Ryu woke to the sound of quiet murmuring and the smell of freshly baked bread—aromas so foreign they seemed like a dream. The soft crackling of a hearth reached him next, and a rough but gentle hand rested on his forehead. It was the first touch he’d known in years thatdidn’t sting, and it made him open his eyes to a face—a woman’s face, kind but weathered, framed by simple priest’s robes. Her name was Rika, he would later learn, and she was the priest who had found him battered and unconscious, sprawled like a wounded animal before the doors of the small Church of Gem. Rika worked with unhurried patience. Ryu flinched at first, every time she came near, baring his teeth or trying to strike out. But Rika didn’t push him. She left food beside his bed and waited, each day sitting across from him in silence, her presence calm and unthreatening. After days of watching her, Ryu finally gave in to his hunger and took the bread, cramming it into his mouth with a ferocity that startled the other children gathered nearby. Rika simply watched, a slight smile on her lips. The next step was bathing—a nearly impossible task, as Ryu lashed out at the slightest attempt to remove his tattered clothes. With immense patience, Rika coaxed him, explaining every step in a voice as soft as the evening prayers. Eventually, Ryu allowed her to wash him, though he shuddered under the warm water, muscles tensed as though expecting a blow. For Rika, it was a revelation of his scars—deep, crisscrossing reminders of his past life. She said nothing, her hands careful as she scrubbed away the grime, combed his matted hair, and trimmed his cracked, dirt-streaked nails. Each small act was like chiselling away the shell he’d built around himself, and though Ryu said nothing, he felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest—a fragile kind of relief. In those early days, Ryu barely spoke and avoided the other children, but Rika encouraged him to observe them from a distance. She’d bring him outside, letting him watch as they played, their laughter foreign yet intriguing. Over time, Ryu’s curiosity overcame his fear. He approached the other children, stiff and cautious, struggling to imitate their carefree smiles. At first, they regarded him with wary glances, whispering among themselves about the “wild boy” who had come to the church. But Rika always guided them gently, reminding them that Ryu had come from hardship and needed friends. Slowly, Ryu began to understand their world—a place where people ate meals together rather than hiding scraps to devour in solitude, where laughter wasn’t a sound to be suspicious of, and kindness wasn’t a trap. Rika taught him to sit properly at the table, coaxing him to eat at a slower pace, savouring each bite rather than stuffing his mouth in fear of going without. With the patience only a mother figure could offer, she encouraged him to raise his eyes when spoken to, to meet her gaze without a flicker of distrust, and to listen to the others’ voices as they shared stories of their lives, however simple. As he became more integrated into church life, Rika involved him in daily chores. She gave him a broom, showing him how to sweep, and put a mop in his hands, demonstrating the rhythm of cleaning the floors. At first, Ryu’s movements were harsh and uncertain, but he learnt to take comfort in these simple tasks. Every stroke of the broom and every swing of the mop were acts of renewal, replacing the chaotic survival of the wild with a purposeful routine. He even began to help with cooking, cutting vegetables under Rika’s watchful eye and eventually learning to prepare simple meals. For Ryu, these tasks taught him more than any lesson: they showed him the strength that could come from gentleness and the steadiness of a life unmarked by violence. His transformation was gradual, marked by setbacks. Some nights, he would wake screaming, plagued by nightmares of his past life—the days of starvation, the faces of his parents, the endless forest of death. Each time, Rika would come to him, sitting by his bedside in silence until his trembling eased, her presence a balm against the darkness that still clung to his soul. Over time, Ryu began to engage with the other children, watching as they practiced their studies or played games. They taught him the basics of reading, first with short words and phrases. Ryu’s concentration was fierce, his face scrunched in a mix of frustration and fascination. He soon found himself drawn into their games, tentatively at first, then with a kind of wonder. The other children showed him how to play hide-and-seek, and Ryu’s skill at hiding, a remnant of his years in the forest, made him unbeatable. For the first time, he felt the joy of a victory that didn’t require brute strength or violence. As the seasons passed, Ryu’s wild edges softened. He learnt to laugh, first in short bursts, then with a warmth he hadn’t thought possible. He grew more at ease with touch, even accepting a hand on his

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shoulder or a playful shove from his friends. With Rika’s guidance, he came to see himself not as a creature of instinct and survival, but as part of a family of sorts—a family that welcomed him despite his scars, inside and out. By the end of his time with Rika, Ryu had become a boy again, or as close as he could be. The old anger still flickered within him, but he no longer wore it as armour. Instead, he found strength in the kindness he’d learnt, the compassion Rika had shown him. And though the world outside the church would always be brutal, Ryu was no longer its prisoner. He was something else—a survivor not just of hardship but of redemption, a testament to the healing power of humanity. But would it last in this world................