When I opened my eyes, I saw a forest stretching endlessly around me. I could not hear the sound of any animals yet I could smell the fresh and rugged scent of nature. Above, the sun shone comfortingly. It's light warm rather than scorching. I tried to sit up, but my body refused to obey.

I waited, expecting to hear the barked orders of a master or feel the sting of a whip forcing me to rise. But there was nothing—no shouts, no pain. Just silence, broken only by the rustling of leaves.

"No one is going to force you up, child," said a voice, soft and feminine.

Startled, I turned my head toward the sound. Sitting on a nearby rock was a small, gray mouse, its beady eyes focused on me. Was I hallucinating? People said madness came for those who broke under the weight of their chains. Had I finally reached that point?

"No, child," the mouse replied, as though reading my thoughts. "You are not mad."

Her voice was calm, soothing. It held no trace of mockery or cruelty, only understanding. I blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. A talking mouse? It had to be a trick of my weary mind.

The mouse sighed, her tiny whiskers trembling. "Indeed, the world was not kind to you."

I snorted at her understatement. Scarred from birth, sold into slavery as an infant, and forced to toil under the sun until my body screamed for relief—that was my life. Kindness was a foreign concept.

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The mouse scurried closer, her small frame radiating an odd sense of warmth. She rested against my head, her fur soft and comforting. We stayed like that for what felt like hours, the forest around us a cocoon of peace. Slowly, impossibly, I began to believe that this was real.

"Am I... free?" I asked, my voice cracking under the weight of the words.

The mouse's whiskers twitched as she offered a smile. "Yes."

"Will I need to go back?"

I didn't mean slavery—never that. I would die before returning to chains. I meant humanity. Would I be forced to return to those I blamed for my sad excuse of a life?

The mouse tilted her head, considering her response carefully. "Not immediately. You will have time to heal, to grow. But eventually, you will return. There are others you must meet."

"Others?"

"Yes, seven others like you. Together, you will forge a new path. I assure you, your new home will bring you joy."

Her words were strange, yet they filled me with an unexpected sense of hope.

"Born into a world of pain, stripped of your humanity, and forced to suppress your true self—I recognize your scars," she said softly. "From now on, you will walk the path of the arrow."

Her words puzzled me, but they also comforted me. For the first time, I felt seen, understood.

"When you wake, close your eyes for 20 seconds. Goodbye for now, child. I wish you prosperity."

Her voice was the last thing I heard before sleep claimed me once more.