Whispers Between Pages
The stars had long since scattered over Ilyareth's sky by the time Elias and Aelira returned home. The days spent in the marble-clad city echoed inside him—like old songs caught between memory and dream. Yet something had shifted within the boy now called Lioren. He had seen beauty. He had seen magic. But he had also heard the hush of history—the aching silence where voices used to be.
And that silence would not let him rest.
Back in their quiet hilltop cottage, nestled between whispering birches and moss-covered stones, Elias's curiosity became a living thing. It crept into his bones and whispered in his ear each time he looked at the spines of old tomes that lined the wooden shelves.
He began with the books Aelira had kept over the years—dusty volumes of flora and fauna, ancient bestiaries, ink-stained field journals written by travelers long vanished into mist. Some were in languages long-forgotten, their meanings teased out only through patient study and Aelira's gentle guidance.
The first year passed in fervor.
Elias awoke each morning with the sun and devoured books with the hunger of a starved beast. He learned of beasts with names like *Skyvines*, floating tendrils that bloomed with light under the moon. He memorized the migration of *Mirrorstags*, creatures said to vanish when looked at directly. He discovered healing herbs that thrived only on thunderstruck soil and mushrooms that glowed softly when sung to.
He filled journals with sketches—some graceful, others wild and frantic. Pages crinkled with spilled tea and ink blotches, marked with notes written in childlike scrawl that grew more elegant over time. And still, his hunger deepened.
By his seventh birthday, Elias had read every book in the house.
He knew the names of birds that no longer sang. He knew the taste of moss described by a druid who died centuries ago. He knew stories of symbiotic vines that once whispered to the wounded, soothing their dreams. He even knew which animals once spoke in riddles to those pure of heart.
But something was missing—something books could not offer.
It came one morning in the wind, soft and laced with laughter. Outside, across the hill, voices rang out: children from the nearby village, their days unburdened by ancient wars or forgotten truths.
Elias stood at the window, heart clenched by something new—not grief, not curiosity, but longing.
He stepped outside.
At first, they watched him from afar—this quiet boy with wild curls and old eyes, who spoke in strange metaphors and carried notebooks even while walking. But children, for all their differences, are drawn to wonder.
They invited him to play.
And he accepted.
The games were simple—hide-and-seek among the trees, racing down hills that smelled of wildflowers, building forts with moss and twigs. Yet to Elias, they were magical.
He laughed until his ribs hurt. He tasted sun-warmed berries. He scraped his knees and didn't care. He learned their stories too—not from books, but from their laughter, from their dares and dreams and fears.
And as dusk fell and fireflies blinked awake, Elias would sit alone by the stream, notebooks forgotten.
Not to read. Not to write.
But to feel.
For in every story forgotten, there is also a life remembered.
And Elias—Lioren—had only just begun to live.