The last manifestation

The forest, his home, his mother's embrace — that was the only place he knew as safe and familiar. Yet, deep inside, a small spark burned: the curiosity and will to change. He couldn't ignore the pull that urged him to keep going, to find out how people lived, laughed, and played.

He once saw a group of children running and screaming joyfully, unafraid of anything. He wished he could join them, to laugh as they did, to share in that innocent joy. He wished his mother or brother were with him, to ease his anxiety. But that was never an option — he was the only one who looked human. His appearance was his only ticket into this world, making him eligible for an experience he had no idea where it would lead.

He tried many times to approach the other children but always hesitated, unable to step beyond the shadows. His legs trembled every time he tried. He always returned to the forest, hidden and unnoticed, back to the trees he knew so well.

Each time he came home, he excitedly described everything he had seen in the village — the colorful clothes, the animal-drawn carts, the smell of fresh food from restaurants and bakeries. His mother and brother listened eagerly, hanging onto every word.

His visits continued, always careful to stay unseen. The barrier wasn't just language — it was a suffocating feeling, tightening his chest every time he thought of getting closer. A harsh tension stiffened his muscles, made his fingers cold, as if his body rejected connection.

That feeling was the opposite of the calm he found among trees, where small animals leapt and birds fluttered. The isolation, though peaceful, didn't give him the tools to interact with others — but it gave him something else: inner peace, clarity, and a sense of belonging.

Still, that peace couldn't suppress his yearning to be part of something larger. He wanted to hear his name called by someone other than his mother or brother, to share laughter, maybe even sorrow, to be one among many, to explore, to raise his voice among others. That desire is what kept him coming back in secret, discovering something new each time.

Eventually, a group of children noticed him. They paused, then invited him to join. As always, he fled, as if the ground burned beneath him. They tried several times to reach out, but he always ran. His speed was unmatched, so they devised a plan to catch him — a playful trap that narrowed the alleyways until they surrounded him.

They didn't touch him, but their eyes encircled him. They were clearly amazed by his appearance — white hair, silver eyes — features they had never seen in anyone, young or old.

He was nervous, heart pounding like a drum, but gradually, his fear began to lessen. Their eyes, though curious, weren't harsh — they were innocent, amazed by something new, just like his own.

They asked him to play. Their invitation felt genuine — no pressure, just a childlike insistence. Despite his fear, something inside him relaxed. And silently, he accepted.

From then on, little Ace began to visit and play with them. It took time to feel comfortable. Adapting wasn't easy, and the village remained a stage of mixed emotions. Every visit felt like the first, even though he had memorized its streets and faces. The sense of distance never fully left.

But over time, that barrier began to fade. The children always invented new games, built magical worlds from stones and paper, ran barefoot, trailing laughter that knew no bounds.

With every moment spent among them, his anxiety stepped back, making room for courage to sneak in. Yet, his appearance — something he couldn't change — always drew attention. Adults watched him with mixed expressions, some curious, others wary. Their gazes stirred the question in him: was his difference a gift, as the children saw it, or a curse, as the adults' looks implied?

But the children, in their pure intuition, always sensed what troubled him. They surrounded him like a circle of light, shielding him from the stares. They pulled him away, protected him like a tiny army, planting comfort in his heart.

It took months, but strangers became friends. Even the adults who once stared began to smile when he passed by, greeting him warmly. It was as if the village itself had begun to accept and embrace him. Even the language barrier disappeared. Their words became etched in his mind, light on his tongue, spoken with ease.

"Why are you telling me all this?" Nova asked, frowning as if unwilling to admit he had been moved.

Ace sighed, his eyes drifting beyond the present. Then he answered softly:

"When I grew up, I searched for the reasons behind the anxiety I felt as a child. It wasn't just in my head. It came from growing up in isolation, wrapped in my mother's and brother's warmth. That's why I didn't know how to deal with the outside world."

He paused, then continued in a thoughtful tone:

"Now let me ask you — if I had stayed in that forest home, would I be the person sitting beside you right now? The one who came from afar to help save your farm? Or would I have been just a shadow behind a window, watching life pass by without ever being part of it?"

Silence fell after those words. The child had no response — or perhaps he didn't need one. The truth etched on his face was enough. The young man's words had pierced the walls of his defenses and reached a point he had long avoided confronting. His silence was not born of ignorance or indifference; it was a silent confession laden with a truth he had always known — a truth he never had the courage to face.

Then, Ace turned toward the house behind them, and a gentle smile formed on his lips, carrying a blend of warmth and understanding. He spoke in a calm, resonant voice filled with comfort,

 "You have a warm home here and a loving family. This house isn't just walls — it's your world, a place where safety and peace reside. There's nothing wrong with wanting to stay here forever. That's natural. But life doesn't always allow us the luxury of remaining where we're most at ease. Sometimes, it demands that we step outside our circle to face the trials it throws our way."

He looked back at the child, who was staring silently at the ground, his tiny fingers trembling. Ace's voice grew more serious as he continued,

 "Your grandparents are elderly, and that makes them vulnerable to illness. Sure, your farm is full of bounty, and its crops give you healthy food that keeps you strong. But… have you ever thought about what might happen if they got sick and needed medicine that could only be found far away?"

He paused, then added with a deeper tone, trying to plant a seed of reflection in the child's heart,

 "Would you have time then to hesitate and wonder whether you could go, before time slips away? It may not seem like a problem now, here in this safe place. But beyond the farm, life is different. Sooner or later, you'll have to face the world and deal with people you don't know. When that time comes… will you be ready?"

The child started to tremble. Tears gathered at the corners of his long lashes before slowly sliding down his pink cheeks, as though Ace's words had struck a chord deep within his tender heart. Then, in a faint, trembling voice, the child uttered words wrapped in pure innocence,

 "G–Grandpa and Grandma… they'll always be okay… w–we'll stay together forever."

At that moment, Ace couldn't help but lift his gaze to the sky, where wisps of clouds drifted across the horizon. A soft smile appeared on his face, holding within it distant memories — memories of a similar sense of safety he once wished for, though he knew life wasn't always generous enough to grant every wish. He sighed lightly before turning his eyes back to the small child and said in a quiet voice, heavy with experience,

 "It's about accepting that we all have our flaws and weaknesses. We're not perfect, and we're not expected to be. But what we must do is work on the parts of ourselves that hold us back."

He paused, letting his words sink into the child's mind, then added — this time with a more encouraging tone:

 "I'm not saying it's easy. Change takes inner strength. But it's not impossible. Wanting to change isn't enough. What makes the difference is effort. Every small step you take toward change is a step toward freeing yourself from the limits you've placed on yourself. I believe you can do it — if you have the will."

As he finished, a gentle breeze swept through, making the colorful flowers in front of them sway, releasing their sweet fragrance into the air as if blessing the moment. The child's eyes shimmered with a new spark — a sign that a seed of understanding had begun to sprout within, even if he was still too young to grasp everything that had been said. In a hesitant, almost whisper-like voice, he asked,

 "D–do you… really believe I can do it? That I can stop being so shy?"

His tone held tinges of doubt, reflecting an inner conflict between hope and fear. Then, Ace stood up and walked among the flowers. He paused, turned to the child, and with a warm smile that radiated confidence, he said,

 "What I believe… is that you've already taken the first step toward doing just that."

The child's eyes widened, astonished, as if the young man's words had lifted a veil from a truth he hadn't noticed before. He asked eagerly,

 "W–what do you mean?!"

Ace replied,

 "Well, you sat with me… and you listened. Compared to when we first met, you wouldn't have done something like that."

The simplicity of those words echoed in the child's mind, as though they had carved a space within him. Could it really be that simple? Just sitting… and listening? He had never thought of it that way. But now, with that small hint, he began to realize that change wasn't about one big leap — it was about small steps building one upon another.

Then, Ace turned around without looking back. He raised his hand as if to wave goodbye, though he didn't say it aloud. His voice carried one final note of wisdom,

 "Do your very best."

The child froze in place, his lips slightly parted, but no words came out. Something stirred inside him — a strange sensation, like a spark had ignited in his heart. Suddenly, without thinking, he jumped to his feet, his emotions surging within, and shouted a question into the air, afraid the answer might disappear into silence:

 "Who are you… Who are you, sir?!"

Ace stopped in his tracks, as though the question had pulled him back. He slowly turned, his brows slightly furrowed, his eyes reflecting a kind of sorrow — an inner weight not easily hidden. He raised a finger to his lips and spoke softly,

 "Ace Farland… a traveler from a distant place."

As soon as he said those words, a cold breeze blew once more, making the flowers dance. Some of their petals lifted into the air, floating around Ace as if nature itself acknowledged his presence.

Nova stood transfixed, feeling that there was more to the young man than just a name. He wasn't merely a wanderer or an adventurer — he was someone who carried untold stories and burdens hidden beneath his calm expression. With that final breeze, Nova wrapped his arms around himself, trying to shield against the sudden chill.

"Go inside the house," Ace said. "Tell your grandparents not to go out under any circumstances until I return. It may take until morning."

His words bore a clear warning. Then he turned and walked away, while Nova continued to watch him, eyes filled with admiration and a burning desire for change — a desire that would not fade. At that moment, the child's hair began to shimmer — not from the wind, but from something unseen. What had been golden strands in the morning now glimmered like threads of starlight, reflecting the night sky itself. And as he turned to go inside, the child silently hoped the young man would return safely.