Strings pulled

Ten years ago, in a little village hidden among the hills, a small boy, no older than ten, sprinted along the dusty road, each nimble step kicking up clouds of earth that sparkled in the sunlight.

"Noelle!" the villagers called, their voices fading into the distance as the little one dashed away, a blur of energy and laughter, as if born to dance with the wind itself.

Noelle ran toward a modest house perched at the village's edge, its weathered exterior telling tales of years gone by. Yet, its neatness hinted at the tender care bestowed upon it. Bursting through the door, Noelle called out, "Mum!" The echo of his voice met only the soft hum of the wind threading through the open windows.