Days of Stillness

The world around me held fast at keeping me uninformed. They were talking of power but I never quite grasped anything from that conversation and so I had to let it go. Another problem I give to the future Raizen who can probably handle this better.

The days that followed were wrapped in warmth and silence, broken only by the voices of the three who surrounded me. My world was still confined to this single room, its wooden beams above etched into my memory, the flicker of candles painting shadows across the walls. There was no sound beyond them—no carts, no footsteps, no chatter—only the quiet harmony of Rose, Fren, and Celine.

Rose rarely let me out of her arms. Her silver hair brushed against my face whenever she leaned close, and her voice carried a calmness that seemed to silence even the storm of thoughts inside me. She looked at me with such tenderness that I almost forgot how humiliating it was to be trapped in this fragile body, unable to do anything but cry, hiccup, or stare blankly.

Fren was nothing like the exhausted figure I first saw. He was always grinning, always steady, the kind of presence that filled the room with reassurance. He carried me with ease, his voice light and playful as he spoke to me as though I could understand every word. “You’ll grow strong, Raizen,” he’d say, his grin widening as if daring me to prove him right. He was dependable in a way that made me feel oddly safe, even though I was barely more than an hour old when he first held me.

Celine, of course, visited often. Her glasses caught the candlelight as she teased everyone, never missing a chance to poke fun at Fren or Rose. She seemed far too amused by my helplessness, smirking whenever I cried or made some infantile noise. I still hadn’t forgiven her for the “initiation” slap, but she carried herself with a confidence that suggested she wasn’t the type to care about grudges.

Together, the three of them formed a strange balance. Rose’s tenderness, Fren’s unwavering support, and Celine’s sharp humor filled the room with life. Every need I had was met without hesitation. After years of sterile hospital rooms and fading friendships, this care felt almost unreal. I was helpless, yes, but I wasn’t alone.

Still, I couldn’t shake the unease of not knowing what lay beyond these walls. My world was limited to candlelight, wooden ceilings, and the faces of three people who seemed far too young to be burdened with me. And yet, despite the confinement, I felt something I hadn’t in years: the possibility of belonging.