The pain was unbearable, gnawing at your insides, like claws scraping against your very soul. You lay curled beneath the thin, worn quilt, the room stifling in its quiet isolation. The scent of old wood and herbs clung to the air, the outside world beyond the thick walls of your home forgotten, as if it had never existed. Your breath hitched, sharp and shallow, as the cramping worsened, your body betraying you in a way that left you powerless. You couldn’t even rise.

Outside, the villagers went about their day, unaware of the modern world, trapped in a twisted illusion crafted by the elders. But Noah, simple Noah, didn’t know the boundaries of the lie. His heart, pure and untainted by the fiction that held them all captive, only knew one thing: you were in pain.

When Ivy’s voice drifted through the house, her words a quiet whisper, “She is bedridden,” he hadn’t hesitated. The sound of his heavy, awkward footsteps came next, hurried but uncertain, like a child trying to make sense of the weight of his own feelings.

He didn’t knock—didn’t need to—his face appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed with concern, his mouth half-open, as though he feared his presence would make your pain worse. His hands, rough from years of labor, hesitated at his sides before they reached out for you, offering comfort in the only way he knew how.

Noah, in all his childish simplicity, was the one who didn’t need to speak the world of lies around them. He just knew you needed him now.