“You are now 4 months old,” Mai's voice sang to me, lifting me from the realm of dreams and into the waking world. Her words were a gentle serenade, a lullaby of love that bridged the gap between sleep and awareness. I lay half awake, half asleep, my body nestled in the soft cocoon of my bed, my mind still adrift in the ocean of dreams. Every time I awoke, Mai was there, her presence a beacon of comfort, a constant in the ever-changing tapestry of my young life.

Day to day, for these four remarkable months since she first held me at my father's sparring session, Mai has been by my side, a constant presence in my ever-evolving world. Her face was the first sight to greet me each morning, a gentle visage that was both familiar and comforting. Her touch, so soft and nurturing, was the first sensation to rouse me from my slumbers, a caress that was a whisper of love and a song of connection. Her voice, melodious and soothing, was the tune that guided me into the world, a lullaby that awakened my senses and stirred my soul.

Mai might have called herself my caretaker, a title bestowed upon her by the circumstances of our relationship. Yet, she was far more than that, far more than a mere guardian or protector. In her eyes, I saw something profound and pure, something that transcended the boundaries of roles and labels. To me, she was more of a mother than my actual mother, her love a maternal embrace that nurtured my being, her care a motherly touch that shaped my existence.

With Mai, I was never alone. In her presence, I was enveloped in a love that was as vast as the universe and as intimate as a heartbeat. Her arms were a cradle of warmth, a nest that held me close and kept me safe.

Mai took me into a room filled with the soft glow of morning light, where my mother awaited with a knowing smile, ready to nourish me with love and sustenance. My mother's arms were a haven of warmth, her milk a river of nourishment, her gaze a mirror of affection. Together, we shared the intimacy of existence.

After I was nourished by the gentle touch of my mother, Mai and I embarked upon our daily adventure within the castle's grandeur. This stately place, referred to by the giants around me as the castle, unfurled as a realm of endless intrigue and enchantment. Mai, my ever-present guide and mentor, utilized our wanderings as lessons in linguistics, introducing me to the melodious symphony of words like "stone," "trees," "grass," and so much more. These simple utterances began to shape and evolve my understanding of the world, giving form and definition to the wonders that surrounded me.

The castle's mysteries were not limited to its physical landscape; its inhabitants were enigmas in their own right. Nine giants had become familiar to me, their faces etched into my memory, their voices resonant in my ears. But whispers of six more, unseen and unknown, became a tantalizing puzzle, a riddle that danced just beyond my comprehension. Who were these unseen beings? What roles did they play in this intricate tapestry of life? The questions intrigued me, sparking a curiosity that grew with each passing day.

Time flowed in its gentle, relentless way, turning days into weeks, weeks into months. Each moment was a stepping stone, guiding me closer to new understandings and abilities. Through Mai's loving guidance and patient instruction, my world expanded, my thoughts deepened, my senses awakened. And then, one magical day, a new door opened, a fresh horizon appeared, a bright star shone.

“Mai!” I uttered, my voice a tender ripple in the vast ocean of language.

Her reaction was instantaneous, a gasp of delight, a grin of pure joy. Her eyes sparkled with pride as she darted towards my mother, carrying the precious news of this milestone. “Look, Look! Alexander said his first words.”

Mai's excitement was a melody that rang through the room, a song that celebrated a significant moment, a dance that marked a glorious occasion. She presented me to my mother, her hands trembling with joy, her voice quivering with emotion. She nudged me, encouraging me to share once more the newfound magic I had discovered.

With a sense of wonder and a touch of pride, I obliged, repeating the name that had become synonymous with love, guidance, and care. “Mai,” I said, the word a jewel that sparkled in the light of our connection, a gem that reflected the beauty of our relationship, a treasure that symbolized the depth of our bond.

The room was filled with a glow of happiness, a warmth of achievement, a radiance of love. The walls echoed with the laughter of the family's joy. The castle, with its stones and trees and grass, with its mysteries and riddles and secrets, became a witness to this precious moment, a partaker in this special celebration, a sharer in this unique joy.

In that brief, enchanted moment, I realized that I had taken a step, a momentous step. I had traversed a path I had never walked before, crossed a threshold that led to new possibilities. I had spoken a word, “Mai.”

As the joy of the moment lingered, my mother's voice broke through, a harbinger of something new, something unexpected. “And at only 8 months old...” Her words trailed off, hanging in the air like the hush before a grand revelation. “We must send him to Mr.Cato!” Her voice carried the excitement of a grand idea, an unexplored path, a promising adventure.

Cato—the name was like a key turning in a lock, unlocking a door to a room I had never entered. The name was a puzzle piece that didn't yet have a place in the mosaic of my understanding. Who was Mr.Cato?

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My curiosity stirred, and I listened intently, eager to comprehend the significance of this new name. “Yes, yes, let's send him to Cato!” Mai's voice chimed in, a harmonious echo of my mother's excitement. Her tone was brimming with anticipation, with the promise of something transformative, something that could enhance my newfound ability to communicate.

My mother, Mai, and I ventured deeper into the castle, our steps taking us far away from the usual paths we trod. The air was pregnant with anticipation, and the sun cast its gentle light upon our journey.

Boom

A thunderous explosion rocked the air, a sound alien and jarring. It was a sudden intrusion, an unexpected visitor to our peaceful day. The three of us flinched in unison, our hearts racing with surprise and uncertainty.

“What was that?” Mother's voice held a mixture of concern and bewilderment, echoing the thoughts racing through our minds.

Turning toward the origin of the sound, we ran in its direction, our curiosity pulling us like a magnet. Through courtyards and past castle walls, the scene that unfolded before us was one of devastation and change. The landscape had been transformed, as if a mighty hand had swept away the familiar features of nature. Trees, hills, and grasslands were stripped bare, leaving behind a scarred terrain, a canvas painted with the marks of upheaval.

At the center of this altered world sat an old man, hacking and coughing, his body wracked with the aftershocks of the explosion. Behind him stood two giants, their cheers and applause a stark contrast to the scene of destruction. Their celebration seemed misplaced, out of tune with the man's obvious distress.

“Good job, sir,” one of the giants proclaimed, their voices booming in the aftermath.

The incongruity of the situation was not lost on Mai. “Why aren't they helping him?” she pondered aloud, her confusion mirroring our own.

“I don't know, let's go check,” my mother decided, a sense of urgency propelling her into action. With a swift stride, she moved toward the man who was coughing and struggling, Mai following closely behind.

“What are you all doing? He is in pain,” my mother asserted, her words driven by empathy and concern. But her path was obstructed by the two giants who seemed more interested in their applause than in the man's well-being.

Undeterred, my mother pressed on, reaching the man's side. Recognition crossed her face as she observed him through the haze of coughs. “Mr. Cato, are you alright?” she inquired, her voice laced with a mix of care and worry. Her outstretched hands were a lifeline, an offer of assistance to a man in need.

Cough cough

The rhythm of coughing persisted, a harsh punctuation to Mr. Cato's words. His response had been unexpected, his tone a sharp contrast to the scene that unfolded before us. The words he chose were cutting, his demeanor aloof, his voice threaded with annoyance. “I don't need your help, girl,” he snapped, pushing my mother's hands away with a swiftness that spoke volumes. The residue of blood and mucous clung to his hands, a tangible manifestation of the battle raging within his body.

As my gaze remained fixed on the scene, I felt a growing sense of helplessness. Though I was present, I was still a child, unable to grasp the complexities of the situation entirely. I lay on Mai's shoulder, a silent observer, a spectator to a moment that held layers of meaning beyond my reach.

Cough Cough Cough

Mr. Cato's coughs intensified, the sound a raw symphony of suffering. His hand faltered, unable to hold back the tide of blood that dripped from his fingers, staining the grass beneath him. It was as if the earth itself bore witness to his pain, absorbing the evidence of his turmoil.

“Every time I cough, you children smother me,” Mr. Cato's words carried a mix of frustration and exhaustion as if he were at odds not only with the physical ailment but also with the well-meaning attempts to assist him. Another round of coughing consumed him, a barrage that seemed to drain him of his strength. “I don't want your sympathy. I can take care of myself.”

The words were a declaration of independence, a statement of self-reliance. They held within them the echoes of pride, the reverberations of stubbornness, the undertones of a struggle known only to him. He was a man grappling with his own battles.

“Yeah, he doesn't like when people give him sympathy,” A deep voice from behind us said. “We should know because we take care of him. Been doing this for twelve years.” This giant said to my mother.

Amidst the tension, another cough emerged, a deep and arduous sound that emanated from the depths of his being. It broke free with a scratchy tone, filling the air with its presence. His hand, pressed against his face, betrayed him as it expelled a gush of blood, staining his skin and clothes. The scene was both tragic and haunting—a man's battle, encapsulated in a single moment, a single sound.

In the wake of the ordeal, Mr. Cato's strength faltered, his body succumbing to the relentless weight of his affliction. His legs, once pillars of support, betrayed him, unable to withstand the burden any longer. The atmosphere was thick with a sense of finality, as if the air itself held its breath, awaiting the outcome. And then, with a solemn inevitability, he crumbled, collapsing into the pool of his own blood.

A heavy silence hung in the aftermath, the echoes of his struggles and his defiance reverberating in the air. The scene was painted in hues of somberness and reflection, a tableau that bore witness to the intricacies of human existence.

As the quiet settled, a surge of movement broke the stillness. A flood of people emerged from the castle, their footsteps a hurried cadence echoing off the walls. They came running, driven by the urgency of the moment, the need to investigate the source of the disturbance. Their eyes fell upon us, the five of us standing beside the collapsed man, a tableau frozen in time, an illustration of a moment forever etched in memory.