He was like the others.
He ran barefoot through dust, climbed trees to steal figs too green to eat, lied badly, and laughed loudly. His mother called him "my little fire," because he burned, moved, consumed. His father had died when he was young — or maybe he'd just left. No one asked.
Asveri was ten.
He talked too much, fell asleep anywhere, nodded off during meals, dreamed of hunting, rivers, games. He fought with sticks and usually won. You couldn't blame him — he was alive.
And then, one day, he left the village alone.
It was after supper. The sky had grown thick. There was no moon, but light still hung above — not from stars, not from fire. Something else.
Asveri didn't know what he was looking for.
He just wanted to walk. To feel the cold. To breathe.
He stopped at the edge of the fields, beneath an old scorched sycamore. And there, the silence fell.
Not the kind of silence that comes with sleep.
Not the quiet of fields or snowfall.
It was heavy.
Dense.
Total.
Then came the pain.
Behind his eyes.
Like something had cracked open in his skull.
He dropped to his knees.
And the voices began.
Not outside.
Inside.
A woman screaming in labor.
A man choking on blood.
Laughter.
Confessions.
Gasps smothered by silk pillows.
Children crying out in snowy woods.
All of it. At once.
All of it, now.
All of it, everywhere.
He screamed.
Not like a child scraping a knee. Not like someone afraid of the dark.
He screamed like the whole world had collapsed inside him.
His mother found him.
He was curled at the base of the tree, wide-eyed, his face twisted by terror. He was shaking — his whole body rattling like something burning from the inside.
And when she pulled him into her arms, he screamed again.
Not words. Just sounds.
Then, between sobs, a single broken cry:
"Mama, it hurts! Make it stop — please — I don't want this — AHHH!"
She held him tighter. She didn't understand. But she knew — something had torn inside her child.
He had no fever.
No wounds.
And yet it was like he was dying.
At first, people thought it was a phase.
Then a curse.
Then they stopped talking altogether.
The boy stayed awake. Night after night.
He didn't grow.
He never got sick.
He got hurt sometimes — and the wounds took time to heal — but he never weakened. He was just… there.
The children avoided him.
The elders whispered.
He heard their thoughts.
Not the words —
the silence.
The guilt.
His mother still spoke to him. But more and more, she cried when she did.
A year later, a vagabond passed through the village. He came from a world none of them had ever seen. He spoke of a utopia.
"A perfect place," he said, his eyes gleaming. "No war. No theft. No rebellion. Pure order, shaped by a gaze no one can meet."
"A single being — vast and voiceless — holds that world in his palm. He never speaks. And still, everyone obeys."
The villagers listened, awestruck.
But Asveri — Asveri felt something awful.
A quiet fear.
A deep, gentle terror.
A fear that didn't scream — only endured.
A fear buried beneath peace, disguised as stillness.
And suddenly, he stood up and yelled:
"YOU'RE LYING!"
"That's not peace, it's fear! Can't you feel it?! Don't you hear it?!"
People backed away.
The vagabond paled.
His mother rushed forward, grabbed his shoulders, held him tight.
"Asveri, hush — it's okay…shhh…"
He shook. He sobbed.
He didn't know why.
He just wanted it to stop.
But the voices didn't stop.
***
Years passed.
Children grew. Elders died.
But he — he didn't change.
Still a child's body.
But eyes too old.
Too heavy.
He didn't heal quickly.
He didn't die.
He endured.
He sat on rooftops at night and listened.
Every birth.
Every fall.
Every prayer.
Every silence stretched too long.
All of it. At once.
Then, one night, the vagabond returned.
Older. Slower.
He no longer spoke of peace, or order, or miracles.
He said only:
"It's gone."
And Asveri… heard nothing.
No cries.
No breathing.
No life.
The world had gone quiet.
He stood.
Walked to the village well.
Sat down.
And whispered:
"They're gone."
Then, softer:
"I'm still here.
I haven't changed.
I'm tired.
But I don't know how to stop."
And he sat in the silence.
Not because he wanted to.
But because he no longer knew how to do anything else.