Rynkar woke up in a wooden crib, a soft blanket tucked around him. He was a baby again, small and weak, but the room felt warm and alive. A fire crackled in the corner, and the air smelled like fresh bread. A woman leaned over him, her dark hair tied back in a loose knot. She had a kind face with little lines around her eyes from smiling. She sang a soft song he didn't understand, her voice calm and steady. This was his new mom, Mara. She picked him up gently, holding him close. "My little one," she said, brushing his cheek. Rynkar didn't know what to think—he'd never had anyone care for him like this before.
Mara was always busy. She cooked over the fire in a big pot—stew with carrots or bread she made herself. Her hands were rough from work, but she was gentle with Rynkar. She'd sit by the crib, humming while she sewed clothes or fixed a torn shirt. When he cried, she didn't yell like the matron at the orphanage. She'd rock him instead, talking quietly about the day—how the chickens were noisy or the sun was bright. Rynkar couldn't talk back yet, but he liked her voice. Mara made him feel safe, like nothing bad could happen.
A man came in next, tall and strong, with a beard and dirt on his boots. This was Toren, his new dad. He smelled like wood and earth, and his laugh was loud. "Look at this guy!" he said, lifting Rynkar out of the crib with big hands. He held him up high, grinning wide. Toren was a woodcutter, gone most of the day cutting trees in the hills. When he got home, he'd sit by the fire and bounce Rynkar on his knee, telling short, funny stories—like a bird that pecked his boot once. Rynkar didn't get the words, but Toren's deep voice made him relax.
Then there was Lila, his little sister. She was about three, with curly brown hair and a loud giggle. She'd run to the crib, standing on her toes to look at Rynkar. "Baby!" she'd say, poking his nose with a tiny finger. Lila was full of energy—always moving, always talking. She liked to follow Toren around when he was home, asking lots of questions. "Why's the fire hot? Where's the moon?" Toren would laugh and pat her head. With Rynkar, she was nicer. She'd sit by Mara while he ate, watching him with big eyes, sometimes sneaking him bits of bread when Mara wasn't looking.
The house was small—just one room with a straw roof, wooden walls, and a dirt floor. But it was theirs. Mara kept it clean, sweeping every day and stacking pots by the fire. Toren made the furniture—a table, some chairs, and the crib Rynkar slept in. Lila had a little bed in the corner, covered with blankets she dragged around. They lived in a village with trees all around and hills far off. It was quiet most of the time, except for Lila's chatter or Toren's laugh. Rynkar didn't know much yet, but this place felt nothing like the orphanage—no cold, no shouting, just people who didn't leave.
When Rynkar turned one, he could sit up a little. Mara would set him on a blanket by the fire, giving him a wooden spoon to hold while she cooked. She'd smile and say, "You're getting big," even though he was still tiny. Toren would come home tired, his shirt wet with sweat, but he'd pick Rynkar up and toss him gently in the air. "Strong kid!" he'd say, laughing. Lila liked to sit next to him, poking his hands or making faces. She'd babble about her day—how she chased a bug or found a shiny rock. Rynkar didn't understand, but he liked having her close.
At two, Rynkar started crawling. Mara would laugh and grab him if he got near the fire. "Not yet, little man," she'd say, pulling him back to her side. She'd give him a small stick to play with, letting him drag it across the floor while she worked. Toren would come home and sit on the floor with him, rolling a little ball back and forth. "Look at you go!" he'd say when Rynkar crawled after it. Lila turned five, still loud and busy. She'd crawl with Rynkar, making it a game—racing to the door and back. She'd win every time, then clap and yell, "I'm faster!" Rynkar didn't care—he just liked the noise.
By three, Rynkar could stand and take a few steps. Mara taught him easy words—"mama," "dada," "Lila." She'd point at things in the house, saying their names until he tried them too. She never got mad, even when he messed up. Toren would carry him outside, showing him the yard and the trees. "See that, kid?" he'd say, pointing at a bird flying by. Rynkar would nod, even if he didn't get it. Lila was six now, always telling him what to do. She'd pull him around by the hand, saying they were on a big adventure. He'd stumble after her, falling sometimes, but she'd just laugh and help him up.
Mara was the calm one. She didn't talk loud or rush, but she kept everything okay. If Rynkar fell and cried, she'd wipe his face with a cloth and say, "You're fine." She cooked every day, fixed their clothes, and watched Lila so she didn't break anything. Toren was big and tough, but gentle at home. He'd lie on the floor with Rynkar, pretending to wrestle, then let him win. He'd come home with scratches from work, but he'd just smile and hug Mara. Lila was wild. At six, she never stopped talking—about bugs, the sky, whatever she saw. She liked Rynkar more now that he could walk. She'd make games, like hiding a rock for him to find, then tease him when he couldn't.
At three, Rynkar knew this was his home. The orphanage was far away in his mind—cold beds, mean people, nothing good. Here, he had Mara's soft voice, Toren's big grin, and Lila's silly games. They didn't have much—dinner was often just bread and stew—but it didn't matter. Mara would hold him at night, humming until he slept. Toren would lift him onto his shoulders, walking around the house. Lila would sit close, poking him until he giggled. Rynkar didn't have many words yet, but he didn't need them—he had a family now.