The memory began in the cold and gloomy hall of an orphanage. Its walls were full of cracks, and sunlight barely filtered through the dusty windows. The air was thick with the smell of dampness mixed with dust, creating an oppressive atmosphere. In one corner of the room, a twelve-year-old boy sat alone. It was Arga. His body was small and frail in his solitude, while the other children were busy sharing stories, food, and laughter. No one paid him any attention.
"Immigrant," a boy's voice jeered, followed by mocking laughter. "You don't belong here."
The words pierced Arga's ears, echoing like a hammer striking metal. He lowered his head, letting the taunts hit him like waves he couldn't escape. They didn't know, but the blood running through his veins was Asian. However, his family name, his slightly lighter skin, and his different accent were enough to make him a target of scorn. In the eyes of those children, he was an outsider, someone undeserving of belonging.
The days in the orphanage were filled with rejection. No one wanted to share their bread with him at lunch, and no one invited him to play. Even the caretakers often pretended not to see when he was being bullied, as if his existence was just a shadow undeserving of attention.
But everything changed on one gloomy afternoon.
In the corner of the hall, a new girl appeared at the orphanage. Her face was hidden behind a thick scarf wrapped around her head, covering most of her features. Strands of her long black hair peeked out from beneath the scarf, but her eyes were always cast down. The other children glanced at her with mocking looks.
"Alien," one child jeered, followed by bursts of laughter. Her unusually shaped face became their object of ridicule.
Arga watched from a distance. He recognized that look, the same look he often received. A look that pierced through, making you feel like something that shouldn't exist.
Days went by, and the girl remained alone. The children continued to mock her but never approached. Perhaps out of fear, or maybe they just didn't care. For Arga, however, there was something about her that drew him in. Perhaps it was because he understood what it felt like to be an outcast.
"Are you hungry?" he asked one afternoon, offering a small piece of bread to the girl.
The girl remained silent, staring at him with surprised eyes from behind her scarf. "I know how it feels... to be alone," Arga said, his voice soft but full of honesty.
The girl finally accepted the bread with trembling hands. That was the beginning of everything.
In the days that followed, they became inseparable. They shared stories, shared food, and shared their pain. The girl never explained why she always hid her face, and Arga never asked. To him, it didn't matter. What mattered was that he finally had someone.
When the other children tried to bother them, Arga stood in front of the girl, protecting her. "We may be different, but that doesn't mean you can treat us like this!" he shouted one day when the children tried to pull off her scarf. His courage made them back off, though it was accompanied by mocking laughter.
For the first time, the world didn't feel lonely for Arga. He had a friend. Not just a friend, but someone who made the world feel a little lighter.
But, as with all good things in his life, that happiness didn't last long.
Years passed. One day, the girl disappeared. No one told him where she had gone or why. Her scarf, the one she always used to cover her face, was left on her bed, like a silent farewell. Arga could only sit on her bed, clutching the scarf tightly, trying to understand why everyone he cared about always left.
In his dreams, Arga saw his younger self sitting alone on the orphanage bed. But this time, he was hurt. There was blood on his stomach, a remnant of an arrow that had pierced through. Then, the girl appeared again, silently cleaning his wounds and bandaging them with care.
Arga tried to reach out, wanting to remove the scarf that covered her face. But before he could touch her, her figure slowly faded, disappearing into the darkness. Arga could only watch her go, like everyone he had ever loved.
When the darkness finally consumed everything, Arga woke up.
"Your Majesty, how are you feeling? Are you all right?" the voice of Patimura, his aide, pulled him out of his thoughts.
Arga stared at the ceiling of the tent, his body feeling light. "I'm fine," he replied briefly.
But his mind was still shaken. He touched the wounds on his body, then quickly unwrapped the bandages. There were no scars. His skin was smooth, as if the wounds had never existed. Just like back then, when he fell from the hill and ningning tended to him.
"Did ningning come here? How could that be? But that woman looked so much like her, or was it just my hallucination from the effects of the medicine?" he wondered, trying to piece together the fragments of his memory. He turned to Patimura. "Bring my imperial attire and armor. Prepare the weaponry and summon all the commanders to the command tent," he ordered firmly.
"Yes, Your Majesty!" Patimura responded, quickly leaving the tent.
Arga sat silently at the edge of the tent, his eyes fixed on the sky, now glowing with the colors of dawn. The morning air of the valley carried a biting chill, but his mind was preoccupied, replaying the dream he had just experienced. The dream—so vivid, so full of questions. Was it merely a trick of the mind? Or was it a message from something greater? He took a deep breath, trying to calm his heart. Regardless, today was a decisive day.
Heavy footsteps approached. The command tent, the center of all critical decisions, was now bustling. The commanders arrived one by one, their faces marked with exhaustion and seriousness. At the doorway, they stopped, looking at Arga standing tall in the center of the tent. Then, in unison, they knelt in a gesture of deep respect.
"Your Majesty," one of them spoke, his voice deep and sincere. "We were deeply concerned for your well-being. Seeing you well brings great relief to our hearts."