Morning dew rested on the golden tips of the crops.The field stretched far — wide, empty, peaceful… and lonely.
A small boy — barely four years old — walked barefoot across the soil, dragging a wooden bucket twice his size.His name was Kean.His silence was louder than wind.His eyes saw more than children should.
The villagers watched him from afar.
"Strange kid…"
"Never talks. Never plays."
"But the field loves him."
They weren't wrong.
Crops grew faster where Kean walked.Plants bent toward him as if bowing to something ancient.Even crows, who usually stole seeds, never came near.
He had no friends.No one helped him.But Kean never asked for help either.
He listened to the soil.Felt its heartbeat.Sometimes, it felt warmer under his touch.Sometimes, he'd hear a soft whisper in the wind — a whisper no one else noticed.
He would rest under a lone tree, drink from his clay bottle, and stare at the clouds.
"They look like warriors today…""…Or maybe gods."
He didn't know why he thought these things.No one had taught him.
But when he pressed his hand into the ground —the earth pulsed.
Not magic.Not yet.
Just… a connection.
He often looked toward the temple, where his mother lay asleep.Not with sadness. Not with tears.But with a quiet promise in his heart:
"I'll make the soil strong, Ma.""Someday… you'll wake up and see."
And so, every day — while other children played —Kean farmed.
Alone.But never truly alone.
The field knew his name.And perhaps… the realms were beginning to as well.