Morning sunlight peeked through the window, gently warming the side of my face. I groaned dramatically, rolling deeper into the hay-filled blanket as if the bed would suddenly give birth to a second mattress. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
“Wake up, child,” Lisa called from the kitchen.
I yawned so wide I could’ve swallowed a chicken, then mumbled, “Five more minutes, Mom…”
And there it was. Another day where I started my morning without a name, not that I noticed—yet.
I dragged myself out of bed like a little noodle, hair all tangled, dreams still lingering. My legs were getting stronger now, two full years in this world, and I was rocking the “adorable menace” stage like a professional.
“Eat up, child,” Lisa said sweetly, placing a bowl of something that smelled… brown.
“Thanks, Mom,” I replied, swinging my legs from the stool like I was performing a solo in a leg orchestra.
I munched away, staring into the bowl. It was some kind of mashed root mixed with morning berries. Earth food. Not bad. Not toast, but we make do.
“You’re growing fast,” Harold said, sitting across from me with his eternal farmer smile.
“Of course I am,” I grinned. “Gotta keep up with the cows.”
Lisa snorted. “The cows don’t speak as much as you.”
“They should,” I muttered. “Might win an argument around here.”
After breakfast, I skipped outside, arms swinging, heart full of nothing in particular. The village air had its own perfume: part fresh grass, part mud, part chicken poop. Rustic.
Kids were running around, giggling like tiny drunk fairies. I gave them a wave. They waved back. Then I roasted them.
“You call that running? My grandma—if I had one—could out-sprint you in a potato sack.”
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They blinked.
Then blinked again.
Yeah, still didn’t understand me.
Satisfying.
Midday came with a visit to the well. It was the village gossip hub. Harold was already there, chatting with the elders like always.
I perched on the side, swinging my legs and picking tiny daisies from the grass. Everything was calm, chill, peaceful.
“Only three months left till Naming Day, huh?” said one old man.
Harold nodded proudly. “Our little one will finally get her name.”
I blinked.
Chewed the berry in my mouth.
Tilted my head.
Wait... what now?
“Six years old,” Harold continued like he hadn’t just tossed a philosophical boulder at me, “That’s when the Naming Ceremony is held. Until then, they’re just ‘child.’ That’s the rule.”
I paused mid-chew.
Slowly turned to Lisa.
She was still humming while washing turnips like this wasn’t the biggest identity crisis of my toddler life.
I frowned, confused.
“…Wait.”
“…So I don’t… have a name?”
I looked up at Harold, then down at my stubby little legs.
Then back up.
I raised one eyebrow (or at least tried to—still figuring out facial muscles in this tiny face).
“Huh.”
I looked off into space for a second, quietly counting how many times I’d been called anything besides “child,” “little one,” or “goblin” (okay, that one was fair).
Not once a name.
“Oh,” I mumbled softly, blinking at nothing. “I’ve been nameless this whole time… like a lost sock.”
I picked up another berry, stared at it dramatically, then whispered, “We are the same, you and I.”
Lisa giggled from the kitchen. “What are you mumbling about, little sunshine?”
“Nothing, Mother. Just... bonding with my snack.”
Harold peeked from the door. “You okay, child?”
I pouted. “You know I’ve been answering to ‘child’ like a good unpaid intern of this family... but it turns out I don’t even have a brand name.”
He chuckled. “Your time is coming.”
I flopped onto my back, staring at the ceiling like the answers to the universe were hidden in the wooden planks.
“Well, whatever name you give me... just make sure it can’t be mistaken for a vegetable.”
A beat.
“Or a cleaning product.”
A pause.
“…Also not ‘Fluffy.’ Please. I have a reputation.”
I yawned and pulled the blanket up.
“Until then... I shall be... the Mystery Toddler.”
Another pause.
“…Ugh. Sounds like a failed magic trick.”
That night, as I lay in bed, I stared at the ceiling and whispered, “No name for six years, huh…”
I sighed.
“Well, fine. When the time comes, y’all better pick something legendary. Something iconic. Something that screams, ‘She roasted a ten-year-old when she was two.’”
I yawned.
“Until then... guess I’ll just be The Child Who Lived.”
A pause.
“...Nah, sounds taken.”