Cold air touched his skin.
Leaves rustled overhead.
The scent of wet earth filled the air.
And somewhere nearby…
Water moved over stone.
The baby cried.
Loud.
Raw.
Alive.
His small hands reached blindly.
His legs kicked weakly.
His eyes could not focus yet.
The world was only shapes and sound.
Light and shadow.
Warmth and cold.
But deep inside that tiny body…
A mind already existed.
A mind carrying memories too heavy for a child.
Pain.
Silence.
Loneliness.
The road.
The truck.
The god with mismatched eyes.
And now…
This.
The crying did not stop.
It could not stop.
Because for the first time in two lives…
He did not know what would happen next.
He lay wrapped in torn cloth beside the roots of a giant tree.
Moss climbed the bark like green waves.
Sunlight broke through the leaves in soft lines.
Birds watched from above.
Then footsteps.
Slow.
Careful.
Crunching over twigs.
The crying grew louder.
The footsteps stopped.
"…Did you hear that?" a woman asked.
A man answered from nearby.
"…That's a child."
Branches moved.
Two figures pushed through the trees.
The first was a tall man with broad shoulders and rough hands.
He carried a bundle of firewood on his back and a hunting knife at his waist.
His dark hair was tied behind him.
His eyes were sharp—but calm.
Beside him stood a woman wearing a green cloak stitched with old repairs.
She carried a basket of herbs and wild fruit.
Her brown hair fell to her shoulders.
Her face looked tired…
But gentle.
They both stared at the crying baby under the tree.
The woman spoke first.
"…By the spirits…"
The man set down the firewood.
"…Who would leave a child here?"
The baby cried harder.
Small fists shaking.
Face red.
The woman rushed forward at once.
Without hesitation.
Without fear.
She knelt and lifted him carefully into her arms.
Warmth.
The baby froze.
The crying broke.
Then softened into weak sounds.
Her hands were steady.
Her heartbeat slow.
Her voice quiet.
"It's okay… it's okay…"
Ayinakoji's mind went still.
He knew these words.
He had said them to himself many times.
But no one had ever said them to him.
The woman looked up.
"He's freezing."
The man knelt beside her.
His expression hardened.
Not at the child.
At whoever had abandoned him.
"There are no tracks except ours," he said.
"Either they left long ago… or they wanted him gone."
The woman's arms tightened around the baby.
"Then they lost him."
The man looked at her.
He already knew that tone.
"…Mira."
"That's his name?" she asked.
"No. That tone means you're about to decide something difficult for both of us."
Despite everything, she smiled faintly.
Then looked back down at the child.
The baby's eyes opened slightly.
Blurry.
Unfocused.
Yet somehow… watching.
"He needs food. Shelter. Warmth."
She paused.
"And if no one comes back for him?"
The man was silent.
Birdsong filled the space between them.
Their clothes were worn.
Their tools old.
Their basket half empty.
These were not rich people.
Not powerful people.
Just survivors in the forest.
Yet the man slowly reached out.
One rough finger touched the baby's tiny hand.
The child gripped it.
Instinctively.
Tightly.
The man exhaled through his nose.
Almost a laugh.
"…Strong grip."
Mira looked at him knowingly.
He glanced away.
"…We can't leave him here."
She smiled wider this time.
"I know."
The baby was wrapped in the woman's cloak.
The man lifted the firewood again.
And together, they turned deeper into the forest.
For the first time…
Ayinakoji was being carried home.
The cabin stood near a stream hidden between thick trees.
Small.
Old.
Built by hand.
Smoke rose from a crooked chimney.
Herbs dried under the roof.
Wood stacked neatly outside.
Inside, the room was simple.
A table.
Two chairs.
A bed.
Shelves filled with jars, tools, thread, and books worn by years.
Mira laid the baby near the fire.
Its warmth touched his skin.
He relaxed without meaning to.
The man hung his coat by the door.
"…We need goat milk."
Mira nodded.
"And hot water."
He was already moving.
A bucket in one hand.
Knife in the other.
Out the door before another word.
Mira sat beside the baby.
She checked the cloth around him.
Cleaned dirt from his face.
Brushed hair from his forehead.
"You've had a hard day, little one."
Ayinakoji stared upward.
Her face was still blurry.
But her voice was clear.
Gentle.
It confused him.
Why help?
Why care?
Why pick him up?
No answer came.
Only kindness.
When the man returned, they worked together quickly.
Warm milk.
Fresh cloth.
A better blanket.
The fire fed with new wood.
The baby drank slowly.
Then faster.
The man watched with folded arms.
"…Hungry too."
Mira laughed softly.
"Of course he is."
She looked at the child again.
"We need a name until we learn the truth."
The man sat in the second chair.
Thinking.
Outside, wind moved through the trees.
The stream whispered nearby.
Then he spoke.
"Kengojo."
Mira blinked.
"That old hero from your stories?"
He shrugged.
"He survived everything."
She looked at the baby.
Then smiled.
"Kengojo."
The name settled into the room like it belonged there.
Ayinakoji's eyes slowly closed.
A new name.
A new life.
But before sleep took him…
One final thought remained.
They chose me.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Then months.
The forest became familiar.
Birdsong in the morning.
Rain on the roof.
Firelight at night.
The smell of bread.
The sound of laughter.
Mira sang while cooking.
The man—whose name was Daren—pretended not to sing along.
Then did anyway.
Kengojo watched from blankets and baskets and later from crawling steps across the wooden floor.
When he cried, someone came.
When he reached, someone lifted him.
When he laughed, someone laughed back.
Each small thing healed a wound no one could see.
Sometimes memories returned.
The empty house.
The broken clock.
The road.
The mirror.
When they did, he would go quiet.
Still.
Distant.
And every time…
Mira noticed.
She would pick him up.
Hold him close.
Say the same words.
"It's okay."
This time…
They were true.
One evening, rain hit the roof in steady rhythm.
Kengojo slept beside the fire wrapped in soft cloth.
Daren looked over from the table.
"…You know someone may come for him one day."
Mira kept sewing a tiny shirt.
"I know."
"And if they do?"
She finally looked up.
Then at the sleeping child.
"We ask one question."
Daren raised a brow.
"Which question?"
Mira's voice turned calm.
Strong.
Certain.
"Did you deserve him?"
Silence followed.
Then Daren laughed quietly.
"…Good question."
He added another log to the fire.
The flames rose higher.
Warmth filled the cabin.
Rain continued outside.
But inside…
No one was alone.
And in sleep, the child smiled.
Not a practiced smile.
Not a mask.
A real one.