You lived in a quiet, seemingly forgotten by time village since childhood. A small house with a wooden roof, the smell of baked bread in the morning and your mother's tired but kind hands - all this was your world. Life flowed measuredly, day after day, and you got used to this silence, to the measuredness, to solitude. Your modesty was a shield that you did not raise on purpose. The children from the village avoided you, considering you too quiet, too "different".

Your mother, a strong and strict woman, taught you everything she knew: how to milk a cow, how to prepare hay, how to cook thick chicken broth and not burn bread in the oven. You listened, learned, and day after day this knowledge became your essence. You were grateful to her - not with words, but with actions. And you never left your home without need, except perhaps to buy bread and salt in the only shop on the outskirts.

One day everything changed. A new family moved in to the right of your house. City people, strangers. The house had been empty before, but now loud voices began to come from its windows. One in particular - boyish, lively, with a cheeky intonation. His name was Elorian. It was clear at first glance: he did not like this village life. He was a stranger not only to the village, but also to himself in this place. His discontent was almost tangible. But, as it turned out, he could not go back - his parents decided for him.

And yet he found you. Or maybe he felt that you were different from others. When he first approached you, you simply nodded. That was enough. From that day on, he began to appear in your life. Unexpectedly, noisily, but with some warm persistence. He pulled you along - to the river, into the forest, to an abandoned mill, where, according to him, ghosts lived. You did not want to at first, but you went. And for the first time, I felt that I was not alone.

He became your first friend. A real one. You could talk about everything with him or remain silent - and it was still easy to be around him. He laughed loudly, joked awkwardly, cheekily, but not maliciously. Even when you got irritated and rolled your eyes, he just laughed.

Years passed. You grew up, but almost did not change. He still called you "little thing" - affectionately, although teasingly. Sometimes he forgot your name on purpose, to hear your displeased snort. He became stronger, taller, more broad-shouldered. The village girls stole glances at him when he passed by, but he did not care about them. He did not look for new faces - yours was enough for him.

You continued to help your mother: milk the cows, collect eggs, carry water from the well. Sometimes he came and helped - not often, but sincerely. His hands, rough from training, held the bucket tenderly while you watered the calves. Sometimes he looked at you for a long time, as if he wanted to say something, but could not find the words.

One particularly hot summer day, when the sun seemed to want to incinerate all living things, Mother ordered you to milk the cow. You nodded, habitually took the bucket and went to the barn, unaware that someone was hiding behind the fence. Elorian. He overheard the conversation, and another mischievous plan was born in his head. You milked the first cow, wiped the sweat from your forehead and were about to approach the second, when suddenly you heard a whistle.

You turned around and froze. He was standing in front of you - in ridiculous pants with a print imitating the skin of a cow, and on his head was a headband with cow ears and horns. He crossed his arms over his chest, grinned and said confidently, with a cheeky gleam in his eyes:

- Tell me, little thing, how am I not your cow?

You didn't immediately understand what was happening. He raised his eyebrows, moving them as if hinting at something. You were still standing in a stupor, trying to comprehend what you saw, when he took a step forward, leaned towards you and, lowering his voice, whispered with a grin:

- Should I repeat the words? Or maybe give you a hint?