My Enchanted Story

The Boy Who Spoke Without Words

Not long after I began seeing the little people, something else happened.

I started seeing children who looked as though they were my age.

But even now, after all these years, I sometimes wonder...

Were they really children?

Or did they only look that way to me?

At seven years old, I never questioned it.

Why would I?

To a child, the world is full of strange things, and somehow, strange things don't always feel strange.

A person can look different.

A person can behave differently.

A person can have their own way of speaking.

So when I met him, I didn't think there was anything unusual about him at all.

I simply thought he was another boy.

A new friend.

It was only a few days after I first saw the little people above our mosquito net.

I was outside playing with the other children, running around and enjoying an ordinary afternoon.

Then I noticed him.

He was standing nearby.

I don't remember exactly where he came from.

I don't remember seeing him arrive.

One moment I was playing with everyone else...

And then he was there.

He looked about my age.

There was something different about him, though.

Even as a child, I could sense it.

He seemed to have a strange kind of aura around him.

It wasn't frightening.

If anything, it was the opposite.

There was something almost radiant about him.

And, looking back now, I can say that he was an incredibly handsome boy.

But at seven years old, that meant absolutely nothing to me.

I wasn't interested in whether someone was handsome or not.

I just wanted someone fun to play with.

And he was.

He approached me.

Then he started talking.

But here's the strange part.

I never actually heard his voice.

We communicated through our minds.

Yes.

Our minds.

He would think something, and somehow I would understand what he meant.

I would think something back, and he would understand me.

There were no spoken words between us.

Yet somehow, we talked.

And the strangest thing about it?

I didn't think it was strange.

Not even once.

I simply assumed that perhaps he was like that.

Everyone was different, after all.

Some people talked a lot.

Some people were quiet.

Some people expressed themselves differently.

So why should this boy be any different?

To me, he was just another child.

And a very interesting one at that.

He didn't really play with the other children.

Instead, he seemed particularly interested in me.

Whenever he saw me, he would come over.

Sometimes he would simply watch while I played with everyone else.

He wouldn't interrupt.

He would just stand nearby and observe.

Then, whenever he noticed that I was alone, he would approach me.

And that's when we would play.

He knew all kinds of games.

Games I had never played before.

Games that somehow always seemed exciting.

We could spend what felt like hours together.

Sometimes he would even come inside our house.

I would introduce him to no one.

There was never really a need to.

He was simply there.

And we would play together.

I never wondered how he entered.

I never wondered where he lived.

I never asked what his family was like.

I never even wondered why I had never seen him playing with the other children.

Those questions simply didn't occur to me.

He was my friend.

That was enough.

Sometimes he brought things with him.

Toys.

Flowers.

Food.

Little objects that I found interesting.

Sometimes he brought something specifically because he thought I would enjoy playing with it.

Other times, he simply wanted me to have it.

But I rarely accepted his gifts.

Not because I disliked them.

And certainly not because I disliked him.

I just couldn't understand the idea of keeping something that someone had given me without giving something back.

That was how I had been raised.

If someone gave you something, you should return the favor.

If someone shared something with you, you should share something with them.

So if he brought a toy we could play with together, I was happy.

But if he told me I could keep it...

I usually refused.

"No."

Sometimes I would tell him,

"We can play with it, but you have to take it back."

He didn't seem to understand why.

One day, he looked at me and told me that he wanted to give things to me.

He wanted me to simply accept them.

But I wouldn't.

I didn't know why I felt so strongly about it.

I simply did.

Sometimes, if he insisted, I would let my brother or sister take the object.

"Here, you keep it."

But I wouldn't keep it for myself.

Looking back, I find that strange.

There was never anything particularly frightening about his gifts.

They were ordinary things.

Yet something inside me always said:

Don't accept it.

I listened.

Then one day, he told me something that I didn't fully understand.

He told me that someday he would take me to his home.

To his place.

And he seemed very excited about the idea.

"You'll like it there," he told me.

I didn't think much about it.

I was a child.

The idea of visiting a friend's house sounded fun.

So I simply agreed.

"Sure."

He seemed happy with my answer.

After that, he continued bringing me things.

Flowers.

Toys.

Food.

Little treasures.

Things he thought I would like.

But I continued refusing to keep most of them.

If we could play with them together, that was different.

If they were meant to be shared, I was happy.

But if he wanted me to keep them...

I would give them to my siblings instead.

I still don't know exactly why I behaved that way.

Perhaps it was simply how I had been raised.

Perhaps it was a child's instinct.

Or perhaps...

some part of me already knew something my young mind didn't understand.

There was something else about him.

He seemed to appear whenever I was alone.

If I was surrounded by other children, he might simply watch.

But when everyone left...

he would come.

It became almost normal.

I would be playing alone, and suddenly he would be there.

Sometimes he would sit beside me.

Sometimes we would play.

Sometimes he would simply watch.

And sometimes, we would just communicate without speaking.

No one else seemed to notice anything unusual.

Nobody asked me who I was talking to.

Nobody seemed to notice him the way I did.

But because I was a child, I never thought deeply about it.

I didn't think:

Why can't anyone else see him?

I thought:

He's my friend.

That was all.

There was, however, one thought that occasionally crossed my mind.

I wondered where all of this was going.

He was always giving me things.

He always wanted to spend time with me.

He wanted me to visit his place.

And he seemed particularly interested in me.

Even at seven years old, I had a vague feeling that perhaps there was something more behind his kindness.

I sometimes wondered if he was...

well...

courting me.

The thought sounds funny now.

I was only seven.

What did I know about courting?

Still, children notice things.

And whatever his intentions were, he certainly seemed determined to stay close to me.

I never felt afraid of him.

I never felt threatened.

I simply accepted him as part of my strange little world.

A world that, by then, had already begun changing around me.

First, there had been the tree.

Then the little people.

Now there was this mysterious boy who spoke without words and appeared whenever I was alone.

I didn't know where he came from.

I didn't know where he lived.

I didn't know why he could communicate with me without speaking.

And I certainly didn't know what his home would look like.

But he had promised me something.

One day...

he would take me there.

And I had innocently said yes.

I had no idea that those two little words—

"Sure, I'll go."

—would eventually lead me deeper into a world I didn't know existed.