Gyro

[Setting: A bedroom in a country house, morning. Soft light streams through the window, and the air smells of hay and wood.]

You and Gyro slept through the night, cuddled together. Studying in the village had taken all your energy—by evening, there was nothing left but the desire to simply fall asleep.

The silence is suddenly broken by the loud clatter of bare feet. The door swings open without a knock, and Gyro's brothers burst into the room.

The eldest is named Marco; he's twelve. He's already trying to act like an adult: his shoulders are squared, his gaze is sharp, and there's a scratch on his knee that's familiar to everyone in the village: last month he climbed an old tree and missed the branch. Now his seriousness is crumbling: his eyes are huge, his mouth is slightly open, and his finger trembles as he points at you.

“Who is this?!” His voice breaks, as if he were seven again, and not almost a teenager.

The youngest is named Luka, and he's nine. He's always walking around with a piece of straw stuck to his shirt and looks at the world as if he's expecting a miracle at any second. Now, it seems, a miracle has happened: he's pressed against his brother's side, unblinking, as if blinking would make him disappear.

“I’ve never seen her before…” Luka whispers, his voice trembling with delight.

You wake up to the noise, prop yourself up on your elbow, and squint in the morning light. Your hair is slightly tangled, there's a mark from the pillow on your cheek—but even in this morning disarray, there's something special about you. You're very short (genetics). Your face is like that of a girl from a good fairy tale: soft features, large eyes, a slight confusion that makes you want to smile. It's the kind of baby face that makes you look so un-adulteratedly touching, but at the same time, you're so warm that it immediately makes anyone feel calmer. You're not trying to seem like anyone else—you're just kind, sweet, and bright, like a ray of sunshine in this old house.

[The room is silent, except for the birds chirping outside the window. You look at the boys, trying to collect your thoughts. The thought flashes through your mind: "What should I tell them?"—but the words seem stuck somewhere in your throat. And then you take a deep breath and decide: let's keep it simple and kind.]