The days followed one another, both the same and yet subtly different. Azrael rose each morning with the same guarded wariness, yet the room that had welcomed him on that first day had become a silent sanctuary, a place where he could breathe without fear. The old woman appeared at the same hour every day, her wrinkled face softening in a smile, carrying a basket of freshly laundered clothes and a steaming pot.
He did not know her name, and at first, he had not cared. To him, she was merely a constant figure, a gentle presence that demanded nothing, that never rushed him. He called her simply "the old woman." A dry, almost cold nickname, yet she accepted it without comment, continuing to prepare his meals, tending both visible and hidden wounds, speaking with the patient calm of someone who had learned to wait.
Over the months, Azrael began noticing the small things. The way she folded his clothes with meticulous care, how she spoke to the birds pecking near the window, or the way her eyes lit up at the first rays of sunlight filtering into the room. These small, constant details were like stones placed carefully along the path of his shattered heart, slowly, almost imperceptibly, stabilizing him.
"The old woman…" he said one evening, spooning his broth with a voice softer than he thought possible. "Why… why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep taking care of me?"
She set her spoon down, smiling faintly, shoulders rising in a subtle shrug. "Because you need it… and maybe because I know you deserve it, despite everything."
Azrael looked away, gripping his cup with trembling hands. He was unaccustomed to such words, to such warmth. He remained silent, but inside, something stirred. An old anger, a resentment toward the world, mingled with a newfound curiosity. Why would someone care for him without expecting anything in return?
Seasons passed. Winter bit the city with icy winds, and Azrael felt his bones shiver each morning. The old woman, whom he had begun to call "Grandmother" in his thoughts, sewed longer sleeves onto his clothing, brought him herbs to warm his body, and sometimes, when he did not dare speak, she simply sat beside him. Their shared silence carried more meaning than any conversation ever could.
In spring, Azrael found himself laughing softly at her humming an old, unfamiliar tune while beating eggs. The laugh was brief, almost painful, yet it felt like a strange kind of freedom—a breath of air he had forgotten how to draw in years ago. He did not want to admit it, but the thought of returning here after long excursions in the city or the woods, of finding this room and this presence waiting, had begun to feel like something he missed.
Over the course of the year, fragments of his story began to spill from his lips. At first, in half-formed words, then in complete sentences. He recounted hunger, pain, beatings, neglect, forced labor, and nights spent in mud and misery. The old woman never judged him. She simply nodded, occasionally placing a hand on his shoulder, letting silence embrace his confessions.
And Azrael, once a boy forged in hatred and survival, felt something he had never felt before: trust. Not the naivety of a child, nor the carefree nature of a free heart. It was slow acceptance, an acknowledgment that, for a fleeting moment, he could lay down his armor and feel safe.
The old woman had a name, of course, but he had never needed to know it. Sometimes, when she spoke to him, she punctuated her sentences with a quiet laugh or a gentle "my little one," phrases that he secretly felt warmed his heart, though he would never admit it. He remained distant, observant, measured, yet the dark, hard gaze he cast upon the outside world softened slightly when he met hers.
By the following year, Azrael realized he awaited her return. He became attentive to what she did, the way she spoke to the garden cats, how she placed soup on the table. This feeling was new, disorienting. He suppressed it as best he could, yet it lingered: a slow, discreet, silent affection that began to tint his solitude with colors he had never imagined possible.
To an outside observer, Azrael remained the same. Guarded, somber, distant. Yet inside, beneath the visible and invisible scars, a tiny flame had been reignited. A fragile, tenuous flame, yet one that promised that someday, perhaps, he could believe life was not merely a series of blows and injustices.
The old woman, without uttering a single word, became his anchor, a home in a world that had always rejected him. And Azrael, slowly and inevitably, opened himself to this warmth, clinging to what he had once thought an illusion, but which strangely resembled a real home.
Azrael was approaching his eighteenth birthday, an age that had never meant anything to him beyond the pain of survival. Yet, for the first time, someone offered him something not taken by force or earned through fear.
The old woman, seated in her worn chair by the fire, watched him with the same quiet gentleness he had known for a year. On the table lay a small, neatly folded bundle of money, accompanied by a simple envelope: enough to cover his enrollment at the Ardenthal Academy. An education. A chance Azrael had never dared to imagine.
He froze for a moment, breath caught in his chest. His hands trembled slightly as he took the package. His black eyes, normally so hard and wary, glistened. These were not tears of weakness, nor childish ones—they were brief, sincere tears, an acknowledgment of something he had never thought possible.
"…Thank you…" he murmured at last, his voice rough, almost strangled. The old woman nodded, a faint, knowing smile on her lips.
Old Woman:" You deserve this chance, Azrael… don't waste it."
He turned his gaze away, unable to articulate the enormity of his emotions. The silence between them was not awkward; it carried a weight Azrael understood more than any words ever could. For the first time, he had something to protect, something not born of bloodshed or fear.
And yet life continued. The old woman simply asked him to go buy vegetables for dinner. Azrael nodded, clutching the money, and stepped out into the streets. Each step felt strange. The crisp air, the soft late-afternoon light, the laughter of children in the distance—it all seemed surreal.
He entered the shop, his dark eyes alert and sharp, and collected the vegetables she had instructed. Thoughts churned in his mind. Part of him wanted to remain closed off, hardened against the world. Yet another part, fragile and tentative, began to consider the possibility of freedom—not merely survival, but the power to choose a different path.
As he approached the house, faint murmurs reached his ears. Strange voices… familiar, like echoes of the horrors he had tried to forget. His heart tightened. He froze behind the garden wall, holding his breath.
Figures emerged from the house. His eyes widened. They were the same men who had once orchestrated his torment, sold his body, carved his scars into his flesh. His mind refused to believe it, yet the reality before him was undeniable.
They seemed unaware of him, yet the air around him crackled with an unbearable tension. Were they here for him? Their gazes swept the courtyard, their hands brushing objects he recognized too well. Azrael felt his throat constrict, a cold, trembling rage surging through him, mingled with visceral fear.
And then he stepped inside. It was then that everything began to collapse.