CHAPTER 399: FAMILY

Vincent/Vaelthor~

I sat on the worn wooden porch of Rayma’s cottage, the late afternoon sun filtering through the canopy of ancient oaks, forming dappled golden patterns on the grass. It had been two months since I’d woken up in that strange bed, my mind a blank canvas smeared with confusion and that inexplicable ache in my chest. Two months of calling myself Star, a name that felt like a borrowed starlight—faint, but guiding. And in those months, Rayma had become my world, a steady anchor in the storm of my forgotten life.

The cottage nestled deep in the woods, a humble structure of weathered logs and thatched roof, but it brimmed with life. Vines climbed the walls as if reaching for Rayma himself, blooming with flowers that shouldn’t have thrived in the shaded undergrowth. I watched him now, kneeling in the small garden patch, his hands hovering over a wilted tomato plant. He didn’t touch it; he just... was there. His presence alone seemed to coax the leaves to unfurl, the stem to straighten, and tiny green fruits to swell with promise. It was magic, plain and simple, though he’d never called it that. Animals felt it too. A family of deer grazed nearby, unafraid, their ears twitching toward him. Squirrels scampered down from branches to sit at his feet, and even the birds sang louder when he was around, as if composing symphonies just for him.

"Star, come here, son," Rayma called, his voice warm like honeyed sunlight, cutting through the crisp air. He straightened up, brushing dirt from his hands, his amber eyes sparkling with that endless kindness. His golden hair caught the light, making him look like some mythical figure stepped out of a storybook.

I stood and walked over, my bare feet sinking into the soft earth. "What is it, Rayma?" I asked, still hesitant with the familiarity, though it had grown easier over the weeks.

He gestured to the plant. "Look at this. It was half-dead this morning, remember? Now it’s bursting with life. Nature has a way of healing itself, just like you." He placed a hand on my shoulder, and that warmth spread through me, chasing away the chill that always lingered in my bones since the poisoning.

I stared at the tomato vine, marveling. "How do you do that? It’s like the plants... listen to you."

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made the deer lift their heads in curiosity. "Oh, it’s nothing special. Just a little encouragement. Everything living wants to thrive, Star. Sometimes it just needs a nudge." But I knew it was more than that. Rayma wasn’t normal—not like the villagers we’d met, not like anyone. He radiated something otherworldly, a pull that drew the world to him.

That pull was even stronger among people. The first time we’d ventured into the small town—a cluster of stone houses and a bustling market square nestled at the forest’s edge—I’d seen it in full force. The air had buzzed with the scent of fresh bread and spices, vendors hawking their wares under colorful awnings. But as soon as Rayma stepped into view, everything shifted. Faces lit up like lanterns at dusk. An old baker with flour-dusted cheeks beamed, rushing over with a loaf still steaming from the oven. "Rayma! Blessed day to see you! Here, take this—on the house. And who’s this fine young man with you?"

Rayma had wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. "This is Star, my son. He’s staying with me now."

The word "son" hit me like a truck every time. My throat tightened, a swell of emotion rising unbidden—pride mixed with a deep, aching longing. Why did it affect me so? I had no memories of a family, no father or mother to compare it to, yet it stirred something raw inside, like a wound I couldn’t see but felt bleeding. The baker’s eyes had softened, and he’d clapped me on the back. "Well, aren’t you lucky to have Rayma as a dad? Finest man in these parts!"

And it wasn’t just him. Everyone—every single soul in that town—gravitated toward Rayma. A seamstress abandoned her stall to chat, her eyes twinkling as she offered him a scarf "just because." Children tugged at his sleeves, giggling as he knelt to their level, conjuring wildflowers from his pockets like tricks. Even the gruff blacksmith, with arms like tree trunks, softened into a smile, insisting on sharpening Rayma’s tools for free. "Anything for you, Rayma," he’d said, his voice gruff but genuine. It was as if Rayma was the sun itself, warm and irresistible, making everyone bloom in his presence.

Back at the cottage that evening, as we sat by the crackling fire—its flames dancing shadows on the carved wooden walls—Rayma had turned to me with a gentle smile. "You did well today, Star. The town’s folk are good people. Did you enjoy the market?"

I nodded, poking at the stew in my bowl—venison again, rich with herbs he’d foraged. "It was... overwhelming. Everyone loves you. It’s like you’re their king or something."

He laughed, that rich sound filling the room. "Hardly. Just friendly faces. But speaking of family..." He paused, his amber eyes locking onto mine. "You’ve been calling me Rayma, and that’s fine. But if it feels right, you could call me Dad. We’re living like a family now, aren’t we? Meals together, walks in the woods, stories by the fire. I’d like that."

The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning. My chest constricted, that familiar emotion bubbling up—tears pricking at my eyes for no reason I could name. "Dad," I tested it, my voice cracking. It felt foreign, yet profoundly right, like slipping into a warm coat after a lifetime in the cold. "Yeah... Dad."

From then on, we were father and son in every way that mattered. Mornings started with him teaching me to chop wood, his strong hands guiding mine on the axe. "Swing from the hips, Star, like this," he’d say, demonstrating with effortless power. Afternoons were for foraging—him pointing out edible berries and mushrooms, explaining their secrets with a patience that made me feel valued, seen. Evenings, we’d sit on the porch, him strumming an old lute he’d carved himself, singing ballads of heroes and lost loves. His voice was melodic, wrapping around me like a blanket.

I was happy—truly happy—for the first time I could remember. Which wasn’t saying much, since my memories were a void. But in Rayma’s world, I thrived. He was the perfect father: kind, protective, always ready with a joke to lighten the mood. Once, when I tripped over a root during a hike, sprawling face-first into mud, he’d burst out laughing—not mockingly, but with infectious joy. "Look at you, Star! Mud monster extraordinaire!" He’d pulled me up, wiping my face with his sleeve, both of us chuckling until our sides ached.

Yet, even in this bubble of warmth, the pain never left. It lurked in my heart like a shadow that no light could banish—a deep, wrenching sorrow that struck without warning. I’d wake in the night, clutching my chest, tears streaming as fragments of emotion assaulted me: loss, betrayal, a love torn asunder. What was it? Who had I lost? The questions haunted me, turning joy bittersweet.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples, I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I wandered behind the cottage to a massive oak tree, its gnarled roots twisting like ancient guardians. Slumping against its trunk, hidden from view, I let the tears come. They poured out in silent sobs, my body shaking as the pain clawed at my insides. It felt like my heart was shattering over and over, pieces scattering into an abyss I couldn’t reach. Why? What memory was this grief tethered to? The world around me blurred—birds chirping their evening songs, leaves rustling in the breeze—but none of it soothed the storm within.

Footsteps approached, soft on the grass. I looked up through tear-streaked vision to see Rayma, his face etched with concern. "Star? What’s wrong, son?" He knelt beside me, his presence a beacon in my darkness.

I wiped my eyes furiously, but the sobs kept coming. "I... I don’t know, Dad. It just hurts so much. This pain in my heart—it won’t go away. No matter how happy I am here with you, it’s always there, like something’s missing. Broken."

He pulled me into his arms without hesitation, engulfing me in that familiar warmth. His embrace was strong, unyielding, like a shield against the world. I buried my face in his shoulder, inhaling his sweet, sun-kissed scent, my tears soaking his shirt. "Shh, it’s alright," he murmured, his hand stroking my back in slow, comforting circles. "I hate seeing you like this, Star. You’re my son now, and it breaks my heart to watch you suffer."

I clung to him, my voice muffled. "Why does it hurt? I can’t remember anything, but it feels like I lost... everything. A person? A life? I don’t understand."

He held me tighter, his voice steady but laced with emotion. "The body and soul remembers what the mind forgets, son. I’ve watched you these past months, hoping time would heal it. I thought maybe the poison’s scars would fade, and with them, this sadness. But it’s deeper than that—unnatural, almost. We can’t ignore it anymore."

Pulling back slightly, he cupped my face in his hands, his amber eyes intense, filled with a father’s fierce love. "Starting tomorrow, I’m going to look into your past. We’ll dig for clues—talk to travelers, scour old tales, whatever it takes. We’ll find the source of this pain and put it to rest. You deserve peace, Star. I promise you that."

Gratitude flooded me, mingling with the grief. I hugged him again, fiercely. "Thank you, Dad. For everything. For taking me in, for being... you. I don’t know what I’d do without you."

He chuckled softly, though his eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "And I without you, son. Now, let’s get inside. Supper’s waiting, and tomorrow’s a new day—for answers."

As we walked back to the cottage arm in arm, the pain lingered, but this time, hope flickered alongside it—like a star piercing the night.