16th of Winter 514Av
Calm and smooth as a mirror, the sea stretched out into the horizon. Squinting, Timothy could make out little white specks in the distance, white sails set ablaze by the hard winter sun. He’d awoken with a jolt that morning, an unusual tingle itching at his skin. For bells he’d wandered around, trying to figure out what was so off about today. Resting against the battlements, peering into the horizon, he finally understood why. Today was his twelfth birthday.
His heart skipped a beat.
The air, thin and moist, chilled his windpipes as he sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils. Today is my birthday, he pinched himself mentally. For a tick his lips broke into a smile rivaling the sun’s warmth, but with it came the crushing memories of home. It all seemed so long ago now, so distant. Further away than the ocean meeting the ashen clouds on the horizon. Yet there wasn’t a ship that could carry him back. Back to the days of poverty, mud and endless toil, not knowing whether he would live or die the next morning but also the days where his mother would sit at his bed and tell him a story, just before he dozed off.
Now that the pond had been stirred, more memories resurfaced. Bright laughter rung in his ears as he remember how mother had awoken him on his tenth birthday, his last birthday with her. She had made him a small cake that day, ruffled his hair and sat him down at the rickety kitchen table. Thin shafts of light had beamed down through the thatched roof that day, making the air sparkle as motes of dusts descended like falling leaves.
“You’re ten now darling,” she had said. Tender fingers, soft like silk had slipped the old, worn bracelet onto his wrist. “This was your father’s, I think it’s time for you to have it.” He hadn’t said anything back, but he still remember staring down at this most precious gift before mother had pulled him into a tight hug, nearly choking him.
Swallowing, he cast all of it aside, only cherishing the warm buzz heating up his insides, a faint residue of how he’d felt that day. Before him was nothing but a blank canvas, a dreadful, empty expanse with no clear destination and thunderous clouds rapidly approaching. Perhaps he wasn’t that much unlike one of those galleons in the distance. Presently, the weather was easy and the sea calm, but the past year had been like a mixture of deafening silence and boiling, nightmarish storms. Truly, he didn’t feel like he had a ship. He imagined himself on a raft, sailing on an ocean that stretched out in every direction, and he didn’t know where true north was.
Snapping out of his daydreams, Timothy decided to head down and stroll out of the main entrance. He plopped down at the edge of the windswept pasture, where the road faded into wild grass. Careful not to disturb his left wrist, he lay down on his back, rested his left arm on his belly and gazed up at the sky, wishing he could fly away.