The village buzzed with early morning activity, wagons creaking under loaded crates while children darted around their parents, spilling excitement into the air. Arlen lingered at the edge of his family, silent as always, his satchel slung over one shoulder.

Theo tugged at Mary’s sleeve, his energy already in full swing. “Mama, can I ride with the adventurers? Please?”

Mary smiled, brushing his hair back. “If they let you, darling.”

Theo beamed and sprinted toward a group of armed men by the lead wagon. One of them, a grizzled adventurer named Ardan, ruffled Theo’s hair and lifted him onto the wagon.

“You’re a lively one, aren’t you?” Ardan said, laughing.

Arlen stood back, his gaze flicking to Theo and then back to the ground. Lively? It’s a euphemism for loud and restless. People seem to admire what disrupts the quiet.

Mrs. Elba approached him, her arms open wide. “Oh, Arlen, look at you! Still the quiet one, aren’t you? Come here, give me a hug.”

Arlen hesitated before letting her awkwardly pat his back. She pulled away, her face warm and full of fondness. “Your brother is so much like your father, isn’t he? And you, well... you’re your own kind of special.”

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“Okay,” Arlen said, his voice barely audible.

Mrs. Elba chuckled, taking his silence as shyness, and moved on. He watched her join the others, her laughter blending into the hum of conversation. ‘Special’ is a catchall term. It fills silence when people can’t decide what they mean or when words fail to justify their sentiment.

As the group began their journey, Theo darted from wagon to wagon, chatting with everyone he met. “Did you know we’re going to the biggest city ever? With towers that touch the sky!”

One of the villagers smiled indulgently. “Is that so? Maybe you’ll be as tall as those towers one day!”

Theo laughed, twirling in excitement, while Arlen walked quietly beside his mother. He looked at the villager who’d spoken, his thoughts circling. ‘Towers that touch the sky’? Impossible. Structures are limited by material strength and gravity. But Theo’s enjoying the idea. They’re indulging him because it makes him happy.

Mary glanced at Arlen, her eyes soft with something he couldn’t quite define--worry, perhaps, or attachment. He caught her gaze briefly before looking away. Whatever it was, I didn’t share it.

By the time the group stopped to camp for the evening, the fire’s warmth pulled everyone into a circle. Theo sat at the center, retelling his grandest imaginary adventure yet, complete with dragons and magical swords.

Arlen sat apart, picking at the edge of a bread roll, his focus on the flames. One of the younger adventurers, Alric, wandered over and handed him a cup of water. “You’re a quiet kid, huh?”

Arlen nodded, accepting the cup. “Okay.”

“Stories aren’t your thing, are they?” Alric said, sitting down nearby.

Arlen glanced at the fire, then at Alric, and said nothing. Why should they be? They’re distortions of reality, crafted for entertainment. I see no point in pretending to care.

Alric took his silence as thoughtfulness and patted his knee before standing up. “Well, if you ever want to join in, you’re welcome.”

Arlen sipped the water, his gaze returning to the fire. He doesn’t mean that. It’s just a courtesy adults offer when they don’t expect you to take it. The flames flickered, casting long shadows around the circle, their warmth drawing everyone closer. He watched Theo animatedly weave his tales of dragons and towers, holding everyone’s attention with ease.

Warmth--literal and figurative. Something they shared with each other but not with me. Yet, I didn’t feel its absence. I didn’t need it.