“Ah! The hyitsae leaves are so gold!” a woman in a colorful apron remarked in adoration. “Thank you very much! Just put it in the colander, Kôra,” she instructed.

“Yes, Mother,” the son answered; a twelve years old clad in traditional garb, with his long hair tied into a single braid. The boy was bringing various vegetables he gathered from their field to make a soup from, a common task for this relaxing times. These golden leaves are on its best condition near the late season, it will give a bright yellow hue and a warm nutty taste to any cooking.

Kôra’s sight strayed to the scenic sight seen from their windows; towering blue mountains and lush green hills. The ray of the rising sun faded the morning fog, also warmed the stone walls of this building. The aromatic steam flowed from the rock fowl and mushrooms stock in a pot, boiled on firewood-fueled clay stove. Birds are singing alongside his mother’s cheerful humming. The boy adjusted his ornate bead necklace and smiled, praising the god in his heart.

His mother assimilated well into the village’s culture; if it was not for her unusual appearance and name,  no one could guess by the first glance that she came from a faraway place called the Earth. Meara is even fluent in Aylar-dialect Tôryaemaen language, which was always present in her daily conversation. The language is commonly spoken in Aylar district, including this village of Yorê.

She resembles Kôra at some parts, but indeed different at most. Her long hair was wavy, full of volume as such of her son but in jet black; a shade that Kôra wished to have. Her shape of warm eyes also resembled Kôra’s, yet they were green. Just like her son, she had heavy freckles on her face only with a fair tone of skin beneath; another shade Kôra wished to have.

“Mother,” Kôra called. “Um. . . before his death Father once mentioned about my biological parents. . ."

It is typical in Tôryaemaen culture for adoptive children to know the fact that they are adopted. That is so they develop a curiosity to understand their root and build a distinct identity. Because of this Kôra did not bear the same surname as his parents. The third part of his name, Tsiyura, indicated his status as a kid adopted by the Tsiyu family. While his second part of the name "Halin" was chosen at random; perhaps referred to the situation when he was adopted. Normally in adopted children whose parents are known, the second part would be their biological parents' first name or surname.

Kôra was a lucky one; he was a foundling with a dubious origin. Most of the children like him will be sent to orphanages. Especially, there is a common superstition in some rural areas that demons can employ a form of an unknown child to bring misfortune unsuspecting adoptive families. Another widespread belief also said foundlings are more likely to bring a curse or be cursed; explaining why they were abandoned in the first place, and thus undesirable to be adopted.

“. . .Will I meet them?” he asked.

“You won’t, Dear,” Meara answered, she put the knife down and drop the chopped tubers into the boiling stock water. “They’re dead when you were a baby.”

“Mother said I might have their look,” Kôra noted. “But how they actually were? Were they good people?”

Meara sighed. “They were probably heinous people so we had to take you away from them,” she stated, expecting a displeased face from his son. “Always remember that doesn’t make the person you are, I’m saying this only so you won’t be heinous too,” she smiled to ease Kôra’s feeling.

“I won’t, Mother,” Kôra promised.

“I hope you will grow into a decent person who won't cause suffering to other,” Meara combed his son’s hair with her finger. The unbraided coarse dark brown hair which framed his face, down reaching his shoulder. If only she could hold back from doing this in public, it would save Kôra from embarrassment. He was old enough to be his own self. “These miseries, we aren’t free from their grudge.”

“Grudge? They? Who, Mother?”

“Those who oppose your parents, and those who use it as a part of their revenge,” Meara elaborated while putting the leaves in. “And ultimately your parents themselves.”

“My biological parents, right?”

“Your father to,” She added solemnly. “And maybe me too.”

Kôra was weighed down speechless by this heap of words being said, it was beyond his expectation.

“I’m sorry, I wish I worded it better," Meara apologized seeing Kôra’s dismayed face. “Never be sorry of yourself because things you can’t help. . . I guess."

The golden hue of pigment melted into the water, leaving an unsaturated foliage soaked in.

»»-------------¤-------------««

Kôra’s head felt heavy, he could not let go of what Keane said to him last night. Moreover, the dream of his mother still resonates in his mind. He almost forgot that she is dead, now it revisited his mind again. The loss. In his head, it was always the image of her waiting at home holding flowers which she will pot, and when he came in, it will always be the same again. His lost. Lovely delusion it was, too early in the morning for that.

He sat at the dining table, sipping yesterday’s leftover tea. Good mood is indeed what makes good food, he just learned it today. The tea tasted superb, but it falls below bland on the tongue of the cheerless boy. Kôra side-eyed at his uncle making some noise, he was placing the glasswares on the rack after sorting it from the broken ones. The boy felt bad for oversleeping and not helping.

Uncle was silent, he looked even more pallor and exhausted. It seemed he also did not sleep well last night. Not to mention he stayed up late with Keane to discuss the moving, after cleaning up the yesterday's mess together. It must be hard for him.

“Uncle, I am sorry for yesterday,” he apologized.

“You made a correct decision, you freed yourself from me,” Haren replied without turning his back. “I lied, I abused you.”

“But Uncle, I—”

“Don’t talk about it again.”

Kôra gazed at the chaotic dining room and then to his bandaged hand. How could he not talk about it again, about all the damages he did.

“Why? Does it hurt?” Haren noticed.

“Should we visit real doctor in case he is a quack?”

“Is it hurt or not? Don’t waste my time and money,” the uncle blustered. “I saw him stitching your wounds; his stitches are neat, and he acted like a real deal.”

Kôra remembered Keane’s mischievous smile last night, Yes a real deal. Probably he kidnaps dogs and cut them up so often that he is good at stitching.

“I can complain to him later if something happens,” Kôra decided. “And what Uncle is going to do after I left?”

“Getting a peace of mind.”

“Please don’t kill yourself,” Kôra implored out of the blue. Haren paused sorting then put down the plate in his hand. “Even in heaven, father—may God bless his soul—must be sad for him to see his beloved little brother there.”

“I’m going straight to hell anyway." The man smirked. “So it’s best to give up this cursed life”

“I pray every day for uncle, I am sure Father pray too when he was alive for Uncle’s happiness and long life,” Kôra convinced. “Prayer is stronger than a curse, my priest in the village said.”

“If he doesn’t want me to die soon, then why can’t he leave me alone.”

“Uncle. . . Father is dead when I was ten, why are you seeing him?” the kid said. “Are you really seeing him? Does his spirit visit you? Can you let him talk to me? I miss him.”

Distracting himself from the difficult conversation, Haren’s eye strayed to the cracked window. The darkened surface reflected an image of a smiling red haired man. That bearded man’s angled narrow eyes were pushed upward by the kind smile he put. Haren recalled: from moments of fury to joy, his brother always put that deceitful smile.

“Can it be? These strange occurrences are because Father want to see me?”

The reflection was unmistakably Polat. Haren closed his eyes, he could not bear looking at it for now.

“But it must be wrong, because Father is kind and will always protect me,” Kôra deduced. “Yet what happened to me is always misfortune. . . What if. . .”

As he expected, a blink changed everything. On the same reflection, now Haren unexpectedly saw himself hanging. Dead.

“That’s not you right, Polat?” Haren mumbled.

“Huh?!”

“Nothing. . . Nothing,” Haren answered in exasperation. “The potion has hallucinations as side effect, just it,” he rambled.

Kôra nodded in silence. His mind however, was uneasy.

“I need to go out,” Haren said while leaving the room.

“Where are you going?!” Kôra asked in a raised voice. “Do Uncle need me to come with?”

“No,” Haren answered from the living room, picking up his outdoor jacket. “The downtown, is there anything you need to buy?”

“Please come back,” he said.

After consecutive sound of the doors closing, contemplative Kôra skimmed at the mess of this room. There are numerous things he needed to fix and clear up.

»»-------------¤-------------««

Kôra opened his heavy eyes; from a blink as his mind perceived the duration. However, the tingling paresthesia on his hand, combined with the sore neck, told him that it probably had been an hour or more. After tidying the kitchen and dumping trash, most likely he fell asleep on the dining table. The exhaustion was doubled when the number of hands he could use were halved.

It was not a peaceful nap, as the boy awoke panting. Kôra groggily stood up; oversleeping his nap after noon always gave this effect. His eyes searched the room for another human existence. Nothing, there was nothing there. Silence of no one. Then, there was everything to worry.

It had been three hours since Haren left.

Yet, where was he?

“Uncle!!!” Kôra called in panic. “Where are you, uncle?”

“Here!” Haren answered, hurried himself from his room to answer the distressed call. The man looked damp and smelled like a soap. “What’s wrong?” he inquired.

His nephew looked at him with static unblinking eyes.

“I am relieved you are here,” Kôra said with panting breaths. His trembling hand tried to touch Haren; to make sure everything is real. Much to Haren’s puzzlement. “I have a nightmare you hang yourself.”

“Unfortunately, not today,” Haren responded dryly while walking away from the kid, not sure how to respond. “Anyway, whatever—you should prepare yourself for it.”

“DO NOT TALK LIKE THAT!!!” Kôra's thundering shout froze Haren.

Kôra pulled Haren’s cold arm and sunk his nails in, both of his arms grasping it. Hearing the contrasting tone shift, Haren stopped his step and turned his head. The boy’s glare reminded him of yesterday’s incident, Haren’s free hand glowed blue in anticipation.

“If I ever see you trying, if I ever hear you talk about it again; I will kill myself and curse you for the eternity,” the nephew said in a low voice. 

To Haren, it was as if he heard Polat himself saying those words; his brother. That exact way of saying moved him. A cold feeling crawled on his skin, giving him goosebumps.

“W. . . What are you talking about? I meant about the moving,” he clarified with an exhausted voice. “I have no plan doing what you said for now.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Haren gently undid Kôra’s grasp from his arm, for what a heavy force the kid put into it. For a nail mark that left a shallow wound, for a grip that would left contusion on his easily bruised skin. A hand that fed the mouth who bit it.

“Uncle, I am sincerely sorry,” Kôra apologized. “I act like this again—”

“Nevermind, I made more mistakes than you,” he said with an understanding smile. “I bought things you'll need.” Haren beckoned Kôra to follow him.

The smile of Haren was reminiscent of his father to Kôra. That exact way of smiling moved him. A warm feeling touched his heart, giving him goosebumps.