Dawn painted Acorn Village in pale gold, the air crisp with the last chill of spring. Leon sat on the ridge of the wheat field, his small frame hunched against the wind, while Erika and Isabella pulled weeds from between the tender green stalks. For weeks, he'd clung to the pretense—vacant eyes, unresponsive limbs—watching his family's quiet toil, memorizing the rhythm of their days, waiting for a sign that it was safe to reveal the awake mind trapped in his child's body. But patience frayed like old linen, and the weight of his secret felt heavier than the clay jar Erika carried to water the crops.
The wind rose without warning. Dry grass and fallen leaves spiraled upward, swirling in chaotic eddies before scattering. Far beyond the fields, dark clouds piled over the Crosscut Mountains with unsettling speed, swallowing the sun in minutes. Leon pulled his thin linen cloak tighter, a primal chill crawling up his spine—not from cold, but from the raw, untamed power building in the sky.
Then the sky split.
Thunder boomed, a deafening crack that shook the earth beneath his feet. Leon startled, lost his balance, and tumbled down the ridge into the wheat, crushing a small patch of young stalks beneath him. Isabella gasped, her eyes wide with terror, while Erika froze mid-weeding, her hands hovering over the crops as she scanned the field for her son. Thunder this early in the year was rare. Thunder like this was unheard of—an omen, the villagers would whisper later—but for Leon, it was a catalyst.
His heart raced, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The sound echoed in his bones, shattering the silence he'd clung to for years. Words burst out before he could stop them, rough but clear, scraped from the depths of a voice unused for too long: "Storm. The sky's angry."
Erika stopped running. For a heartbeat, she stood utterly still, as if frozen by the sound of her son's voice. Then she raced to him, her boots kicking up clods of dirt, dropping to her knees in the wheat, her hands trembling as they cupped his face. Her eyes searched his, desperate and disbelieving, as if she feared the wind itself had tricked her.
"Leon?" she whispered, her voice cracking.
He looked up at her—truly looked, his eyes no longer vacant—and forced the word out again, softer this time, warmer: "Mother."
The dam broke. Erika pulled him into her arms, sobbing openly, clutching him so tightly he could barely breathe. Tears soaked his hair and collar, hot and salty, as she repeated his name over and over, as if saying it would make the moment real. "I knew," she cried. "I never stopped believing. I knew you'd wake."
Isabella darted over, her own eyes glistening with a mix of fear and joy, and threw her arms around them both. "He spoke! Mama—he really spoke!"
Leon turned his head toward her, his throat tight with emotion, and said simply: "Sister."
Isabella laughed through her tears, squeezing him harder, as if afraid he might slip back into silence. Above the fields, the clouds slowly parted, the thunder retreating into distant hills, leaving behind a clean, earthy scent of rain-wet soil. The wheat swayed gently, and somewhere a bird sang, as if celebrating the breakthrough.
Leon leaned into Erika's embrace, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his chest. For the first time since waking in this world, he didn't feel like a stranger in his own skin. He was Leon—son, brother, a child of Acorn Village.
When Garin returned from checking his hunting traps, Erika met him at the gate, her face still streaked with tears but bright with joy. She babbled the story, her words tumbling over each other, and Garin dropped his trap line, rushing to kneel before Leon. His calloused hands brushed wheat from Leon's hair, his sharp eyes softening as he studied his son's clear, alert gaze. "You're back," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Leon nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I'm sorry I took so long."
Garin laughed, a rough, relieved sound, and clapped him on the back. "You're here now. That's all that matters."
That night, supper tasted sweeter than usual—dark bread, deer bone broth, and a handful of wild onions Erika had added as a treat. Leon ate quietly, savoring the warmth of his family's presence, the sound of their chatter, the feeling of belonging. As darkness fell, he lay beside Isabella in their straw mattress, listening to her gentle snores, and knew the pretense was over.
The thunder had broken the silence. His journey had begun.