By the time Ji-hyeon turned three, he had already become a quiet mystery to the village.
He didn't speak much. He didn't cry. And he never threw tantrums like the other children his age.
At first, people said he was just shy. Then some whispered that maybe he wasn't right in the head. But Mira knew better.
He watched.
Always watching.
Whether it was the creaking door, the shape of clouds, or the way the chickens pecked at the dry soil—Ji-hyeon noticed things. Things no child should be paying attention to.
One afternoon, Mira found him staring at the family's broken water jug. Not touching. Just staring.
"Are you thirsty, sweetheart?" she asked gently, kneeling beside him.
Ji-hyeon turned to her slowly. "The crack widened."
Mira blinked. "What did you say?"
"The crack," he repeated, pointing with a tiny finger. "It's bigger now."
She frowned, leaning in. True enough, there was a thin fracture running down the jug's side, larger than it had been yesterday. She hadn't noticed.
He had.
That was when she realized—her son wasn't slow. He was… different.
---
At night, Ji-hyeon would lie silently in bed, staring at the beams in the ceiling. His small chest rose and fell with quiet rhythm, but his mind—his mind was never still.
Fragments of memories drifted like fog in his thoughts.
A massive throne room made of obsidian. A sword buried in a mountain of bones. A girl with silver eyes screaming his name—no, not his name. Another name. One he no longer remembered.
It was like chasing shadows. He knew something was missing. Something important.
But whenever he tried to hold onto those memories, they slipped away like sand through his fingers.
Still, he waited.
He listened to the wind. He watched the stars.
And deep inside, something ancient and patient stirred.
---
Back in the village, children played in the fields, screaming and laughing. Ji-hyeon sat under a tree, hugging his knees, watching them without joining in.
"Why don't you play with the others?" Mira asked one day, brushing dust off his shoulder.
"They don't understand me," he answered simply.
She chuckled softly. "You're just different, that's all."
But Ji-hyeon didn't answer.
Because in truth, he remembered what it felt like to be feared. To be obeyed. To crush cities under his will.
He didn't miss it.
But he hadn't forgotten.