Eiran remembers his house.

It is warm. Not bright, but soft

The kind of warmth that stays even when the sun is gone.

He remembers the sound of the floor when someone walks across it. The smell of something cooking. A window that lets in orange light in the afternoon. He cannot remember faces clearly, but he knows there were voices. Calm voices. Safe ones.

It feels far away, like a dream that fades when you try to hold it.

Then the warmth breaks.

Eiran is running.

His chest burns. His breath comes out fast and uneven. The ground beneath his feet is rough, covered with roots and stones. Branches scratch his arms as he pushes through them. Leaves hit his face. The forest is too big. Too dark.

He does not know why he is running.

Only that he must not stop.

His heart beats so loud it hurts his ears. His legs feel heavy, but fear keeps them moving. The trees blur together. Shadows stretch and twist around him.

Something is wrong.

Something is chasing him.

Or maybe something already caught him.

His foot hits a root.

The world tilts.

Eiran falls forward. Pain explodes in his head as it hits the ground. For a moment, he sees white—brighter than the sun. Louder than sound.

Then everything goes black.

When Eiran opens his eyes, the forest is gone.

He is lying on a smooth floor. It is cold beneath his back. The air smells clean. Too clean. He sits up slowly, his head throbbing.

The room is white.

Not just the walls. Everything. The floor. The ceiling. No shadows. No corners. It feels endless, like the room never really ends.

Eiran stands. His legs shake. He looks around, searching for a door. A window. Anything.

There is nothing.

A mirror stands against one wall.

He steps closer and freezes.

The boy in the mirror looks wrong.

His orange hair is messy and tangled. His face is pale. There are small cuts and bruises on his skin. His eyes look tired. Older than he feels.

“Is that… me?” he whispers.

The reflection does not answer.

A soft sound fills the room. Footsteps.

Eiran turns.

A woman stands behind him.

She smiles.

“Good morning,” she says gently. “You’re awake.”

Her voice is calm. Warm. Like the house in his memory.

“Who are you?” Eiran asks. His throat feels dry.

She steps closer, careful not to scare him. “You can call me Mom.”

The name feels strange. Heavy.

“Where am I?” he asks.

Mom looks around the room, then back at him. “You’re home.”

Home.

Eiran looks at the white walls again. At the empty space. His chest tightens.

“I don’t remember coming here,” he says.

“That’s okay,” Mom replies softly. “You’ve been through a lot. Sometimes our minds forget things to protect us.”

She places a hand over her heart. “You’re safe now.”

Safe.

Eiran wants to believe her. His head still hurts. His body feels weak. The forest feels far away, like it never existed.

But deep inside him, something feels wrong.

If this is home,

why does it feel like he is trapped?

Mom smiles again. “Rest for now. Everything will make sense soon."

Eiran nods, even though questions fill his mind.

As Mom turns to leave, he notices something strange.

There is no door.

And when she disappears, the room stays just as white, just as quiet, as before.

Eiran sits down slowly.

Somewhere in his chest, fear begins to grow.

The sound of heavy rain fills Eiran’s ears. It hits the roof of a small house near the edge of the city. The walls are thin and the floor is cold, but the house feels warm. It feels real.

Eiran sits near the window and watches the rain slide down the glass. His orange hair sticks to his forehead. In this memory, he feels younger. Smaller.

His father is in the kitchen, counting money on the table. There is not much of it. He counts slowly, like every coin matters.

“Is it enough?” Eiran asks.

His father looks up and smiles. “Yes. It’s enough. Your brother deserves it.”

Today is his brother’s birthday. His brother is older and stronger. He helps their father work every day and brings money home. He never complains. Eiran knows his brother is tired, but he always smiles.

They want to celebrate him. Not with a big party, just warm food and time together.

Eiran looks at the door. “He should be home by now.”

The rain grows louder outside.

“He will come home,” his father says. “He always does.

Time passes. The clock moves forward, but the door stays closed. The rain does not stop. Eiran feels something heavy in his chest.

“He’s late,” Eiran says quietly.

His father stands up and puts on his jacket. His face looks serious now. “I’ll go look for him,” he says.

When the door opens, cold air and rain rush into the house. Then the door closes again. Eiran is alone.

Minutes pass. Then more minutes. The house feels too quiet. Only the sound of rain remains. Suddenly, Eiran hears a shout from far away. It is unclear and short. Then it is gone.

His heart starts to beat faster.

Something is wrong.

The memory begins to break. The sound of rain fades. The house becomes blurry. Faces lose their shape. Eiran tries to remember their names—his father’s name, his brother’s name—but they disappear from his mind.

He cannot remember.

Everything turns dark.

...-o0o-...

A soft melody fills the room.

It is gentle and beautiful, like a song meant to calm the heart. Eiran opens his eyes slowly. The white ceiling of Home is above him. For a moment, he forgets where he is. Then the memory of the rain and the house fades again.

The melody continues.

Eiran sits up and listens. The sound is not coming from his room. It feels farther away, like it is calling him. He stands and follows it through the white halls.

The hallway opens into a large room.

There are many children inside.

Dozens of them.

They stand in neat lines, facing forward. Some are the same age as Eiran. Some are younger. A few stand apart, unsure and stiff, as if they do not fully understand where they are yet.

Eiran realizes they must be the new ones.

At the front of the room stands Mom.

She looks calm, her posture straight, her eyes gentle but sharp. When she speaks, her voice is soft, yet everyone can hear it.

“Today, we have new children joining Home,” Mom says.

No one speaks. The melody fades into silence.

“They were found alone and afraid,” she continues. “Just like all of you once were.”

Eiran’s chest tightens.

Mom explains that most of the children in Home have lost their memories. Fear and pain broke them, she says, and forgetting was the only way they could survive.

“This place exists to protect you,” Mom says. “You don’t need to remember the past anymore.”

Her gaze moves slowly across the lines of children and pauses for a moment on Eiran.

“Some of you may remember small pieces,” she adds.

“That is normal.”

Eiran feels his hands grow tense. He knows she is speaking about him, even if she does not say his name.

“You are all my children now,” Mom says. “And I will take care of you.”

The word feels strange in his chest.

Children.

Mother.

Eiran should question her. He should feel afraid. He should remember the rain, the house, and the feeling of waiting.

But his head feels heavy. The calm in Mom’s voice wraps around him. The fear inside him grows quiet.

And even though he does not understand why, Eiran believes her.

Mom walks slowly to the front of the room. Her steps are calm, steady, and sure. In her hand, she carries a thick folder. The edges are worn, like it has been held many times before.

She lifts it slightly.

“This is where you are kept,” she says.

Her words are soft, but they land heavily.

She opens the folder. Pages shift quietly. Eiran cannot see what is written, but he imagines rows of names and notes. His name must be there too.

“I know all of you,” Mom continues. “I know what you like. I know what you miss.”

She turns her head and looks at one child standing near the front. “You’ve been thinking about your favorite food,” she says. “Tonight, I will make it for you.”

The child blinks, then nods slowly. A small smile appears on his face.

Eiran feels something strange twist inside him. How could she know?

Mom closes the folder and holds it against her side.

“Everything you want will come,” she says. “But only if you follow the rules of Home.”

Her smile fades.

“If you break them,” Mom adds, “you will be punished.”

The room goes silent.

Eiran hears his own breathing. He notices how still everyone is. Some of the younger children stare at the floor. A few of the new children shift their weight, unsure where to stand.

For a moment, Mom’s face changes. Her eyes look cold.

Sharp.

Then she smiles again.

“For our new children,” she says gently, “you will find the rules waiting in your rooms.”

She gestures toward the hallway. “Read them carefully.”

Mom looks at the lines of children once more.

“When you turn seventeen,” she says, “I promise you a wonderful gift.”

Eiran feels the room lean closer.

“You will meet your real parents,” Mom continues. “They will adopt you and take you home.”

Some children gasp quietly. Others smile, their eyes shining.

“That is why you are trained here,” Mom says softly.

“Rules make you better. Rules prepare you.”

Mom steps back. The folder rests against her side, silent and heavy.

Eiran does not move.

The words echo in his head—rules, punishment, parents, home.

And for the first time, he understands that Home is not just a place to live.

It is a place that decides who they are allowed to become.

Eiran sat on the edge of his bed, his feet touching the cold floor. His room was not small, but not big either. It was just enough. The bed was simple, with clean white sheets. In the corner, there was a small wardrobe filled with clothes—only enough for a week. Everything was neat. Everything looked prepared for him.

On the wall in front of the bed, a mirror hung slightly tilted, as if it was never fixed properly. Eiran looked at his reflection. The face staring back at him felt unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else. He stared for a moment, trying to feel something, but nothing came.

Beside the mirror, a sheet of paper was stuck to the wall. He had already read it. The rules of the Home. Short sentences. Clear commands. Words that did not invite questions. Even so, the paper still felt heavy, as if it was watching him instead of the other way around.

Eiran leaned back and lay down on the bed. He stared at the white ceiling above him, then slowly shifted his gaze to the walls. Everything in this room was complete. Everything was provided. Yet, for reasons he could not explain, a cold feeling settled deep inside his chest, refusing to leave.

A soft knock came from the door across the room.

Knock. Knock.

Eiran slowly turned his head toward the sound. The hallway was quiet, too quiet. Then a small, hesitant voice spoke.

“Um… hello?”

It was a girl’s voice. She sounded shy, almost nervous.

“I—I’m from the room across,” she continued. “Are you awake?”

Eiran sat up. She did not say his name. Maybe she didn’t know it. That thought made him feel a little less alone.

“Yes,” Eiran answered quietly.

There was a short pause, then a soft breath, as if she was gathering courage.

“That’s good,” the girl said. “Mom said we should get ready soon. I just wanted to tell you.”

Her voice lowered, almost a whisper.

“And… um… maybe we can walk together?”

Eiran looked at the white door in front of him. He imagined a girl standing on the other side, shifting her weight, waiting for an answer.

“Okay,” he said after a moment.

The girl let out a small, relieved laugh.

“Okay,” she repeated. “I’ll wait.”

Her footsteps moved away, light and quick. The hallway fell silent again, but this time it felt different. Not empty—just waiting.

Eiran stood up slowly.

For the first time since waking up in Home, he felt that he might not be alone here.

Eiran changed his clothes in silence. The fabric felt clean, almost too clean. When he opened the door, a soft melody filled the hallway.

It was beautiful—but different from before.

The girl stood there, her hands clasped in front of her.

“That’s the dinner bell,” she said gently.

Eiran looked at her and nodded. He understood her words, but the meaning still felt strange. A bell for dinner. A song instead of a sound. He did not know why, but it made his chest feel tight.

They began to walk down the hallway.

Eiran followed the white corridor with his eyes. Doors opened one by one. Some children stepped out of their rooms, quiet and obedient. Others came from a wide room filled with toys and soft mats—the playroom.

No one spoke much.

Their footsteps moved in the same direction, drawn by the melody, toward the dining hall. The walls remained white, endless and clean, as if they were watching.

Eiran walked among them, trying to understand.

This place felt organized. Kind. Almost gentle.

And somehow, that made him uneasy.

Eiran walked beside the girl, matching her slow steps.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The girl stopped.

She looked down at the floor, her fingers tightening around the edge of her sleeve. For a moment, she did not answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was very small.

“I… don’t remember.”

Eiran blinked.

The girl lifted her head slightly. “Mom gave me one,” she said. “She calls me Kate.”

Kate frowned slightly, as if the name sat strangely on her tongue.

“She said most of us don’t remember anything,” Kate continued. “That it’s normal.”

Her eyes moved to the white walls around them.

“And… someone who can remember things is rare.”

Eiran slowed his steps, but he kept walking. The word stayed in his mind, repeating itself. Rare. He did not know what it meant for him, or why his chest felt tight when she said it.

Kate looked at him again, as if waiting for something—an answer, maybe. But Eiran said nothing. The hallway stretched ahead of them, and the dinner melody grew louder, pulling them forward.

They walked on, side by side, while thoughts they did not understand yet quietly followed behind.

They sat at a long dining table, where rows of children filled every seat. The table seemed endless, stretching from one side of the room to the other.

Eiran sat beside Kate.

In front of them was a bowl of soup. Inside were pieces of corn, potatoes, carrots, and a few chunks of meat. The smell rose softly into the air—warm and inviting. For a moment, Eiran felt his stomach respond.

Beside the bowl stood a large glass of plain water.

It was too full.

Just looking at it made Eiran feel slightly sick. The glass was tall, clear, and heavy with water, as if it demanded to be finished. He tried to imagine drinking all of it, his throat tightening at the thought.

Around them, the children sat quietly, hands close to their bowls, waiting.

No one had started eating yet.

Mom sat at the front of the room, at a special table facing all of them. Her seat was slightly higher, making it easy for her to see every child at once.

She smiled warmly.

“Good evening, my children,” Mom said. Her voice was soft, almost comforting. “I hope you’re all hungry tonight.”

Some children nodded. Others stayed still.

“This dinner was prepared just for you,” Mom continued. “Every bowl, every glass. Your bodies need strength to grow.”

Her eyes moved slowly across the long table.

“Please finish everything,” she said gently. “No food. No water left behind.”

The smile never left her face.

Eiran looked down at his soup, then at the full glass of water beside it. The melody had stopped, and the room was quiet now, waiting.

Mom clasped her hands together.

“You may begin.”

The room was silent as everyone began to eat. Spoons moved slowly. No one spoke. Eiran ate quietly, trying not to make any sound.

The silence did not last long.

A sudden cry broke the room.

A small child had spilled their soup. It soaked their clothes, dripping onto the floor. The child began to cry, shaking and apologizing over and over again.

Mom’s smile disappeared.

Her eyes changed.

She clapped her hands once.

The sound was sharp.

A man in white clothes entered the room. He walked straight to the crying child, lifted them without a word, and carried them away. The door closed behind them.

Eiran did not know where the child was taken.

Kate leaned closer to Eiran and whispered through her teeth, her voice tight.

“Finish your food. Quickly. Don’t leave anything.”

She swallowed hard.

“And be careful,” she added. “Or they will drag you away like him.”

Eiran’s spoon trembled slightly as he lifted it again.

Mom stood slowly from her chair. Her smile returned, calm and gentle, as if nothing had happened.

“Remember,” she said softly, her voice reaching every corner of the room,

“what are our rules?”

No one answered.

Mom tilted her head slightly, still smiling.

“Rule one,” she said. “Always finish what is given to you. Food, water, tasks—everything.”

She lifted a finger.

“Rule two. Stay clean. Stay careful. Accidents mean carelessness.”

Another finger.

“Rule three. Do not question. Do not resist. Trust me.”

Her eyes moved across the table, stopping briefly at the empty chair.

“And rule four,” Mom added quietly, “obedience keeps you safe.”

Silence swallowed the room.

Eiran lowered his head and forced himself to drink the water. It burned his throat as it went down. Around him, spoons scraped bowls, glasses slowly emptied.

No one cried again.

By the time the dinner ended, every bowl was clean.

Every glass was empty.

And one seat remained vacant.