Harun never gave the child a name.
At first, it was because he didn't know what name would fit.
Later, it simply became habit.
So he called him "boy."
"Boy, come here."
"Boy, careful with that."
"Boy, don't wander too far into the forest."
The child never complained.
He would simply turn toward Harun's voice and answer softly.
"Yes, grandfather."
Harun never corrected that word either.
It had started because of the story he told the villagers.
According to Harun, the child was his grandson.
His son and daughter-in-law had died five years ago in the terrible explosion that destroyed a distant capital.
The villagers had heard those rumors already.
An entire city gone overnight.
So no one questioned the story.
They simply pitied the quiet old man raising a small child alone.
And the child—
The boy by the brook—
grew up peacefully.
During the first year, Harun slowly realized something strange.
The baby almost never cried.
He slept quietly.
Ate quietly.
And listened.
That was the strange part.
He always listened.
Whenever Harun moved, the baby's head would turn immediately.
Whenever someone spoke, his eyes would follow the sound.
At first Harun thought the child was simply very attentive.
But as the months passed, another detail became clear.
The baby's eyes didn't focus on anything.
They were beautiful eyes.
Bright crystal blue.
But they didn't follow movement.
They didn't react to light.
They simply stared gently into space.
Harun discovered the truth one afternoon.
The boy was almost one year old then.
Harun had dropped a wooden spoon on the floor while cooking.
Before the spoon even finished bouncing—
The baby turned his head instantly toward the sound.
Perfectly.
But when Harun waved his hand in front of the child's face…
Nothing happened.
Harun froze.
He moved his hand closer.
Still nothing.
The boy blinked slowly, unaware.
Harun sat down heavily in his chair.
"…ah."
It finally made sense.
The child wasn't watching the world.
He was hearing it.
The boy was blind.
At first, Harun worried.
Raising a blind child alone would not be easy.
But strangely—
The boy never struggled.
He moved around the cottage carefully but confidently.
His hands memorized the shape of every table, every chair, every doorway.
Within weeks he could walk from the bed to the kitchen without touching anything.
By the time he was two, he could navigate the entire cottage.
By the time he was three, he could walk along the brook outside without stumbling.
The villagers noticed it too.
"He hears everything," one of them said once.
And it was true.
The boy could hear birds before anyone else noticed them.
He could hear footsteps on the village road long before the person arrived.
Once, he even pointed toward the forest and calmly said,
"Grandfather, someone is walking there."
Harun stepped outside.
A hunter appeared from the trees minutes later.
After that, Harun stopped questioning the boy's hearing.
It was simply… exceptional.
Years passed quietly.
The boy grew.
By the time he turned five, he had become a familiar sight in the village.
A small child with soft silver hair and pale skin.
Always walking carefully along the brook.
Always greeting people politely.
"Good morning."
"Thank you."
"Please be careful."
The villagers adored him.
They often brought small gifts to the cottage.
Bread.
Fruit.
Little wooden toys.
The boy always thanked them with the same gentle smile.
He spoke clearly.
Walked calmly.
And listened more than he talked.
Sometimes the other children played near the brook.
But the boy rarely joined them.
He preferred sitting beside Harun while the old man worked.
Or helping with small tasks around the cottage.
"Boy," Harun once said while chopping wood, "you don't have to help."
The child simply shook his head.
"I want to."
He carefully gathered the smaller pieces of wood and stacked them beside the door.
His movements were slow but precise.
Like someone much older than five.
Harun watched him quietly.
Something about it felt… strange.
Not wrong.
Just strange.
That night, Harun sat outside the cottage.
The brook flowed quietly beside him.
Inside the house, the boy slept peacefully.
Harun sighed and rubbed his beard.
"…too perfect."
The words slipped out without thinking.
The boy never threw tantrums.
Never complained.
Never asked for anything.
He listened carefully.
Worked carefully.
Spoke politely.
Even the way he smiled felt… controlled.
Like he was trying very hard to be good.
Too hard.
Harun leaned back in his chair.
The moonlight reflected softly in the water.
"…you should be more troublesome," he muttered.
Children were supposed to be noisy.
Messy.
Selfish sometimes.
But the boy was none of those things.
Instead, he acted like someone trying to grow up too quickly.
As if he was afraid of being a burden.
And for some reason—
That thought made Harun's chest ache.
Maybe it was because the old man had grown attached.
More attached than he expected.
He had only planned to take care of the strange baby for a little while.
But five years had passed.
Now the cottage felt quiet whenever the boy wasn't nearby.
Harun sighed again.
"…troublesome."
Inside the cottage, the boy stirred slightly in his sleep.
Even with his eyes closed, his hearing caught the soft sigh outside.
His lips moved slightly.
"…grandfather?"
Harun looked toward the door.
"I'm here."
The boy relaxed again immediately.
"Okay."
Silence returned.
Harun sat there for a long time.
Listening to the quiet forest.
Listening to the gentle sound of the brook.
And thinking about the strange child sleeping inside his house.
The boy who loved him deeply.
And yet—
Sometimes felt like someone far older than five years old.