Returning home, Aron tied Betsy to the stable out back and did something unusual.

He cooked for his mother. Only for her.

“And what do you think you’re doing… do you think you’ve changed? Ah! You’re really, ugh…” The Voice trailed off, unable to find the right words, almost disgusted by the scene.

Aron ignored the comment. He was feeding his mother, bringing the spoon to her lips with calm and care. His eyes, glistening, were fixed on her face. He observed every detail, with a tenderness he hadn’t felt in years. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time, even though he saw her every day.

It was a silent meal, but a different kind of silence: real, alive.

After they finished eating, he carried his mother to her room and laid her down on the bed, tucking her in tightly under thick blankets to shield her from the cold. Then, with a faint smile on his lips, he picked up a hammer and nails and headed to the back of the house.

The Voice, unusually quiet, watched him work. It knew this was a time to stay silent. Only then would it hurt more later.

Plank by plank, nail by nail, the hole in the wall was sealed. Poor Betsy would no longer have to endure the relentless winter wind.

Aron stroked her muzzle and spoke to her gently: “You’re such a good mule, my beautiful Betsy.” She seemed to understand, rubbing her head against his hand in response.

“Go on, rest now. You’ve worked hard today, and last night you had to endure the cold. Goodnight, Betsy.”

He returned to the shelter as night had already fallen. Darkness had engulfed everything. He made his way to the pantry, where he grabbed a piece of meat and chewed it slowly, washing it down with a glass of water. That was his dinner. He still felt full from lunch; the portion had been ordinary, but it had filled him in more ways than one.

Aron sat in his mother’s chair, right in front of the fire. Wrapping himself in a few blankets, he stared at the dancing flames. The warmth enveloped him, and his mind, empty and carefree, began to blur. Eventually, he fell completely asleep.

He thought he heard a whisper, but paid it no mind.

“Goodnight, Aron. Rest well… tomorrow is a special day. I’ll prepare a wonderful gift for you.”

Darkness and peace embraced him entirely.

The rays of the sun crept slowly into the room, inching their way toward the cloaked figure seated before the dying embers of a fire.

A sudden start. “Huh…?” His voice was groggy, still caught in the haze of sleep.

“Good morning, Aron! You slept so long last night. Ready for another wonderful day?” The Voice was cheerful—unbearably cheerful.

“What the hell time is it? Why is the sun so high already?” He was starting to make sense of his surroundings.

“It’s probably nine or ten,” the Voice replied, unnervingly gentle.

“Why didn’t you wake me?! Shit, it’s late!” He leapt to his feet, not waiting for an answer, and rushed to get dressed. He grabbed everything he needed: the pouch at his belt, the hatchet for woodcutting, and his bow.

Hurrying to the back of the house, he prepared Betsy, hitching her to the sled. It was just another day of routine—wood and traps.

As he climbed the ridge, his stomach growled. “I was in such a hurry, I didn’t eat anything. Good thing I brought some of this,” he muttered, pulling a piece of dried meat from his bag.

Crack!

The sound of a snapping branch echoed through the stillness of the grove. Aron, shrouded in the steam of his physical exertion, was busy collecting or cutting fallen branches.

“I just realized… why are you so quiet?”

“Oh, Aron, don’t you like my gift? My silence. You always ask for it.”

“It’s not bad, I admit. But… since when do you give gifts?”

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“Arooon… do you think I’m a monster?” The Voice dragged out the words, almost playfully. Aron shuddered as an involuntary twitch crossed his eye. “And yet, contrary to what you believe, I am not. Well, now you’ve forced me to come up with a new birthday gift.” Its tone turned languid, filled with long sighs, as though imitating someone deeply regretful.

“Let’s say you are a mon—”

Aron froze mid-sentence. His body stopped, as motionless as another tree in the forest. Even his mind seemed paralyzed.

Then, with rising panic in his voice, he stammered, “W-w-what did you just say?”

His body remained stiff, shaken only by the icy wind threading through the trees.

“Aron, where is your head? It’s your birthday today! And not just any birthday, your twentieth! It’s an important milestone in a man’s life. Happy birthday!!”

Aron’s breathing quickened. His chest rose and fell frantically, like a blacksmith’s bellows. His mind, calm and clear until then, was like a lake suddenly shattered by a landslide—murky, turbulent, out of control.

“Aron, why are you sitting under a tree? Oh, I see.” The Voice was sweet, almost tender. “You liked my gift so much that you’re crying with joy! It was so astounding that you can’t even stand anymore.”

Its tone rose, becoming a melody broken by laughter, a discordant harmony that rang like nails on stone.

“I should have known. The truth is always better than silence, isn’t it? My earlier gift was kind, but this…” A long, theatrical sigh. “This is perfect.”

Aron felt every word burrow into his mind like blades of ice. His hands sank into the frozen earth, searching for something solid, something to anchor him to reality. The wind howled through the branches, a mournful wail, but it couldn’t drown out the Voice. There was no escape.

“I see you’re not moving… perhaps this is the place you’ve chosen to celebrate? I’d say it’s a fitting choice for you. Empty, cold, and sad.” The last words dropped in tone, devoid of any sensitivity.

“Splendid, let’s begin!” The Voice cleared its throat, preparing for a speech. “I must say, Aron, since I’ve known you, you’ve changed. True, you’ve become more pathetic, but hey, at least you’re getting worse.”

Aron, immobile, felt every word reverberate through him. Even if he covered his ears, he couldn’t block it out—it was inside him.

“In all these long years we’ve shared, you’ve accomplished nothing, aside from surviving, of course,” the Voice continued, its tone shifting to something more unpleasant, laced with palpable disdain. “Your dreams and ambitions, you brutally extinguished them with a dull life. You convinced yourself that it was for your mother, for the house your father left behind. But it was all false! You were afraid, so you decided not to think, not to look. But guess what? I did it for you.”

“And don’t even think about living a life like yesterday afternoon. About getting married, having a family, realizing your dreams through your children. That’s not for you, Aron. And I’ll do whatever it takes to stop you if you dare try.”

The Voice lowered its tone, each word heavy and final, like a sentence handed down by a judge.

“For six years, you’ve been down, Aron. Six years. It’s true, you couldn’t become a knight. Your father died in the forest, your mother fell ill. You lost so much… but you never saw what you gained.”

“W-w-what?”

The trembling word was carried by the wind, fragile, almost broken. His body seemed frozen, his breath held, as if even his heart feared to beat.

The Voice became more solemn, stripped of all human emotion. It was divine—or perhaps the opposite.

“Opportunity and freedom.”

“I don’t understand,” Aron murmured, his confusion evident.

“Life freed you, Aron. It removed your chains. No family, no home, no dreams. You were a man without ties, and therefore without limits. You could have become anything. You could have discovered yourself.”

The Voice paused, as if to let the weight of its words settle. Then it continued, harsher:

“Instead, you clung to a rusty chain. A chain you knew, one that kept you anchored. It protected you from the currents, true. But it also denied you the open sea. It bound you to a life that was barren, lifeless. And you accepted it.”

Aron felt the world stop for a moment. Then, an explosion.

The truth had struck him deep, destroying everything in its path. Inside him, there was only chaos.

“I am responsible for my life,” he thought, each word a blade that cut through the silence. “For my choices. For those I didn’t make. I chained myself to that parasite living in the house. I kept doing what my father did.”

His inner voice rose, breaking into a muffled scream: “How many opportunities and chances I’ve wasted… but no more. NO MORE!”

With a violent jolt, he sprang to his feet like an arrow loosed from its bow, clutching the axe in one hand. His heart pounded like a drum. He left everything else behind, except for the clothes and bag strapped to his body.

“It doesn’t matter what happens,” he said to himself, his breath short and ragged. “Now I just want to run. Run into the depths of this forest. I’ll journey, even if it’s for the first and last time.”

A laugh burst from his lips.

It was unfamiliar, foreign to his mouth, yet so clear in his mind. As if it had always been there, waiting to emerge. It was the Voice’s laugh, and yet… it was his.

Wild and childlike at once, it echoed through the forest, resonating among the trees. The wind carried it far, but not far enough to break its echo. The laugh wove itself into the whispers of the leaves, as if the forest had embraced and amplified it.

For a moment, Aron felt the weight pressing down on him disappear. The laugh continued, free, untamed, carrying with it the chaos he had accepted as part of himself.