I was 4 winters old when I realized I was different from the rest.

The sun was gentle, soft golden fingers piercing through lazy clouds that drifted in the calm sky, the weather cold enough for one to wear extra fabric and warm enough for the water to not yet freeze.

The cold lake reflected my face, the still water etching the lines of my baby fats, the colors of my golden hair and the red of my pupils.

And yet, my hand lifted itself, the fingers pressing on the substance that merged with the pale skin of my cheeks, the material having a sheen similar to clear ice, reflecting light.

A word came to mind.

Glass.

Beforehand, I did not know this word. No, I did not know much at all. But my recurring dreams became clearer and more vivid, where I saw buildings that touched sky and windows that made their walls, the glass reflecting the thousands that passed it by.

“Arthur!”

My mom called, and I excitedly stood and came for her, my worries drifting away like the flower petals that shriveled from the coming snow. My little legs trudged up the land occasionally dotted by the falling snowflakes, the north’s famous weather making itself known.

“Mother!” I shout, nearing the little cabin we had in the forest, secluded from the towns and villages. She opened the creaky entrance door, and her vibrant smile greeted me as she knelt to embrace my tiny frame.

“Dear, what were you doing?” She cupped my face, her tired hazel eyes studying me, as if not seeing the glassy skin that marred parts of my face. That reminder doused me sober, peeling my joy like cracking the layers of the winterfruit we always harvested.

My mother’s brows creased in worry, noticing something wrong, “dear?”

“Mom, why am I different?” I suddenly blurted out, not being able to keep it within myself, “you don’t let me play with other kids, or let me visit the villages!” I took a breath, and it hurt me seeing the hurt in my mother’s eyes, the faint tremble of her lips admitting she held a secret she never wanted to let a child know, “why am I not like you?”

I brushed the side of her cheeks, smooth and only skin, no glass of any kind staining her face. Her hands softly grasped mine, the calluses of her palm familiarly brushing the smooth of my fingers. My hands were the only ones without any patch of glass.

With a firmness of her lips, she cupped my face once more, speaking to me with a shaking voice and wet eyes. “You are different, Arthur,” she confirmed, bringing me both pain and consolation, “and the world will not love you for it. But I will, forever and always. I hope that will be enough.”

A mother’s love always will.

“But will I ever meet others like me? Play with those my age?” I squirmed in place, remembering the books I had read, enjoying them even if the pages were wrinkled and the words faded. I wanted to adventure like the grand heroes that forged the bastions of humanity, even if the sword I’ll only ever wield is a branch lying on the ground. I wanted to sail the seas and fly to the floating cities, even if the sails that would ever boost my journey were dried leaves from trees readying for winter.

I wanted to explore the world, but apparently my world was just the little secluded part of the forest, a cabin and a mother that wanted to hide her child and act as if that was normal.

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She pursed her lips, “no,” she said with finality, “at least, not now, my boy. It is too dangerous. Have patience.” Then she stood, brushing her skirt of different-colored patches, acting as if the discussion was done, “come help your mother pick winterfruits?”

My lips thinned, not satisfied with her words. But I did not press for more, because the answers I received hurt me too much already. Maybe I could have thrown a tantrum, or explored at nights where I knew my mother would be too tired to hear the creak of a slowly opening door.

But my repeating dreams gave me a maturity I knew a child shouldn’t have, and so I nodded to her, smiled as if satisfied and content and said, 

“Yes, mother.”

***

By my fifth winter my dreams became clearer, and it came with the realization that it was the memories of a different person, of a life lived and enjoyed. They became my respite in the monotone nights, where my eyes would rest and they would live out in a world of fantasy and impossibility.

Here the birds were steel that carried passengers in its belly, to travel the world over in just hours. A person can stay in their home, and by advanced magick could they connect with people continents away, speaking with no delay as if just by each other. Most of all, I cherished the dreams where I would wake up in a room as vast as our little cabin, and going down the stairs I would see a family waiting for me, smiling as they said-

“Dinner's ready.”

My eyes reluctantly opened, my nose trickled by the aroma of vegetable soup as my mother stirred the pot, her eyes intent on the swirling liquid as if it could make it tastier. She smiled as I stirred, “come, child, ready your bowl,” I did, my hands clutching the cracked bowl the ownerless cabin had left behind, “today’s meal has a surprise.”

My eyes widened as I drank the soup, tasting something exotic and extravagant, unable to stop even as the liquid scorched my tongue. My eyes were wet when I was done, afraid that I still dreamt, and good things were only for dreams.

“I found spices!” Mother giddily said, enjoying her bowl of soup, “a lucky forage deeper down had herbs I recognize. Did you like it, arthur?”

“Very much!” I said, then pursed my lips in thought. “I could forage deeper, mother.”

“No,” she immediately denied, staring me down.

“Not alone,” I said, trying to be reasonable, “but with you. You said deep in the forest was dangerous, but if we were together, one could keep watch and the other could harvest. It could work, mother!”

Her gaze softened, and she stood and knelt beside so she could cup my face, softly tracing the parts where skin met glass, “you’re such a smart young boy, Arthur.”

I nodded slowly, not understanding, “well, I’m your son after all!”

She smiled so brightly, as if my words were a confirmation she waited her whole life. “That you are,” she whispered, “never forget that.” Then she hugged me in a comforting embrace, her chin on my head, and I acted as if I did not feel the tears that dropped on my head.

“Do you hate our life?” She asked softly. “No,” I said, hugging her back, “this is enough.” And it was. For all the beauty my dreams held, they were still dreams. They were not my memories, not my place. Here, in this small cabin that contained everything I love, was my world. It was small, and maybe someday I’d leave it to adventure as I had wanted, but for now,

I cherished every moment of it.

After a while, we parted in our hug, and she smiled at me as if there was never any sorrow in her face, “tomorrow, we forage deeper down. Rest for now, my child, we will need strength.”

I did so, tucking myself in the itchy wool blanket, warming myself against the cold wind that whistled through the cracks in the cabin. Unlike other nights, this time I wished for the dreams to end quickly.

***

It was a year later as my mother and I continued to forage, accruing experience and delving deeper into the forest, that I encountered another human being.

It was a hunter, based on his leather clothes and the knives tucked into his belt. He was lying face down, head bleeding, his wooden bow inches away from his stretched hand. The unconscious man needed help, yet I did not make a move.

I was afraid.

Not because he was a stranger, but because of the vibrant red liquid that dripped from his head, dropping wastefully to the grass. It was when I caught myself licking my lips and my stomach growling that I remembered it wasn’t right to hunger for human blood, and my urge brought me shame.

I was six winters old when I realized again I was different from the rest.