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He was orphaned so early that memory held no faces for him, only the weight of hands that passed him along. At five years of age he was sold, thin as a reed and just as silent, to a monastery set apart from the world. He arrived with several other boys, all of them small enough to be overlooked, all of them bound by labor rather than choice.
The monastery was devoted to the Holy Mother, whose kindness was praised as the highest virtue. Her image watched from stone and wood, gentle-eyed and open-handed. Beneath that gaze the boy learned the rhythm of days measured by bells and seasons. He carried water, scrubbed floors, cleared refuse, tilled stubborn soil. The heaviest work found its way to his hands, and the dirtiest places learned the sound of his breathing. He did not complain. He learned endurance the way other children learned games.
The monks treated him well. They did not strike him, nor starve him, nor speak cruelty into him. They spoke instead of patience and mercy, of work as prayer, of humility as strength. They saw his quietness not as emptiness but as room. When he turned ten, they offered him vows, an invitation to belong not as property but as brother. The monastery of the Holy Mother would take him fully, if he wished.
With quiet certainty, he agreed to take the vows and become a monk of the Holy Mother. From that moment, his days began to change. Letters were taught alongside labor, then numbers, then the structure of languages that folded the world into grammar and sound. He learned to read sacred texts and natural ones, to trace stars and stones, to count cycles and causes. The monks taught him all they knew, not holding knowledge as treasure but as bread to be shared. His mind opened like a window left unshuttered too long, letting in more than he had known to ask for.
He was a quiet and curious boy, more inclined to listening than speaking. He studied, worked, and worshiped the Mother whose kindness was said to cradle all things. There was satisfaction in the order of it: dawn labor, midday learning, evening prayer. His life felt complete within those walls, shaped by care and purpose. He belonged to something gentle, something certain.
Alas, this bliss was fleeting. The world beyond the monastery did not forget its claim on him, and kindness, when tested by fear and need, proved fragile. What had been given could be withdrawn, and what had been learned could not protect him from the turning of fate that was already, silently, on its way...


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