns, and somehow, that made the world slightly less strange.
Then came the first moment he tried to respond.
A spoon approached his lips. He opened his mouth instinctively. The woman laughed softly, a sound that felt like warmth against his ears. The man's hand steadied the spoon as he helped guide it. Rai tasted something new. It was bland, but nourishing. The sensation—smooth, wet, strange—stayed with him.
He tried again. The spoon. His mouth. Tiny, awkward bites. He failed half the time. But each time, there was encouragement. Somewhere in these sounds, they were praising him. Even if he could not understand, even if the words made no sense, the tone reached him.
This world… communicates differently.
Sometimes, the language overwhelmed him. Words swirled together. Sounds collided. Nothing had meaning. And yet, even then, the touch of a hand, the rhythm of a voice, the look in their eyes—those things he understood perfectly.
It was enough.
Even as a newborn, even with hands too small to hold or legs too weak to kick properly, Rai began learning—not the words themselves, but their meaning, their weight, their intention. A language of tone, gesture, and care.
And he began to respond. Not with words. Not with understanding. But with attention. With focus. With the smallest acknowledgment that he saw them, that he felt them, that he existed with them.
The day ended as it always did. The woman hummed a soft lullaby, and the man's hand brushed lightly across his head. Shadows deepened, light faded, and sleep crept over him like a warm blanket.
And in the quiet, Rai's mind, born from Earth, held onto one truth:
I may not understand their language yet. But I can understand them.
And that, he realized, was enough for now.