In the Apennine countryside, the afternoon sun always lingers lazily. Olive leaves curl under its heat, and the flagstones grow so scorching they could fry an egg. Only the occasional breeze brings a faint hint of coolness.
Leo crouched in the shadow of his family's stone wall, clutching half a loaf of stale bread left over from the night before. Though dry and hard enough to scrape his teeth, he ate slowly, bite by bite, as if passing the endless afternoon.
The villagers called him the “Wild Boy”, not because he was mischievous, but because he was too silent, too solitary. His parents were hardworking farmers who toiled in the olive groves and ploughed the fields before dawn, returning home only after dark, too weary even to speak to him.
Children his age gathered in groups, chasing each other along field ridges or clambering over homemade toys, yet Leo remained perpetually alone. His clothes were remnants of his sister's hand-me-downs, thick patches covering elbows and knees. His shoes bore gaping holes, toes protruding and caked in mud, making him look utterly out of place.
No one wished to play with him, nor did anyone spare him a second glance. Mischievous children would deliberately snatch his bread or shove him into the mud, laughing heartily at his dishevelled state. Yet Leo would only silently pick himself up, brush the dirt from his clothes, and walk away without a word.
He grew accustomed to silence, accustomed to being overlooked, accustomed to these monotonous days. Each day followed the same pattern: rising before dawn to help his parents feed the chickens and fetch water, then following his father to the fields for odd jobs. At midday, he'd nibble a few mouthfuls of dry, hard bread. Afternoons were spent either tending the sheep or sitting by the stone wall, lost in thought, until dusk called him home. After supper, he'd crawl into his cramped room and fall into a deep sleep.
"Leo! What are you daydreaming about? Drive the flock to the hillside—don't let them nibble the olive saplings!" His father's coarse, hoarse shout echoed from afar, shattering the afternoon's stillness and snapping Leo from his reverie.
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He sprang to his feet, brushed the dust from his trousers, seized the polished sheep whip from the corner, and set off towards the hillside. The whip was light, yet felt heavy in his grasp—this very whip had accompanied him through three years of herding, three years of silent existence.
The grass on the hillside grew thick and lush. The sheep grazed slowly, heads bowed, their bells tinkling softly across the open slope. Liao sat upon a boulder, watching the flock with vacant eyes, lost in thought.
He knew nothing of the world beyond his fields and sheep. He knew no life beyond tilling the soil and tending the flock. He envied children who went to school, children with toys, and most of all, children who laughed aloud and had companionship.
Yet he possessed none of these things. He had no new clothes, no toys, no friends, and scarcely ever heard a word of gentle encouragement from his parents. He felt like a weed on the hillside—unnoticed, growing with the wind, destined to wither away with it.
The sun sank lower in the west, stretching his shadow long and thin. It overlapped with the shadow of an olive tree, making him seem all the more solitary. The flock, sated, lay with heads bowed, huddled together, basking in the evening cool.
Leo rose, took his crook, and gave it a light flick, signalling the sheep to follow him home. They rose slowly, trailing him along the stone path towards the village.
Passing the clearing at the village edge, he instinctively paused. That clearing, usually used for drying grain, lay unusually still today, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Yet for some reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that something different lurked behind this quiet expanse, waiting silently for him.
He shook his head, dismissing the strange notion—this clearing had always been dull, how could anything unusual be there? He must have been daydreaming too long, creating illusions.
Yet just as he turned to continue walking, a faint disturbance drifted from the clearing. The sound was faint, like someone running, or perhaps laughing—utterly incongruous with the dull village atmosphere.
Leo's body froze, his footsteps halting. He wanted to turn back, yet an inexplicable fear gripped him—fear that it might be mischievous children playing, fear of being bullied again. Yet deep within, a secret curiosity urged him forward, compelling him to draw nearer, to see what it truly was.
He clenched the sheep whip in his hand so tightly his knuckles turned white, wavering over whether to turn back. Little did he know that this very moment of hesitation, this faint disturbance, was about to shatter his monotonous existence and alter the course of his entire life.
