Bedtime Story: What If You Woke Up In Medieval Times?

Hey guys.

Tonight's story starts with a strange itch,

A colder than usual floor,

And a rooster that clearly has a personal vendetta.

You've just woken up somewhere unfamiliar.

A wooden cottage,

No electricity,

And the smell of cabbage hanging in the air like it pays rent.

There's no phone,

No coffee,

No explanation.

Just a grunt from a man who hands you a piece of bread and walks away like you're the weird one.

And somehow,

This is your life now.

So,

Before you get too cozy,

Take a second to like the video and subscribe.

But only if you genuinely enjoy this strange little corner of quiet storytelling.

And drop a comment with where you're listening from and what time it is for you.

It's strangely comforting to know who else is drifting off with us around the world.

Now get comfortable,

Let the day melt away,

And we'll drift back together into the quiet corners of the past.

You wake up with your face in straw.

Not a soft golden storybook kind of straw.

Real straw.

Sharp,

Itchy,

Poking you in the eye kind of straw.

It smells like old hay,

Sweat,

And possibly goat.

The light slanting through the cracks in the wall is soft and gray like early morning fog.

There's a low rumble near your head.

It's rhythmic.

Wet.

A snore.

You turn your head and come eye to eye with a dog.

Or maybe a wolf.

No,

Just a very hairy dog.

He stares at you for a moment.

Unimpressed.

Then goes back to sleeping like it's none of his business that a stranger is face down in his bed.

You sit up and immediately regret it.

Your back feels like it's been twisted into a question mark.

The mattress,

If you can call it that,

Is just a loosely woven sack of straw on a board of splintery wood.

No pillows.

No blankets.

Just you and the distant smell of smoke,

Like someone's burning toast four centuries too early.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

This isn't your room.

This isn't even your time zone.

The walls are wooden planks,

Uneven and knotted,

With no paint,

No photos,

No insulation.

There's a window the size of a cereal box,

Covered in something that might be pig intestines stretched tight.

Light leaks through,

But barely.

You reach for your phone out of habit.

Your fingers find nothing but rough wool.

You're wearing a tunic.

A real one.

Scratchy.

Oversized.

And definitely not from your closet.

There's no hum.

No buzz.

No distant traffic or refrigerator drone.

Just chickens outside,

Flapping and squawking like they're having a heated argument.

Somewhere in the distance,

A bell rings once.

Then silence.

You swing your legs off the bed and your feet touch stone.

Cold.

Uneven stone.

There's a draft.

A real one.

It whistles through the walls like the house is sighing.

You stand.

The room spins.

There's a table.

More of a stump with legs.

And a single wooden bowl.

Inside is something thick and grey.

Porridge.

Maybe wallpaper paste.

You look around.

One door.

No lock.

No light switch.

No plumbing.

You shuffle to the door and open it slowly.

The hinges groan like they haven't moved since the plague.

Outside,

You're not sure what to expect.

A parking lot?

A hidden camera crew?

Instead,

You're hit with a gust of damp air and the sharp smell of animals.

And people.

Lots of people.

You're in a village.

Not a quaint one with souvenir shops and guided tours.

A real one.

Mud paths.

Thatched roofs.

And a group of people all staring at you like you just landed from the moon.

Which,

In a way,

You did.

Someone shouts something in English,

But it's old.

Twisted.

Get on with you,

New boy.

You blink again.

Who are they talking to?

You?

A woman with a basket walks past,

Gives you a look,

And mutters something about sleeping through cock crow.

A child throws a turnip at a pig.

The pig doesn't flinch.

It's seen worse.

You close the door slowly.

Turn around.

The dog is still asleep.

You sit back down on the straw,

Scratch your ankle,

And a small puff of dust rises.

You look at your hands.

They're already dirty.

You haven't done anything,

But the dirt has found you anyway.

A scratching at the door.

Then it opens.

A man enters.

Grizzled.

Worn leather tunic.

Hands like tree bark.

He glances at you and grunts.

Throws a wool sack at your chest.

Boots.

That's all he says.

Then he leaves.

The boots smell like damp socks and despair.

But you put them on anyway.

They don't fit.

Of course they don't.

You hear a clang.

Something metal.

Something being beaten.

You step outside again,

And this time no one looks.

You've already been catalogued.

You're the new one.

The strange one.

The one who asked if there was Wi-Fi.

A boy walks by carrying a goose under one arm like a briefcase.

A man pees against a wall like it's just part of the morning routine.

You notice a well.

A real rope-and-bucket well.

A woman hauls water from it with biceps that could split logs.

She nods at you.

It's the friendliest thing you've seen all morning.

You nod back.

Because what else is there to do?

You're not dreaming.

You're not dead.

You're just here.

In this place where floors are stone,

Beds are straw,

And your spine may never forgive you,

And for some reason you're not panicking.

Not yet.

Just watching.

Breathing.

Wondering what comes next.

You wake up again to the dog sneezing directly into your face.

There's no alarm clock.

Just phlegm and fur.

Outside,

The sky is the same dull pewter shade it was when you fell asleep.

Time seems to smear here.

You're not sure if it's six in the morning or six in the never.

The air bites a little sharper today.

Your spine still resents you.

And your feet now blistered from yesterday's battle with the oversized leather boots feel like they've aged 20 years overnight.

The door creaks open.

No knock.

No,

Good morning.

Just a presence.

A shadow in the shape of a man.

He walks in like he owns the play switch.

You assume he does.

Your host,

If that word even applies,

Looks at you the way one looks at a wheelbarrow that somehow learned to speak.

Not curious.

Not friendly.

Just vaguely annoyed that you exist.

He drops something on the stump table with a thud.

Bread.

A chunk of it.

Not sliced.

Not buttered.

Just torn from a larger,

Meaner loaf.

It's heavy,

Misshapen,

And looks like it lost a fight with a rock.

He doesn't say a word.

Just grunts and turns to stoke the fire in the corner hearth,

Muttering something under his breath that may or may not be directed at you.

You nod.

A diplomatic,

Neutral kind of nod.

He doesn't look back.

You pick up the bread.

It's cold.

Dense.

Possibly older than your current predicament.

You bite it anyway.

Your jaw protests.

This is bread that doesn't want to be eaten.

This is bread that survived battles.

Your teeth manage to chip off a chunk.

It tastes like.

.

.

Survival.

Not good.

Not bad.

Just.

.

.

Edible.

Barely.

There's no coffee.

That realization hits slow and cruel.

No smell of it.

No mug.

No ritual of pouring.

You scan the room again,

Like maybe,

Just maybe there's a French press hiding under the bed.

Nothing.

Just ash,

Dust,

And a pile of sticks that might be dinner or furniture.

Your mouth is dry.

You chew slower.

Not because it helps,

But because there's nothing else to do.

Your host finishes with the fire and sits down across from you,

Not at the table,

On a stool that wobbles,

Like it's had a rough life.

He pulls out a knife the length of your forearm and begins scraping something off his boot.

Mud?

Manure?

Both?

You decide not to ask.

He doesn't seem like the small talk type.

The silence isn't awkward.

It's dense.

Like fog.

Like it belongs here.

You chew.

He scrapes.

The dog farts softly.

Eventually,

He looks up.

Not at you through you,

As if trying to decide what sort of creature you are.

His eyes are like burnt coal.

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Just tired.

He scratches his beard,

Then says the first word you've heard from him that's longer than a grunt.

Work.

You blink.

He points toward the door.

After.

Then gestures at the bread.

You nod again,

Unsure what work means.

Yesterday,

It meant hauling buckets and nearly getting pecked to death by a chicken.

Today,

Who knows?

You imagine they might hand you a shovel and tell you to move a hill.

Or a goat.

You finish the bread.

It doesn't finish you.

That's a win.

You stand.

He stands.

The dog stays.

Outside,

The village is already busy.

Smoke from ten different hearths curls into the sky.

Women with baskets stride past like they've got a schedule,

Only they understand.

Children run barefoot through the mud,

Laughing and yelling at pigs like it's perfectly normal behavior.

Your host walks ahead,

Not checking if you follow.

You do,

Because there's nowhere else to go.

Your boots squelch in the muck.

A chicken eyes you with deep suspicion.

Somewhere,

A bell tolls again.

A different one this time.

Lower.

Slower.

Everything here has its own rhythm,

Its own soundscape of clatter,

Cough,

Grunt,

And cluck.

You pass a man urinating into a bucket like it's just part of breakfast.

He nods at your host.

Says something in that thick,

Muddy English that barely feels like English.

Your host nods back.

You're invisible again.

That's starting to feel comforting.

At the edge of the village,

There's a shed,

More like a shack that gave up halfway through becoming a building.

Inside.

Tools.

Rakes,

Shovels,

A two-handed saw that looks like it could sever a tree and maybe did.

Your host picks up a scythe,

Hands you something smaller.

A hoe,

Or a trowel,

Or a weapon.

Hard to tell.

You get the sense that today will involve dirt.

Lots of it.

Maybe potatoes.

Maybe something worse.

You sigh.

Not a modern scythe dramatic kind with airpods and emails.

A real one.

Tired.

Resigned.

Almost sacred.

He looks at you one more time.

This time there's almost a smirk.

Not quite a smile,

But close.

Like he's seen something he understands.

A crack in your face that says,

You're beginning to accept it.

The lack of noise.

The lack of comfort.

The way mornings here begin,

With dry bread and silence.

And maybe,

Just maybe,

That silence is teaching you something.

Something you didn't know you needed to hear.

The bucket lands in your hands without ceremony.

No instructions.

No smile.

Just a dented tin pail.

Damp on the inside.

Heavy with implication.

Your host doesn't explain,

He doesn't need to.

He just nods toward the door,

Mutters something that might be,

Well,

Or work,

Or worse.

Then turns his back,

And resumes the important business of ignoring your existence.

You stare at the bucket like it might come with a manual.

It doesn't.

Just a faint rust ring on the bottom,

And a handle that pinches your fingers when you grip it too tightly.

You step outside,

Hoping for a sign.

Any sign.

Instead,

You get a whiff of pig.

Then chicken.

Then something sour and wet,

That you decide not to investigate further.

It's early still.

The village is just waking.

Thatched roofs stretch beneath the yawning sky.

Smoke curls upward like sleepy thoughts.

People move like they've already been moving for hours.

A woman walks past with a basket on her head,

And a baby strapped to her chest.

She glances at you.

Then your bucket.

Then back at you.

No words.

Just a short,

Exhausted laugh.

You follow the flow of bodies toward the sound of splashing and wooden creaks.

And then you see it.

The well.

It's taller than you expected.

Thicker.

A stone cylinder with a wooden frame above it,

And a crank that looks like it was built to outlast empires.

A line's already formed.

Mostly women.

One boy.

All with buckets like yours,

Though theirs don't look borrowed.

A few glance at you.

A couple whisper.

You pretend not to notice,

Or understand.

When it's your turn,

The old woman ahead of you doesn't move.

She just jerks her chin at the crank like she's daring you.

You step up,

Take the handle,

And begin turning.

It groans.

Loudly.

Your arms burn almost immediately.

The rope fights back.

Water doesn't want to be lifted.

It wants to stay deep.

Secret.

Untouched.

But after several rotations,

The bucket rises,

Sloshing and swaying like it's drunk.

You lift it.

Spill a bit.

Pretend you didn't.

Pour it into your pail.

The old woman grunts,

Approving or disgusted you can't tell.

Then she turns and walks away.

Your pail is half full.

You debate doing it again.

But your arms have filed a complaint.

So you stop.

You carry the water back through the village.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Every step becomes a negotiation.

The handle bites your palm.

The water sloshes over your boots.

It's heavier than it looks.

Cold,

Too.

Like it knows it's better than you.

People don't get out of your way.

They don't have to.

You're the new one.

You're the one who doesn't walk like they're used to hauling things that matter.

You return to the cottage.

Your host isn't there.

The door creaks.

The dog lifts his head just enough to confirm you still exist.

Then returns to the art of sleeping.

You place the pail beside the hearth like it's sacred.

It's not.

Within seconds it's being used.

For what?

You're not entirely sure.

Washing.

Drinking.

Cooking.

Possibly all three.

You sit,

Hoping that's enough.

It's not.

A second bucket is pushed into your chest.

Smaller.

Wooden.

Damp in a suspicious way.

This time the nod is downward,

Toward the back corner.

There's a second door you hadn't noticed.

Behind it,

A tiny room.

Dirt floor.

A stool with a hole in the center.

A smell that slaps you across the face with the force of history.

And now you understand.

This is not a water bucket.

It's a waste bucket.

The chamber pot.

The medieval answer to indoor plumbing.

And it's full.

Not overflowing,

But substantial.

You pick it up,

Trying not to breathe through your nose.

It sloshes in a way water doesn't.

Thick.

Malevolent.

You hold it as far from your body as your arms allow.

Your host doesn't follow.

This mission is yours alone.

You walk again.

This time not to the well.

This time beyond the last cottage,

Toward the trees.

You follow the scent of ammonia and despair,

Until you find what must be the dumping site.

A pit.

Covered in flies.

A silent testament to the human condition.

You pour.

Carefully.

Slowly.

Trying not to imagine the splash pattern.

When you return,

No one congratulates you.

No one claps.

You place the bucket near the side of the cottage.

A woman walks by and nods.

That's all.

But it feels earned.

Like your first unspoken promotion.

Later,

When you sit by the fire,

Chewing another hunk of bread and pretending it has flavor,

You realize something.

The bucket was never just about the bucket.

It was initiation.

Trial by pale.

A medieval rite of passage that separates the tourist from the tenant.

You're not one of them.

Not yet.

But today,

You hauled their water.

You emptied their waste.

And somehow,

You survived both.

The door sticks again.

It always sticks.

You have to lean into it with your shoulder just to open it.

Like the house itself is trying to keep you in.

But you push through.

And outside,

The village greets you the same way it always does,

With chickens.

They're everywhere.

Like they've staged a takeover in the night.

Pecking,

Flapping,

Strutting like tiny feathered judges.

One hops onto a barrel and stares you down like it knows what you did.

You don't make eye contact.

The last time you did that,

It chased you for half a street.

The air is wet with fog,

Thick enough to muffle footsteps but not enough to hide the looks.

They glance at you from windows,

From doorways,

From the corners of their eye as they go about their routines.

They don't stop what they're doing.

They just take you in.

Again.

Like they're trying to decide if you're getting better or just stranger.

A man walks past you,

Pushing a wheelbarrow full of turnips.

You nod.

He nods back,

Eventually.

Not a greeting.

More like a confirmation.

You're still here.

Still the stranger.

Still the one who showed up asking questions about apps and electricity and whether or not the bread had gluten.

A child calls out behind you.

Stranger!

And throws a clump of moss.

It hits your boot and flops to the ground.

She giggles and runs away before you can even turn.

It's not mean.

Not quite.

It's more like a game.

You're the village novelty.

The accidental mascot of confusion.

Down the path,

The blacksmith hammers away like he's mad at the metal.

Sparks leap with every strike,

Lighting up his sweaty face like he's forging weapons for the end of the world.

He doesn't look up.

You've passed by him enough times to know he has two moods.

Working and sleeping.

Neither includes talking.

You step around a puddle that looks deep enough to have its own ecosystem and head toward the market square.

It's not a square,

Really.

More of a muddy circle,

Surrounded by carts and crates and people trying to look busier than they actually are.

A woman arranges leeks in a row,

So straight it could be military formation.

A man shouts something about eels.

Another plays a lute missing two strings and one sense of rhythm.

You linger near a cart stacked with apples.

The vendor eyes you,

Then casually slides his arm between you and the produce.

Not today,

Stranger.

You move on.

Someone calls out again.

Oi,

Stranger.

You still sleep in an Osric's barn.

You don't know who Osric is,

Or if it's even a question.

You just nod once and keep walking.

Better to agree than explain.

Explanations here don't go over well.

You've tried.

Once,

You said you were from the future as a joke.

They made the sign of the cross and didn't speak to you for two days.

At the well,

You watch as two women fill buckets and talk in fast,

Clumsy English that still sounds more like poetry than conversation.

One glances at you,

Then whispers,

Then laughs.

You pretend you didn't hear.

You always pretend you didn't hear.

There's a rhythm to the village now.

You can feel it.

Even if you're not part of it,

You know it's beat.

Morning water.

Midday meals.

Afternoon repairs.

Sunset silence.

And you,

Moving just behind the tempo.

Always half a step late.

Always watched.

A boy walks by,

Leading a pig on a rope.

The pig snorts at you like it remembers something personal.

You try to smile.

The boy doesn't return it.

He just says,

Mind you don't curse the beast,

Then keeps walking like that was a completely normal sentence.

You pass the chapel.

The priest is sweeping the steps.

He pauses,

Watches you,

Then says,

Stranger.

Not unfriendly.

Not welcoming.

Just a label.

You wonder if he even knows your name.

If anyone does.

If it matters.

Someone hands you a small loaf of bread.

No explanation.

No eye contact.

Just passes it into your hands and moves on.

You stare at it.

It's still warm.

You take a bite,

Then another.

It's better than yesterday's.

Less rock.

More dough.

A quiet offering.

Or maybe just a leftover.

You sit on a stump near the edge of the square.

Watch as the village breathes around you.

Dogs bark.

Children shout.

Someone drops a crate and curses,

In a language you almost understand.

The sky starts to shift from pale to gold.

Another day passing.

They still call you stranger.

Still glance at you like you might sprout feathers or breathe fire.

But no one's run you out.

No one's tried to burn you.

That feels like progress.

And for a second,

Just a small one,

You realize something.

They forgot you don't belong.

And part of you has started to forget,

Too.

It happened before breakfast.

Before you learned what the word porridge really meant.

Before you understood that people here don't sip.

They slurp.

You are tired.

Still half asleep.

Mouth dry.

Brain not quite accepting that your bed is now a pile of straw and your alarm clock is a dog with a sinus issue.

You had followed your host,

Osric,

As you finally learned his name to the village square.

He grunted.

You followed.

That's the arrangement.

He walks.

You try not to get lost or accidentally offend someone by existing too loudly.

The market was buzzing.

Not loud.

Just alive.

Wooden carts rolling across mud.

People shouting about onions.

A man selling eels out of a barrel that may or may not also be his bathtub.

The air smelled like smoke and cabbage and wet wood.

You saw a baker.

You didn't plan to say anything.

But your mouth moved before your survival instinct caught up.

Do you guys have Wi-Fi?

You said it under your breath.

Not even as a question.

More like a sad joke you whispered into the world.

A string of words your mouth released out of habit.

But someone heard.

They always do.

The baker froze.

Midloaf.

His eyes narrowed like you just asked if bread was a government conspiracy.

He made the sign of the cross.

Not quickly.

Slowly.

Purposefully.

His eyes locked on yours the whole time.

Like he wasn't sure if the devil was inside you or standing directly behind you.

You opened your mouth to explain.

But it was too late.

A boy across the lane pointed.

He said Wi-Fi.

Another voice piped up from somewhere behind a sack of turnips.

Is that a spell?

A woman clutched her apron and turned away like you were leaking disease.

Osric didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

The look he gave you could have shattered glass.

It said one thing very clearly.

Don't.

You laughed it off.

Tried to.

A weak,

Cracked sort of laugh that died in the mud.

Never mind,

You said.

It's nothing.

Just something dumb.

But the damage was done.

The crowd had already decided.

By midday,

Someone had whispered that you spoke in tongues.

That you might be part fey.

That you came from the forest.

Or across the sea.

Or from the stars.

The stories changed by the hour.

But the word stuck.

Possessed.

You'd earned a new title.

Not just stranger.

Not just new boy.

Now you were the one who speaks of the sky web.

It didn't help when you tried to ask if anyone had seen a charger.

You didn't even mean it seriously.

You were trying to be funny.

Lighten the mood.

But they don't have the mood here.

They have chores.

They have blisters.

They have frostbite in May and childbirth and fields and men who leave for war and never come back.

Your joke was just noise.

From then on,

Things shifted.

Subtly.

You'd walk past the baker and he'd mutter something under his breath.

You'd step into the market and a child would pretend to cast a spell on you.

Laughing until their mother pulled them back.

One night,

Someone left a sprig of garlic by your door.

You started speaking less.

Listening more.

You learned how to nod without inviting follow up.

How to look busy.

Even when you weren't sure what your hands were supposed to be doing.

You stopped asking questions.

Especially the wrong ones.

The village doesn't hate you.

Not exactly.

You're still fed.

Still handed tools.

Still allowed to exist within the blurry borders of their day.

But there's a perimeter around your presence now.

A half step of space people leave between you and them.

You're not dangerous.

But you're not right.

Either.

You said something that wasn't supposed to be said.

You reminded them that you think in a language they don't understand.

So you swallow your words.

Let them sink.

You learn how to make eye contact that doesn't linger.

How to carry a bucket without spilling.

How to eat in silence.

How to take up less space.

Breathe quieter.

Disappear just enough to avoid being remembered too clearly.

But you never forget the moment.

The way the market slowed.

The way the baker's face changed.

The way that single word Wi-Fi felt like a betrayal of something sacred.

Like you'd spit on their god.

Their bread.

Their weather-worn rhythm.

You learn.

Quickly and completely.

That the past has no patience for your present.

You're here now.

In this place.

This time.

Where the only web is made by spiders.

And no one laughs when you say something they don't understand.

You don't ask again.

You don't explain.

You just shut up fast.

They're waiting for you.

On the floor.

Right by the door.

Like someone placed them there on purpose.

Two wooden shapes.

Awkward.

Clunky.

Carved.

Like someone gave up halfway through making a chair.

And decided it would be easier to just strap the failed pieces to someone's feet.

Your name well.

Your nickname.

Scratched into the side in childlike letters.

New boy.

No one says who left them.

No one needs to.

You stare at them for a long time.

Before touching them.

They don't look dangerous.

But they don't look comfortable either.

You reach out.

Tap one.

It makes a hollow thump against the stone floor.

It feels wrong to call them shoes.

They're more like wearable planks.

But your host nods toward them that morning.

So you try.

The first thing you learn is that your foot doesn't go in easily.

These weren't made for feet.

Not real ones.

They were made for a vague idea of a foot.

A medieval sketch of what toes probably looked like.

You shove,

Twist,

Curse under your breath.

Finally,

With enough force to sprain logic,

You get both feet in.

There's no left or right.

Just pain.

You take a step.

The noise is immediate.

A clump.

Then another.

You sound like a haunted wardrobe dragging itself through a hallway.

The dog opens one eye.

You take another step.

Your ankle rolls.

Your knee screams.

You make it three paces before you stub your toe on the doorframe,

Which is impressive,

Since your toe is now protected by what might as well be a wooden brick.

You walk outside,

One slow step at a time.

The chickens scatter.

You feel taller.

Not in a good way.

More like you're balancing on a pile of regrets.

Children point.

One claps.

Another mimics your gait,

Exaggerated and loud.

You want to laugh.

You almost do.

But the blister forming on your heel starts whispering threats,

And you go quiet again.

You miss sneakers.

You miss arch support.

You miss the quiet glide of rubber soles and the soft give of fabric.

But most of all,

You miss socks.

The way they used to cradle your feet like tiny woollen apologies.

Now your toes rub against the wood like two enemies stuck in the same prison cell.

By mid-morning,

You've developed a limp.

Not dramatic.

Just enough that every third step looks like you're reconsidering all your life choices.

You try walking on the balls of your feet,

Then the sides.

Then you just surrender and start dragging your legs like you're being punished for something.

The blacksmith sees you hobbling by,

Doesn't say a word,

Just shakes his head once,

Deeply disappointed in your existence.

A woman selling leeks clicks her tongue.

You walk like a man who owes the road money.

You don't respond.

You just try not to fall into another puddle.

Work today involves carrying logs.

You're not told where to carry them to.

Just handed one and pointed vaguely toward the west.

The log is heavier than your pride and shaped like regret.

Your wooden shoes catch on every root,

Every stone,

Every slight change in elevation.

You trip twice.

On the third stumble,

You fall forward.

Not far.

Just enough to get a mouthful of moss and the sudden awareness that,

Yes,

You can sprain your dignity.

You look up from the ground.

No one offers a hand.

A boy laughs and walks past,

Balancing his own log on one shoulder like it's nothing more than a feather with ambition.

You push yourself up,

Adjust your shoes.

One is already starting to crack on the side.

You wonder if it's symbolic.

You wonder if everything here is.

Later,

At the stream,

You try to wash your feet.

Getting the shoes off is harder than getting them on.

You pry,

Yank,

Eventually remove them with a noise that sounds like betrayal.

Your heels are red.

Your toes,

Bruised.

You consider just walking into the water and floating away.

Becoming a myth.

A warning tale the villagers tell their children.

Don't ask about Wi-Fi or you'll become the river ghost.

But you don't.

You dry your feet on a patch of grass,

Slide the shoes back on,

And walk slowly back toward the village.

You sit outside the cottage that evening,

Legs stretched out,

Shoes in front of you like conquered beasts.

The sunset is kind.

Gold spilling across the sky,

Softening the edges of the world.

Someone walks past and nods at you.

Not a greeting,

More like acknowledgement.

Like they've seen the limp,

The effort,

The endurance.

You don't belong yet.

But you wore the shoes.

You survived the walk.

You didn't quit.

And maybe,

Just maybe,

That counts for something here.

It hits you in waves.

Not suddenly.

Not like stepping into a room where something's gone wrong.

More like being slowly lowered into a bucket of smell.

One day,

It's a hint of damp wool.

The next,

Wet hay.

Then body odor,

Fermented by sun and sealed in by layers of unwashed tunic.

Eventually,

It's everything.

All at once.

Earth,

Animal,

Smoke,

Salt,

And something human that no modern word quite captures.

You wake to it.

You sleep in it.

It crawls into your clothes,

Clings to your skin,

Lives in your hair.

You've stopped noticing when you breathe through your mouth.

It's just instinct now.

A quiet surrender.

No one else reacts.

That's the strangest part.

No one flinches when the butcher walks by smelling like spoiled soup and blood-soaked leather.

No one comments.

When the old man on the bench smells like he's been pickled in sweat and onions.

A woman lifts her arms to hang laundry and unleashes a storm front of armpit,

And people just nod politely,

Like it's weather.

Here,

It is.

Soap exists,

But you don't see much of it.

When you asked about it once,

Someone handed you a lump that looked like it had been chipped off a barn wall.

You tried it.

It smelled like ashes and fear.

It disintegrated in the cold stream like it had unfinished business elsewhere.

After that,

You stopped asking.

Bathing is more rumor than ritual.

Someone mentioned a tub once,

Behind the tavern.

But it costs money.

And the water isn't warm.

And there's only one.

Which means,

It's not yours.

Which means,

You're not sure who's been in it before you.

You don't ask.

You don't want to know.

The stream is your best bet.

You try to be discreet.

Go early.

Go alone.

Scrub with sand and prayer.

The water's cold enough to make your spine remember childhood trauma.

You rinse your arms,

Your face,

Your neck.

Below that,

You lose nerve.

Or circulation.

It's enough,

You tell yourself.

Good enough.

Your hair is another story.

It's gone from soft to straw.

From straw to mat.

You try to comb it with your fingers,

But they catch on knots that weren't there yesterday.

Once,

You found a leaf.

Another time,

A small feather.

You decide not to investigate further.

The hair stays.

Wild.

Honest.

Teeth are trickier.

You miss the ritual.

The mint.

The foam.

The two-minute lie.

You told yourself every morning and night.

Here,

People chew on sticks.

Rub ashes on their gums.

You try it once,

And gag so hard you scare the chickens.

You settle for rinsing with stream water and hoping your teeth hold out until.

.

.

Well,

You're not sure until when.

You haven't smelled clean in days.

Maybe longer.

But something changes.

Not in them.

In you.

Your nose starts to forget.

Slowly,

Like a fog lifting backwards.

You stop noticing the scent of damp boots.

You stop recoiling at the pigsty.

You walk past the fish stall without flinching.

You stand beside Osrik,

Your host,

Whose natural musk could be weaponized,

And you don't even blink.

You're adapting.

Or breaking.

Maybe both.

One afternoon,

You catch your own scent.

It's after a long morning hauling sacks of grain that leaked all over your shirt.

You sit,

Stretch,

And lift your arm.

The smell hits you like an old memory.

You lean back,

Exhale,

And for the first time,

You don't hate it.

It smells like effort.

Like work.

Like someone who belongs outside.

There's freedom in it.

Strange,

Unwashed freedom.

No pressure to impress.

No perfume.

No deodorant battles.

Just you.

As you are.

As the dirt sees you.

As the wind accepts you.

At night,

Lying on straw,

You scratch your scalp and feel flakes.

Dust.

History.

You no longer recoil.

This is your new skin.

Your new shell.

Not polished.

Not perfumed.

But real.

Honest in a way you hadn't expected to find comforting.

The villagers never comment on your scent.

That's how you know you've blended in.

They gossip about everything.

Your limp.

Your mutterings.

Your inability to distinguish wheat from barley.

But not your smell.

That means it's no longer foreign.

It's just yours.

You stop apologizing for the dirt under your nails.

Stop trying to smooth your hair.

Stop pulling your shirt away from your chest when it clings.

The old rules are gone.

There are new ones now.

And one of them is this.

Clean is relative.

But survival is permanent.

So,

You sleep with your boots by the door,

Your shirt damp from sweat and rain,

Your breath tasting of firewood and roasted turnip,

And you don't flinch.

You just breathe.

Through your nose.

Because finally,

Finally,

Your nose doesn't fight back.

It started innocently enough.

Osric handed you a basketroff.

Splintered.

Smelled like onions.

And regretand pointed toward the henhouse with a grunt that somehow meant eggs.

You nodded.

Like this was something you could handle.

Eggs.

How hard could it be?

You'd seen chickens before.

In petting zoos.

On TV.

On sandwiches.

None of them had ever looked like a threat.

None of them had glared at you.

But these chickens.

These were a different breed.

Medieval chickens.

Wiser.

Meaner.

Built for war.

You approached the henhouse like it was sacred ground.

The air smelled like straw.

Feathers.

And something vaguely aggressive.

There were no instructions.

No guide.

Just a basket in your hand and a vague memory of cartoons where farmers whistled and chickens just complied.

You crouched.

Reached under the first hen.

And she allowed it.

Warm,

Feathery cooperation.

You felt the egg with your fingers smooth.

Perfect.

Still warm from her body.

You lifted it carefully.

One down.

Your confidence swelled.

You could do this.

You were doing this.

The second hen flinched when you got close.

But you gave her space.

Whispered an apology.

She blinked at you with mild suspicion.

Then shuffled aside just enough.

Another egg.

Two.

Maybe you were made for this.

Maybe you were finally getting the hang of.

.

.

Then came her.

You didn't see her at first.

She was tucked into the darkest corner of the coop.

Half hidden behind a crooked plank and a pile of old feathers.

You approached cautiously.

Basket now half full.

Smile on your face.

Pride swelling like your blistered feet.

You bent down.

Extended a hand.

And then.

.

.

Everything changed.

She struck before you even touched the nest.

Beak first.

Straight to the wrist.

Then wings wild.

Flapping chaos.

Feathers exploding into the air.

Like a pillow fight in a hurricane.

You staggered back.

She followed.

Fast.

Screaming.

It wasn't a cluck.

It was a battle cry.

The sound of a creature that had seen things.

Survived winters.

Buried enemies.

She leapt.

Actually leapt.

Onto your chest.

Claws digging into your tunic like hooks.

You flailed.

Spun.

The basket flew from your hands.

Eggs shattering like your dignity.

You tried to shake her loose.

She tightened her grip.

Pecks to the neck.

Flaps to the face.

Somewhere.

You think you screamed.

You stumbled out of the coop.

Arms windmilling.

Hair full of feathers.

Heart full of fear.

The villagers were already watching.

Of course they were.

One child pointed and shouted.

The chickens winnin'.

Another yelled.

Run stranger.

Run.

You ran.

Across the path.

Through the mud.

Past the smithy.

Past the pigs.

Chickens scattered in all directions like you were the harbinger of poultry doom.

But she stayed on you.

Clinging.

Pecking.

Screeching her fury into the wind.

Finally,

In a last desperate act,

You spun one final time and flung your arms outward.

She released.

Sailed through the air like a feathery javelin.

Landed squarely in a barrel of cabbage.

Silence.

Then laughter.

Loud.

Long.

Ruthless.

The kind of laughter that binds a village together for decades.

The kind that echoes through generations.

A woman dropped her washings.

She was laughing so hard.

A man fell off a bench.

Children reenacted the scene before you'd even caught your breath.

You stood there.

Shirt torn.

Face flushed.

Basket empty.

You picked up one of the broken eggs from the mud.

Stared at it.

Then stared at the coop.

She was back in her corner already.

Looking smug.

Victorious.

Osric walked over.

Looked at the remains of the basket.

Looked at your neck.

Said only one word.

Marge.

Then shook his head.

And walked away.

Apparently she has a name.

Of course she does.

You spent the rest of the day with bits of straw in your hair and dried yolk on your hands.

No one let you forget it.

A man at the well clucked at you every time you passed.

A boy drew a picture in the dirt of a stick figure being pecked by a giant bird.

You were legend now.

Not heroic.

Just.

.

.

Remembered.

That night,

You lay on your straw mat.

Sore and humiliated.

The dog snored beside you.

You rubbed your wrist,

Still red from the beak.

And,

Oddly,

You smiled.

Because somehow,

For the first time,

The village saw you.

Really saw you.

Not just the stranger.

Not just the outsider.

You were now the fool who fought a chicken and lost.

Which meant,

You were one of them.

A little broken.

A little bruised.

But finally,

Part of the story.

The market doesn't announce itself.

It just appears.

One morning you step outside and the air is thicker.

Not with fog,

But noise.

Clanging pots.

Shouting voices.

The occasional shriek that may or may not be from a goat.

The village square has transformed.

Carts have rolled in from corners you didn't know existed.

Tables have been dragged into the mud.

Fabric hangs from poles.

Baskets overflow with things you don't recognize and aren't sure you should.

Osric hands you three coins.

They're heavy.

Misshapen.

Each one stamped with something vaguely royal and badly worn.

He says one word.

Pie.

And sends you off like it's obvious.

Like pie is easy.

You walk into the mess of humanity slowly.

The way someone walks into a dream they know might turn on them.

The smells hit you first.

Fresh bread and old cheese.

Boiled onions.

Warm manure.

Dried fish.

Something sweet.

Something rotten.

Something burning.

It's a scent collage designed to confuse and conquer.

Your stomach turns in slow circles.

You pass a woman selling roots from a basket shaped like a skull.

She waves a carrot at you.

Says it cures melancholy.

You nod politely.

Keep walking.

A man calls out.

Holding what appears to be a dried frog on a string.

Wart prevention,

He says.

Like it's common sense.

Someone else is trying to sell blessed salt.

But it looks suspiciously like regular salt.

You find the pie stall by accident.

It's not labeled.

Just a man with one eyebrow and an apron so stained it looks camouflaged.

He's got rows of them.

Round and golden.

Stacked like treasure.

They smell good.

Untrustworthy,

But good.

You point.

He grunts.

You hand over all three coins.

He gives you one pie and one look.

The kind that says good luck without any kindness behind it.

It's warm in your hands.

Dense.

The crust is cracked in places.

Leaking gravy.

You take a bite.

At first it's not bad.

Savory.

A little chewy.

Rich.

Spiced with something that numbs the tongue a bit too quickly.

You swallow.

It doesn't sit right.

But you're hungry.

So you keep going.

Three more bites.

The flavor shifts halfway through sweet.

Then sour.

Then something metallic.

You pause.

Look at the filling.

It's meat.

Definitely meat.

But it doesn't look like any meat you've ever trusted.

There's a vein running through it.

And something that crunches.

You swallow the last bite like a dare.

It fights back.

You walk back through the market slowly.

Mouth tingling.

Stomach unsure.

A boy offers you a second pie.

You shake your head.

He winks.

That first one's squirrel.

He says casually.

Then adds,

I think.

You stop walking.

A woman at a nearby stall laughs.

Could have been better,

She says.

Could have been pigeon.

She pulls a feather from her teeth and flicks it to the ground.

You head toward the well and try to drink away the taste.

It doesn't work.

The water makes it worse.

The grease resurfaces like a ghost.

You sit on a barrel and let your stomach make its decisions without you.

The sun's too bright.

The air too full.

The sounds around you blend into a fuzzy blur.

Someone tries to sell you a jar of leeches.

You shake your head.

He shrugs and moves on.

Eventually you stand.

Walk in the direction of home.

Slowly,

Your limbs feel heavy.

The pie has lodged itself somewhere between your regret and your intestines.

You pass a pig that looks at you with deep personal sympathy.

At the edge of the square,

Osric is waiting.

Arms crossed.

No expression.

Just a raised eyebrow that asks the question.

You hand him the empty paper wrap.

He smells it.

Snorts.

Says nothing.

You expect judgment.

Instead,

He pats your shoulder once.

Hard.

Like a priest blessing the damned.

Then he walks away.

That night,

Your stomach gurgles like it's debating revolution.

You lie awake on your straw mat,

Shifting every few minutes.

The dog sighs beside you.

The room creaks.

Somewhere,

A chicken clucks in its sleep.

You think about the pie.

The flavor.

The gamble.

The moment of warmth.

Followed by slow betrayal.

It was food.

It was mystery.

It was medieval honesty.

Baked in lard and wrapped in secrets.

And now,

You understand something.

Here,

Food isn't comfort.

It's survival.

It's whatever's available.

Whatever didn't escape fast enough.

Whatever someone was willing to chop,

Boil,

And stuff into pastry.

Flavor comes second.

Trust isn't part of the recipe.

You curl up tighter.

Try not to breathe too deeply.

Your stomach groans.

You whisper a quiet apology to your intestines.

And for the first time since arriving,

You feel like you've truly eaten like one of them.

Consequences and all.

It begins with a sound.

Low,

Distant,

And far too serious for the morning you were having.

One moment you're crouched by the stream,

Trying to scrub yesterday's pie regret off your tunic with a mossy rock,

And the next clanga-deep,

Thunderous ring splits the air like judgment itself.

You freeze.

The bell tolls again.

Then again.

You count,

But lose track after six.

Or seven.

It doesn't matter.

You look up,

And the village has already changed.

People stop,

Mid-step.

Conversations die,

Mid-sentence.

A woman drops a bundle of sticks and makes the sign of the cross before hurrying toward the chapel.

Children stop chasing each other and fall into line behind their parents.

Even the dog you've been secretly feeding meat scraps to sits and whines at the sky like he knows something's coming.

Osric doesn't look at you.

He just nods in the direction of the chapel like a man resigned to fate.

You follow,

Unsure of the rules,

But sure that not following them will be worse.

The chapel isn't large.

More like a stone box with a wooden door and a single stained-glass window that's more brown than colored.

It smells like old paper and older air.

Inside,

It's dim.

Cold.

You can see your breath.

The villagers file in without a word,

Like they're all part of the same quiet machinery.

You try to copy them.

Step where they step.

Sit where they sit.

Kneel where they kneel.

You don't know the prayers.

Not the words.

Not the rhythm.

But they do.

Every voice,

Low and steady,

Weaving into one hum that sounds ancient.

You mouth along,

Moving your lips in time,

Hoping no one notices that your chant is a lie.

Then everyone stands.

So you do.

Then kneels.

So you kneel.

But your timing is off.

Always off.

You rise half a second too late.

Drop your knees too early.

Someone beside you winces when your wooden shoes scrape against the stone floor like a scream.

The priest begins to speak.

You understand every fourth word.

Something about fire and sin and sheep.

A lot about sheep.

He gestures with his hands in a way that feels vaguely threatening.

At one point he holds up something small and gold.

Everyone bows their heads.

You follow.

Your back starts to ache.

Your stomach growls.

You pretend it didn't.

Then comes the incense.

A boy walks down the aisle with a swinging censer.

Smoke pours from it like the building itself is sighing.

It smells like a pine tree fell in love with a campfire.

You breathe it in and nearly cough.

But swallow it.

Everyone else seems unfazed.

Eyes half closed like they've been here a thousand times.

Maybe they have.

You're not sure how long the service lasts.

Time behaves differently here.

Like the church itself is holding the clock hostage.

Minutes stretch.

Thoughts wander.

Your legs go numb.

Your feet cramp inside the wooden shoes.

You try shifting your weight and bump into a woman beside you.

She glares.

You mouth sorry and immediately realize she has no idea what that means.

The priest lifts his arms again.

Everyone murmurs something.

You copy the sounds phonetically.

Something about mercy.

Maybe bread.

You're not sure.

But no one stops you.

So it must have been close enough.

Then,

Kneel again.

You sink to your knees.

And this time,

Something in your back pops.

It's not pain.

Not exactly.

More like your spine whispering.

Really?

You rest your hands on your thighs and stare at the stone floor.

It's covered in marks.

Scratches.

Drops of wax.

A crack that looks like it's been stepped on too many times by too many prayers.

You start counting breaths.

Anything to stay conscious.

You don't know how anyone does this daily.

Your thoughts drift to your old life.

Pews with cushions.

Air conditioning.

That one lady who always wore too much perfume.

You miss her.

You miss her so much it hurts.

Then,

Silence.

The bell tolls again.

A final note.

People cross themselves one last time.

Rise.

And shuffle toward the door.

You follow.

Legs trembling.

Feet numb.

Outside,

The sun looks brighter.

The air feels real again.

You inhale,

Long and deep,

Like you've surfaced from a different world.

No one speaks as they leave.

Just nods.

Small,

Reverent nods.

Like they left a part of themselves behind in there.

Or maybe picked up something heavier.

You're not sure which.

Osric waits at the path.

He looks at you.

Raises one brow.

Says,

Didn't faint.

That's something.

Then walks.

You.

Follow.

Later,

Back at the cottage,

You sit on the edge of the straw mat,

Staring at your knees like they betrayed you,

Your head still full of smoke and echoes.

The rhythm of the prayers lingers,

Like a song you don't know the words to but can't stop humming.

You still don't understand the rituals.

The kneeling.

The silence.

The bell that cuts through everything.

But for the first time,

You feel it.

The weight of it.

The pull.

The unspoken thread that ties these people to something old.

You were faking it.

Badly.

But somehow,

The chapel let you stay.

You were told it was an important job.

Vital,

Even.

Good for the earth,

They said.

Necessary for the fields.

Osric handed you a shovel that looked like it had survived three wars and pointed toward a low wooden pen behind the cottage.

The smell hit you before you reached it.

Not a sharp,

Sudden stench,

But a deep,

Ancient reek.

The kind that feels alive.

You tried not to breathe.

It didn't help.

The pigs watched you,

Judging.

The cow ignored you completely,

Which felt worse.

Like you didn't even register as a threat,

Or a presence.

You stood at the edge of the pen,

Boots half sinking into mud that may or may not have been just mud.

You looked at the shovel.

Then at the ground.

Then at your own hands.

None of them wanted to cooperate.

But,

This was your job now.

You learned quickly that there's a difference between moving manure and shoveling it.

Moving it implies progress.

Purpose.

Shoveling it is just surviving itone scoop at a time,

With no promise that it will ever end.

You find a rhythm.

Lift.

Dump.

Shift.

Lift.

Dump.

Shift.

You try breathing through your mouth,

But it just changes the flavor of the air.

Your hands blister by midday.

The wooden handle rubs against skin that hasn't earned its calluses yet.

You try switching hands.

That just spreads the damage evenly.

Your arms ache.

Your shoulders burn.

You tell yourself this is strength training.

You tell yourself this is character building.

You tell yourself lies.

The worst part isn't the smell,

Or the flies,

Or the heat.

It's the texture,

The weight,

The reality of it.

It's heavy in a way nothing should be,

Not just physically,

But emotionally.

This is your life now.

You,

The shovel,

And a slowly growing pile of regret.

A child walks by and laughs.

Not cruelly,

Just honestly.

You glance up and see them mimicking your motion,

Pretending to gag.

You want to be offended,

But you kind of agree.

Still,

You keep going.

After a while,

Something strange happens.

Your mind drifts.

The motion lulls you,

The same way rocking chairs or ceiling fans do.

You stop resisting and just move.

One pile becomes another,

Then another.

The sun shifts.

Shadows stretch.

The cows moo once,

Then go silent again.

You lose track of time.

Someone brings you water.

It's warm.

Tastes like wood.

You drink all of it.

Say thank you.

They nod and walk off without a word.

You go back to shoveling.

The rhythm returns.

Lift.

Dump.

Shift.

There's a kind of dignity in it.

Not the kind that comes with medals or applause.

The other kind.

The quiet kind.

The kind that smells bad and looks worse,

But still matters.

You're cleaning something,

Making it less chaotic,

Turning filth into fertilizer.

You've stopped thinking about what's in it.

You just think about where it needs to go.

The sky darkens slowly.

The air cools.

The flies thin out.

The animals retreat to corners.

You finish one side of the pen.

Look at it.

Admire it.

Almost.

A clean patch of earth that,

For the briefest moment,

Belongs to you.

You sit on a stump nearby and exhale.

There's a smudge on your face.

A streak of something across your arm.

You don't wipe it off.

What's the point?

You stare at the shovel leaning against the fence.

It's less of a tool now.

More of a partner.

You survived together.

You bled together.

You formed a mild trauma bond.

Osric passes by.

Doesn't stop.

Just nods once.

Like maybe.

Just maybe.

You didn't fail today.

That's the closest thing to praise you've received in weeks.

Later that night,

You lie in your corner of the cottage.

The dog curls beside you,

Indifferent as ever.

Your clothes smell like suffering.

You itch.

You cough.

But you don't cry.

That's the real victory.

You didn't cry.

Because earlier today,

When the shovel slipped,

And your boot sank ankle deep in something awful and unnameable,

You almost did.

When the wind shifted and the smell punched you straight in the soul,

You almost broke.

But you didn't.

You shoveled dung for hours,

And you're still here.

Still breathing.

Still whole,

If slightly worse smelling than before.

Somehow,

That feels like progress.

It begins with a whisper.

Somewhere near the well,

Two women lean in just a little too close to be talking about weather.

One stirs a pot of something thick and beige.

The other adjusts her headscarf and glances over her shoulder like she's guarding the secret recipe to sin itself.

You slow your step.

Just enough to catch a fragment.

And I told her,

That goat's got more sense than he ever did.

You blink.

Look around.

No one else reacts.

Not even the chickens.

But something in the tone,

That conspiratorial tilt of her voice,

Hooks you.

Later,

While hauling a basket of half-rotten cabbages that may or may not be your lunch,

You hear it again.

Stole her boot clean off her foot.

Just chomp gone.

Widow Marta screamed like the saints themselves were getting mugged.

You pretend to adjust your load,

But you're listening now.

Every third villager seems to be whispering about it.

Not directly.

Not in full sentences.

Just murmurs.

All laced with that tone.

Delightful judgment.

The thrill of someone else's embarrassment.

You pass the baker's stall.

He's laughing.

Loudly.

Slapping dough like it wronged him.

Between chuckles you catch.

I told her,

Don't wear leather near Edgar,

Unless you want to lose it.

Edgar.

A goat.

Of course it's a goat.

By noon you've pieced together the basics.

Widow Marta sharp-tongued.

Always in black.

Rumored to have buried three husbands,

And possibly one tax collector lost her right boot to a goat named Edgar.

Not just any goat.

The Miller's goat.

Known village-wide for his unpredictable appetites and moral flexibility.

Apparently the widow leaned over the trough to scold the pigs.

Edgar approached from behind with the stealth of a thief and clamped down on her boot with the force of divine punishment.

She shrieked.

Fell over.

Landed in mud.

The goat pranced off with the boot,

Like it was a wedding prize.

Some say he ate it.

Others say he buried it behind the tavern.

One child swears they saw it hanging from the church bell rope.

No one knows for sure.

But everyone talks like they were there.

You sit at the edge of the common square that evening,

Exhausted from a day of moving hay that clearly didn't want to be moved.

A group gathers near the fire pit.

Older women with thread baskets.

A few men with calloused hands and stories to spare.

Someone's shelling peas.

Someone else is carving wood into the vague suggestion of a spoon.

And then it begins.

I heard she tried to chase him.

Slipped.

Cursed loud enough to wake the Blessed Mother herself.

Gasps.

Laughter.

She marched barefoot all the way to the mill,

Waving her stick like it was a sword.

More laughter.

I bet the goat's still wearing it,

Like a trophy.

And on it goes.

Each person adding their version.

Each detail a little more ridiculous than the last.

You don't speak.

Just sit back.

Listen.

Let it wash over you.

It's not just about the goat.

You realize that quickly.

It's about the ritual.

The gathering.

The unspoken joy of knowing something absurd happened and you weren't the victim.

It's medieval therapy.

A community exhale.

Even Osric,

Who hasn't smiled since you arrived,

Mutters,

First shoe she's lost that wasn't a man.

And the whole group erupts.

You nearly choke on your bread.

You think about your old life.

News alerts.

Tweets.

Comment threads.

Information fired at you like arrows.

But none of it felt like this.

No one huddled around a fire to laugh together.

No one whispered secrets over vegetable stew.

Here,

Gossip is sacred.

It doesn't destroy reputations.

It preserves them.

The widow will be remembered not for her grief or her solitude,

But for the day she tried to outrun a goat and lost.

And somehow,

That's kinder.

You spot Edgar the next morning near the mill,

Standing proud,

A little too proud,

Chewing on something suspicious.

His eyes meet yours.

There's no guilt there.

Only victory.

You nod once.

Respect.

Later that day,

You find yourself repeating the story to someone else.

A version of it,

At least.

You add a flourish.

A dramatic reenactment.

You wave your arm like a goat hoof.

They laugh.

You laugh.

You've become part of the echo.

And for the first time,

The village doesn't feel like a place you're visiting.

It feels like a place that's beginning to let you in,

One scandalously stolen boot at a time.

It starts with a child.

You're hunched near the chicken coop again,

Trying to fix a slanted door with a rock,

Because hammers,

Apparently,

Are reserved for people with a better reputation than yours.

You're muttering something about angles when a tiny voice rings out from behind the fence.

Oy,

New boy.

You look up.

A kid.

Seven.

Maybe eight.

Gap-toothed.

And sticky with something jam-adjacent.

He grins like he's discovered fire.

New boy fix the poop door,

He yells.

Delighted by his own accuracy.

You stare at him,

Waiting for the joke to pass.

It doesn't.

Another child echoes it from across the path.

New boy's got mud in his hair.

Then another.

New boy smells like donkey.

Within minutes,

The chant has grown legs.

By the time you limp back to the cottage,

Half the village has heard it.

Some shout it in passing,

Like a greeting.

Some whisper it with theatrical pity,

As if your name were a curse they're too polite to say out loud.

New boy.

Not creative.

Not cruel.

Just.

.

.

Sticky.

It doesn't even make sense.

You're not new anymore.

You've been here long enough to ruin two tunics,

Sprain your dignity twice,

And memorize the smell of every outhouse within a 300-foot radius.

You've eaten pies that betrayed you.

You've knelt in a chapel like a folding chair.

You've shoveled things no human should ever have to shovel.

But still.

.

.

New boy.

The blacksmith is the next to adopt it.

He says it casually,

Without malice,

As he hands you a dented bucket.

Here,

New boy.

Don't drop it this time.

He chuckles.

You nod,

Like you didn't just feel your soul collapse a little.

At the bakery,

The old woman with hands like wrinkled bread calls out,

Morning,

New boy.

Try not to burn your fingers today.

You hadn't even touched anything yet.

Somehow,

She knew.

Even the goat joins in.

Edgar,

Still proud from his boot-stealing glory,

Gives you a hard stare when you pass.

He doesn't speak,

Obviously.

But if he could,

You know he'd bleed it.

New boy.

With smugness.

You try to shake it.

Correct someone once.

Actually,

It's.

.

.

But they wave you off mid-sentence.

Right,

Right.

New boy.

Eventually,

You stop fighting it.

Names are strange here.

No one asks for yours.

They assign one,

Based on a trait.

A habit.

A moment you thought no one noticed.

There's a man called Three Tooth,

And a woman called Brambles.

No one questions it.

The names grow roots.

They become part of the soil.

One evening,

As you help Osric stack firewood,

He finally says it.

Quietly.

Like a verdict.

You're holding that wrong,

New boy.

Then he grunts,

Adjusts the log,

And says nothing else.

It's the first time he's spoken to you in hours.

Maybe days.

You nod.

Say nothing.

Stack the next log better.

At night,

You lie on your mat and listen to the cottage breathe Osric's snore,

The dog's twitchy dreams,

The wind through gaps in the walls.

Your back aches.

Your fingers sting.

But the name echoes louder than all of it.

New boy.

It shouldn't matter.

It's just a word.

A sound.

But it lodges itself behind your ribs and hums.

It means you don't belong yet.

Not fully.

Not really.

You're tolerated.

Not trusted.

Present.

But peripheral.

A guest in a house where even the mice have seniority.

You think about your real name.

The one from before.

The one no one here has said out loud.

It feels soft now.

Distant.

Like a jacket left behind on a chair you're not allowed to return to.

You try whispering it to yourself once.

It sounds foreign.

Decorative.

Like something that wouldn't survive here.

And yet,

New boy is easy.

It fits,

In a way.

Not tight.

Not right.

But familiar.

Like a pair of boots,

A size too big,

That you're learning to walk in.

The kids chant it again the next day as you carry a sack of onions through the square.

One of them runs up,

Taps your arm,

And bolts.

New boy's it,

He yells.

Suddenly,

You're in a game you didn't agree to.

You chase.

You catch.

You laugh.

That night,

One of the older men at the fire calls out,

New boy,

You playin' cards or just sittin' pretty?

You play.

You lose.

They let you stay anyway.

And that's the shift.

Somewhere between mockery and familiarity,

The name loses its sting.

Becomes something else.

Not affection.

Not yet.

But a placeholder.

A hand reaching out.

Not quite touching,

But not pushing away either.

So you let them say it.

Let it echo.

Let it grow.

Because here,

Being named,

Is the first step toward being seen.

And being seen even badly's better than being invisible.

You weren't invited.

No one said,

Come to the tavern,

New boy.

But when the sun dipped low and the cold set in like it meant business,

You followed the crowd without thinking.

Feet sore.

Shoulders aching.

Clothes stiff with dirt and old regret.

And there it was wooden.

Crooked.

Humming with voices.

The tavern.

It leans slightly to the left.

The door creaks like it's complaining.

The floor slopes just enough to make standing feel like a sport.

Candles drip onto warped tables.

The air smells like wood smoke,

Onions,

And something fermenting in a barrel that probably lost its dignity a decade ago.

Inside,

It's loud,

But not chaotic.

Familiar loud.

Boots shuffle.

Tankards clink.

Someone plays a stringed instrument that's either broken or just misunderstood.

No one looks at you too long.

Which is how you know you're slowly becoming part of the background.

A chair with legs.

A body with a shovel story.

Osric nods toward a bench.

That's as close as you get to a welcome.

You sit.

A mug slides your way.

No explanation.

No toast.

Just warm,

Brownish liquid that sloshes like it's trying to escape.

You take a sip.

And it is,

Without exaggeration,

The saddest beer you have ever tasted.

It's warm.

Flat.

Somehow both thin and sticky.

Like bread water.

Or someone tried to remember what beer tasted like and got bored halfway through.

You pause.

Blink.

Take another sip just to be sure.

Yep.

Still sad.

Still beerish.

But no one complains.

They drink it like it's nectar.

One man downs his in one gulp and slams the cup with the reverence of a holy rite.

Across from you,

A man named Oswin clears his throat.

No one introduced him.

He introduced himself just by being louder than everyone else.

His beard is wild.

His tunic stained.

His hands constantly moving,

Waving,

Gesturing,

Performing.

You know,

He begins,

As if picking up a thought he's been rehearsing all week.

Turnips weren't always round.

You blink.

He leans closer.

Aye.

Not always.

Used to be long.

Like a carrot.

But fatter.

Not good for stew.

Too awkward.

One fella Branrick tried to shave his down with a knife.

Slipped.

Lost a toe.

You take another sip of melancholy beer and nod.

Oswin continues.

Well,

That toe went bad.

Real bad.

But his wife,

She cooked the turnip anyway.

Claimed it cured his fever.

Maybe it did.

Maybe it didn't.

But ever since,

Branrick only grew round ones.

Said they behaved better.

You look around.

No one stops him.

No one interrupts.

They've heard this story.

Or one like it.

And they're letting it live its life.

Oswin goes on.

The thing is,

Those round turnips caught on.

Everyone started copying.

Whole region changed shape because one man got unlucky with a knife.

And now,

To this day,

He taps the table like a scholar finishing a thesis.

That's why we stew him that way.

You take another sip.

You're not sure if the story made sense.

Or if it needed to.

Later,

Someone sings.

Badly.

A ballad about a cow that ran away.

People join in.

Oswin slaps the table in rhythm.

The chorus has no real words,

Just vowels shouted at roughly the same time.

You pretend to know it.

They pretend not to notice.

The sad beer keeps flowing.

It never improves.

But after a while,

It doesn't matter.

You're not drinking it for the taste.

You're drinking it because it's there.

Because the room is warm.

Because for the first time all day,

Your hands aren't working or carrying or shoveling.

They're just holding something.

Resting.

Osric doesn't speak much,

But he refills your cup once.

Which is something.

At some point you realize your cheeks hurt from smiling,

Not frostbite.

Someone tells a joke you barely understand,

But you laugh anyway.

Not to fit in.

Just because it feels good to move sound through your body.

And Oswin?

Still going.

Saw a turnip once with a face in it.

Looked like my uncle.

Swear to the saints.

I refused to eat it.

Gave it a name.

Kept it on the shelf till it rotted.

Whole cottage smelled like wisdom and shame.

Eventually,

The fire burns low.

People trickle out in pairs,

In silence.

Oswin dozes in a corner mid-sentence.

Osric grunts.

Stands.

You follow.

Back in the cottage the air is colder.

But something's changed.

Not outside.

Not even in the room.

Just you.

You survived the tavern.

The beer.

The stories.

The unofficial initiation into whatever this village is.

You weren't just tolerated tonight.

You were included.

Even if your name's still Newboy.

Even if the beer tasted like boiled sadness.

Even if you now know too much about the history of root vegetables.

It was yours.

A night.

A story.

A memory.

And tomorrow,

When Oswin starts again,

Maybe this time,

About the time he married a girl who could read smoke,

You'll nod.

You'll sip.

You'll listen.

Because sometimes,

The saddest beer still tastes like belonging.

You didn't mean to start a war.

You just wanted cheese.

It happened at the market again.

By now,

You've learned how to dodge the pig cart,

Avoid the onion hag's flirty nephew,

And keep your coin pouch tucked somewhere less.

Stealable.

But cheese?

That was still uncharted territory.

The stall looked innocent.

A rough plank balanced on two barrels draped with burlap.

Behind it stood a man with forearms like tree trunks and a mustache that could have had its own tax record.

He nodded once as you approached,

But didn't smile.

You took it as a neutral sign.

Not friendly,

But not hostile.

Laid out before you were wedges.

Crumbling,

Pale blocks.

Dark,

Waxy triangles.

Something gray.

One that glistened,

Each with its own mysterious aura.

You hovered,

Trying not to breathe through your nose too hard.

Some looked edible.

Others looked like they had opinions.

You pointed to one near the edge.

Yellowish.

Mold-free.

Reasonably shaped.

This one?

You asked,

Hoping for approval.

The man said nothing.

You took that as permission.

Your hand was halfway to the wedge when someone growled behind you.

Not cleared throat.

Not polite cough.

A full growl.

Low.

Primal.

You turned.

Slowly.

Behind you stood a man who could have doubled as a battering ram.

Thick neck.

Arms like barrels.

A jaw carved from spite.

He was holding a sack and glaring at you like you'd insulted his ancestors.

That's mine,

He said.

You looked at the cheese.

Looked back at him.

Too didn't know.

You stammered.

I thought.

He took one step forward.

The earth didn't shake but it flinched.

From somewhere beneath his cloak he pulled a dagger.

Not a fancy one.

Just sharp.

Well used.

Honest in its intentions.

You froze.

He didn't raise it.

Just held it at his side like a punctuation mark.

The cheese seller stayed silent.

Not helpful.

Just mildly entertained.

You looked around.

No one intervened.

A woman across the lane started selling apples louder.

Two boys perched on a cartwheel whispered eagerly.

One of them mouthed.

Fight.

You held up both hands.

I swear,

You said,

Voice cracking slightly.

I didn't know it was yours.

You have every right.

Full rights.

I don't even like cheese.

I'm lactose suspicious.

Please.

There was a beat.

Then the man cheese mountain.

You privately labeled him grunted.

Loudly.

Like a bear making a decision.

He stepped forward again.

Snatched the wedge from the table.

Held it to his nose.

Sniffed hard.

Then glared at you with renewed intensity.

This one's mine.

He repeated.

Just in case your fear had made you forget.

Of course.

You nodded.

Naturally.

He tucked the cheese into his sack.

Slowly sheathed the dagger.

And walked off.

You didn't exhale.

Until he disappeared around the fish cart.

The stallkeeper finally looked at you.

Smirked.

Lucky.

He said.

You stared at him.

He dueled a guy last month.

Same mistake.

Left handed now.

You looked down at your hands.

Both still yours.

You flexed them out of gratitude.

You got anything less.

Controversial?

You asked.

He reached behind the barrels.

Pulled out a smaller wedge.

Mishapen.

Cracked.

Goat.

He said.

Nobody fights over goat.

You nodded.

Took it.

Paid too much.

Didn't argue.

Later.

Sitting on the edge of the stream.

You nibbled the goat cheese.

It was sour.

Dry.

Crumbly.

A bit like despair.

But safe.

Osric joined you halfway through.

Sat beside you without speaking.

Looked at your cheese.

Goat.

He muttered.

Bold.

You told him the story.

Short version.

Left out the part where your voice squeaked and your legs almost betrayed you.

He grunted once.

The closest he comes to a laugh.

Next time.

He said.

Watch for the wax seal.

What seal?

He picked a piece of straw from his sleeve.

Some families mark their claim on food.

Etched into wax.

That wedge you touched.

Belonged to the Trenums.

You waited.

They're sensitive.

He added.

You made a mental note to only buy cheese under cover of darkness from now on.

Back at the cottage.

The dog sniffed your fingers.

Sneezed.

And walked away.

Even he didn't respect goat cheese.

But you were alive.

Dignity slightly dented.

Fingers intact.

Pride wounded.

But healing.

That night.

You dreamed of dairy.

Of enormous men with cheese swords.

Of being chased through a market with nothing but a cracker shield.

You woke in a cold sweat.

Welcome to medieval life.

Where even your snacks come with risk.

It starts before the sun.

Always before the sun.

A sound.

Slices through your dream sharp.

Nasal.

Vengeful.

The rooster.

You don't know its name.

You're not sure it has one.

It's not the noble painted bird from old kitchen wallpaper or children's books.

This one is angry.

Ragged.

A patchy red demon with feathers that stick out like bad intentions.

Its crow is less of a song and more of a war cry.

It doesn't greet the dawn.

It dares it.

The first morning you heard it.

You fell out of bed.

The second morning you threw a shoe in its direction.

Missed.

Third morning you tried covering your ears.

Didn't help.

The sound travels through straw.

Through wood.

Through bone.

Now it's routine.

You wake up half a second before the crow like your body has learned to flinch in anticipation.

It's always the same pitch black cold air.

The dog stretching somewhere nearby.

And that shrill call from a beast who seems to loathe your existence.

You hate the rooster.

Deeply.

Philosophically.

On a level that transcends reason.

But you get up.

Because fighting it doesn't work.

And ignoring it only prolongs your misery.

So you roll off your straw mat.

Stretch limbs that never seem to stretch far enough.

And start the day.

Osric's already outside.

Always.

You don't know when he wakes.

You suspect he never actually sleeps.

Just lies in wait.

He nods when he sees you.

As if to say,

The rooster got you too.

Then hands you a bucket.

That's your first job.

Every morning.

Fetch water.

The bucket is cold.

The handle digs into your palm.

The path to the stream is wet with dew.

And every stone finds your foot like it's on a mission.

You pass the chickens.

The rooster watches you from his perch.

Smug.

You resist the urge to hiss.

By the time you return,

The sky is pale grey.

Someone's stoking the hearth.

Bread dough is rising in a bowl near the window.

You nod at the woman in charge of baking.

She doesn't nod back.

You've made peace with that.

You drink a bit of water.

Splash some on your face.

It helps,

Slightly.

Then it's chores.

The same ones.

Every day.

Clean.

Carry.

Fix.

Fetch.

Repeat.

There's comfort in the pattern now.

Your hands know what to do before you tell them.

You don't ask as many questions.

You don't get as many answers.

But it doesn't bother you like it used to.

You know which chickens bite.

Which piglets wander.

Which tools are rusted but still usable.

You've stopped expecting things to make sense.

They just are.

And that,

Strangely,

Helps.

Meals come when they come.

Bread,

Mostly.

Gruel.

Sometimes a piece of salted fish so dry it could be used as currency.

You eat in silence.

Surrounded by people who still don't say much to you.

But they pass you the bowl without hesitation now.

They expect you to be there.

That's new.

One afternoon you're fixing the fence when the rooster struts by.

Doesn't look at you.

Just clucks.

Pecks at the dirt.

Moves on.

You freeze.

Realize something unsettling.

You know its pattern.

Its route.

Its habits.

You've memorized the enemy.

You've learned to live around it.

You're not sure when it happened.

When the desire to escape dimmed.

When you stopped counting days.

When how do I get home became how do I not mess this up.

You just know that now you wake with the rooster.

You no longer hate it.

Not entirely.

You respect it.

It's consistent.

Honest.

It screams when it feels like screaming.

That kind of freedom is rare.

You still flinch.

Still fantasize about feathers flying.

But when it crows,

You move.

And that movement has become your rhythm.

Evening comes quietly.

You sit by the hearth.

Your hands hurt in familiar ways.

Your stomach is full enough.

You smell of sweat,

Hay,

And faintly of goat cheese.

Someone's telling a story about a man who tried to grow onions in winter.

You listen.

You even laugh.

Outside,

The rooster settles into his roost.

You hear a rustle.

A sleepy cluck.

You nod once in his direction.

A silent truce.

Because tomorrow,

Before the sun even considers rising,

He'll scream again.

And you'll rise.

Not because you want to.

But because that's what you do now.

You never cared much about cabbage.

Before all this,

It was just there.

Something your grandma mentioned occasionally.

A filler vegetable.

Harmless.

Forgettable.

A background player in a stew.

You barely noticed.

Now it's a life partner.

You don't know when the shift happened.

Maybe it was the morning you woke up shivering,

And the only thing in the bowl was something grayish green and steaming.

Maybe it was the third consecutive meal where chewing cabbage was the only thing keeping you from passing out.

Or maybe it was the moment you realized you could identify the type of cabbage just by smell.

White.

Red.

Savoy.

Boiled.

Pickled.

Fried.

Raw.

Shredded into soup.

Slapped on bread.

Tossed in whatever counted as oil.

In this part of the world.

If there was a way to cook cabbage,

You've seen it and judged it.

You have opinions now.

You think boiled cabbage is an insult unless salted first.

You believe raw cabbage belongs only in desperation dishes or punishment meals.

You've found,

To your shame,

That pickled cabbage is your guilty pleasure.

Salty,

Sour,

Aggressive.

It's the only food that doesn't pretend to be happy to see you.

But cabbage alone won't save you.

So you learn porridge.

Or rather,

You submit to porridge.

It's not food so much as a concept.

A warm,

Mushy suggestion.

It sticks to your ribs and your wooden spoon and sometimes your dignity.

They call it gruel some days.

Mash on others.

Doesn't matter.

It's the same beige blob with the same limp grains and the occasional mystery lump.

One time you bit something crunchy and no one would tell you what it was.

Still,

You eat it.

Every day.

Because you must.

Because hunger isn't poetic here.

It's not skipping a meal to look cool.

It's kneeling on a dirt floor,

Praying the pot's not empty and scraping the sides just in case.

There are rules.

Unspoken ones.

You never serve yourself first.

You never take more than one ladle,

Unless invited.

And you always,

Always leave the last scoop for someone else even,

If no one's looking.

Especially if no one's looking.

That's how you earn quiet nods around here.

Your stomach learns to anticipate disappointment.

You stop craving flavor.

You start craving texture.

Crunch is a luxury.

Warmth is a blessing.

Anything that doesn't remind you of soggy bark is a treat.

One day,

A turnip shows up in the stew.

Just one.

A single brave slice.

Floating near the edge of the pot like a survivor.

You almost cry.

Not because you like turnips,

But because it's different.

Osric watches you eat.

Says nothing.

But when you reach for seconds,

He stops you with a glance.

You nod.

Push the ladle back in.

He grunts.

That's his version of,

You're learning.

Later,

You ask the baker if he ever gets tired of cabbage.

He laughs like you asked if trees get tired of standing.

Tired?

He says.

It's the only thing that grows when God's angry.

You believe him.

You try to help in the garden once.

Pull weeds.

Till soil.

You're terrible at it.

Your rows are crooked.

Your hands blister.

But you touch the cabbage as it grows.

Cradle it.

Like something sacred.

Because it is.

Food is sacred here.

Not because it's rare,

But because it's constant.

Predictable.

The one mercy the land still offers.

In your old life,

Meals were background noise.

Screen time.

Multitasking.

Here,

They are rituals.

Porridge in the morning.

Cabbage soup at noon.

A crust of bread by firelight if you're lucky.

And on feast days,

Well,

You haven't seen one yet.

But the whispers make it sound like meat might exist again someday.

You ask a boy once what his favorite food is.

He says,

Hot cabbage.

You laugh,

Thinking it's a joke.

He doesn't.

Now,

When you're hungry,

You don't think about pizza.

Or pancakes.

Or anything covered in cheese.

You think about the crunch of a roasted cabbage leaf.

About how it curls at the edges like it's stretching.

You think about porridge with a bit of salt just a bittened.

How that one pinch can change everything.

That's what you've become.

Not broken.

Just adjusted.

Someone who can get excited over a vegetable with range.

Someone who knows the value of an extra spoonful.

Someone who understands that surviving isn't always glorious.

It's sometimes just finishing your bowl and being thankful there was one.

It started with a drizzle.

Harmless.

Soft.

The kind of mist that feels like the sky is just clearing its throat.

You didn't even put on the cloak they gave you.

That scratchy,

Patchy thing that smells like sheep and old smoke.

You thought,

This isn't real rain.

By midday,

The sky had changed its mind.

The drizzle turned to drops.

The drops turned to sheets.

By evening,

The world was soup.

Every surface slick.

Every path a trap.

The roof dripped in a new corner.

The fire refused to stay lit.

And your socks,

Such as they were,

Became sponges with hopes and dreams.

And none of them involved keeping you dry.

You tried to keep working.

Tried to haul logs and feed animals and carry buckets through ankle deep mud without looking like a baby giraffe learning to walk.

It didn't go well.

Slip one.

Happened near the woodpile.

A casual step.

One boot sank.

The other didn't.

You tilted.

Flailed.

Landed flat.

Your spine met earth.

Mud up your back.

The dog watched,

Unimpressed.

Slip two was more dramatic.

You were carrying a basket of laundry toward the cottage Osric's shirts mostly,

All of them seemingly made from lead and sorrow when the ground shifted.

Not visibly.

Not scientifically.

Just enough to remind you who was in charge.

You fell sideways.

Laundry flew.

A pair of woolen underthings landed on your face.

You didn't scream.

You just paused.

By day two,

Your knees had given up.

Your hands stayed raw.

Your will to live was dripping somewhere near the pigpen.

It kept raining.

Morning to night.

The kind of rain that soaks through you.

Through fabric.

Through skin.

Through spirit.

It drummed on the roof like mockery.

It filled the bucket faster than you could empty it.

It made everything you owned smell like despair and mildew.

Slip three was public.

In front of the baker.

You landed on your side like a sack of defeated potatoes.

He didn't laugh.

Just handed you a half burnt roll and said,

Eat.

You look like you need to chew something.

Slip four was near the well.

You caught yourself on a rope.

Nearly dislocated something.

Still had to draw water after.

Slip five was the one that broke you.

Not because it hurt.

Not because it was dramatic.

Just because you were so tired of trying not to fall.

You were walking to the barn.

Nothing heavy in your hands.

No danger.

No audience.

Just you and the mud and the soft,

Insistent drizzle that never quite stopped.

Your foot slid.

Your arms flailed.

You landed hard face down.

The sound it made was wet and personal.

You didn't get up.

Not right away.

You stayed there.

Let the rain pat your back like an old friend.

Let the mud press into your sleeves,

Your collar,

Your teeth.

And you cried.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Enough to let the ache out of your chest.

Enough to admit you missed warm beds and hot showers and dry feet.

Enough to say,

If only to yourself,

I don't want to do this anymore.

No one came.

No one asked.

No one told you to get up.

Eventually you did.

Because what else was there to do?

You trudged back to the cottage.

Shed your outer layer like a snake,

Giving up.

Set your boots near the hearth knot.

Close enough to warm.

Just close enough to hope.

The others came in.

Wet.

Quiet.

Tired.

You expected someone to say something.

To point out the mud still on your cheek.

To make a joke.

But no one did.

And somehow,

That hurt worse.

Because this wasn't new to them.

Not the rain.

Not the misery.

Not the quiet collapse of someone trying to pretend they're fine.

They'd all been there.

There's no ceremony for suffering here.

No pity.

Just endurance.

Osric handed you a bowl.

Gruel.

Again.

Salted this time.

You took it.

Ate.

In silence.

And felt.

Not better.

But not alone.

That night.

The wind howled.

Like it wanted in.

The roof groaned.

Your mat was damp.

But you slept.

Because there's a strange peace that comes after breaking.

A quiet sturdiness in knowing you've already cracked once.

And the world didn't end.

You slipped five times.

You cried once.

No one noticed.

And somehow,

That's what kept you going.

You knew it was coming.

You just didn't think it would be today.

It started when Osric sniffed the air near you.

Grimaced.

And muttered something about barn rot.

You laughed.

Nervously.

He didn't.

Later,

One of the younger boys walked by.

Paused.

And then held his nose with theatrical flair.

You tried to ignore it.

But when the dog who had rolled in something dead just that morning chose to sleep away from you.

You got the message.

It was bath time.

You hadn't taken a real one since arriving.

You'd wiped your face with a damp cloth.

Splashed your armpits once using drinking water when no one was looking.

But a full body.

Head under.

Kind of clean.

That felt mythological.

Like something nobles did while the rest of the world embraced odor as a lifestyle.

Still,

When the old woman tossed you a rag that may once have been a towel and pointed toward the river.

You didn't argue.

Just trudged through the muck.

Carrying a bar of soap that looked suspiciously like a chunk of lard.

The river was worse than you remembered.

It was always cold.

Always moving too fast.

But today,

It looked actively hostile.

Mist clung to the edges.

The rocks were sharp.

Slick.

And judging you.

You stood at the bank for a while.

Just stood there.

Trying to hype yourself up like it was a duel.

Because it was.

You versus nature.

You versus dignity.

You versus whatever lived in that water and had no name but many teeth.

You stripped.

Not fast.

Not proudly.

Just one piece at a time.

Like peeling off layers of shame.

The wind didn't help.

It bit every inch of skin with icy precision.

Your breath fogged.

Your toes screamed.

You stepped in.

The water hit like betrayal.

It didn't just make you cold.

It made you doubt everything.

Your life choices.

Your ancestors.

The meaning of existence.

You gasped so hard your lungs folded.

Your heart hiccuped.

You considered running back to the mud and accepting your stink as destiny.

But then.

Movement.

On the opposite bank.

A pig stared.

Not just glanced.

Stared.

Big eyes.

Slightly cocked head.

An expression that said,

Really?

You ignored it.

Tried to lather something.

The soap slipped.

Floated downstream like a coward.

You splashed water on your face.

Wincing every time.

You bent to scrub your legs and slipped.

Went under.

Fully.

A baptism of humiliation.

When you emerged gasping,

Sputtering.

Eyes wide you heard laughter.

Children.

Three of them.

Perched on a rock like goblins.

Watching you.

One had a fist full of moss.

You froze.

The moss hit your shoulder with a wet plop.

You said nothing.

Another chunk sailed through the air.

Hit your forehead.

Slid down slowly.

Like shame in physical form.

They laughed harder.

Pointed.

Chanted something that rhymed.

Though you couldn't understand the words.

You tried to move faster.

Splash rinse.

Get it over with.

Your fingers had gone numb.

Your ears burned not from temperature.

But from awareness.

You were the show.

The afternoon entertainment.

And still.

The pig watched.

You climbed out.

Soaked and shivering.

Your skin blotchy.

Your pride somewhere floating near the soap bar.

Lost to the current.

You wrapped yourself in the rag.

It was damp.

Probably already had stories of its own.

You didn't care.

The children clapped as you left.

Not kindly.

Back at the cottage.

Osric looked up.

Sniffed once.

And said.

Better.

That was it.

No congratulations.

No medal.

Just better.

You collapsed near the hearth.

Your body steaming gently.

Someone handed you a crust of bread.

Someone else poured warm water into a bowl and set it near your feet.

No one mentioned the moss.

Or the pig.

But later.

One of the older women passed you.

Paused.

And said.

You smell like you're trying.

Then walked on.

And honestly.

That felt like a compliment.

Because.

You were trying.

Trying to belong.

Trying to survive.

Trying to remember what dignity felt like without clinging to it too tightly.

That night.

Wrapped in a dry tunic.

You lay on your mat.

Muscles aching in weird new ways.

The dog curled close again.

You ran a hand through your harrot.

Felt cleaner.

It smelled neutral.

You smiled.

It had cost you everything.

Warmth.

Privacy.

The illusion that you were still in control of your life.

But you were cleaner.

Technically.

You didn't mean to say anything strange.

It just slipped out.

It was late.

And you were tired mentally,

Physically,

Emotionally,

Spiritually tired.

The kind of tired that makes you say things without thinking.

The fire was low.

The bread was burnt.

And the baker was lamenting his luck again.

Third loaf ruined this week.

Said he must be cursed.

Or maybe the oven was.

You'd meant it as a joke.

You said.

Maybe the stars are just misaligned.

That was it.

A passing comment.

A harmless phrase you'd used a hundred times before in your old life.

The one with apps and traffic and weather forecasts.

But here,

Those words landed differently.

The baker went still.

Completely still.

Like someone had pressed pause on him.

You looked up.

He was staring at you.

Pale.

His hands hovering above the dough like they'd forgotten what to do.

What did you say?

He asked,

Slowly.

You swallowed.

The.

Stars.

Misaligned.

It's just something people say.

He didn't answer.

Just turned away.

Muttered something.

And started kneading again harder than before.

You thought that was the end of it.

It wasn't.

The next morning he didn't greet you.

No nod.

No grunt.

Just eyes that slid past your face like you weren't there.

At breakfast,

A child left a small clump of moss on your stool.

You moved it.

It showed up again on your mat.

You tossed it.

That night it was tucked into your boot.

By the third day,

There were five pieces of moss in various stages of decay surrounding your bedding.

You asked Osric what was happening.

He chewed his bread for a full minute before saying,

You talked about the stars.

And?

He looked at you like you'd asked why the sun rises.

Only the seers talk about the stars.

You blinked.

I'm not a seer.

Osric shrugged.

Too late.

You said it.

That's how it works here.

You don't get to choose what you are.

They decide.

And they decided you see things.

Soon,

People started avoiding your gaze.

Not rudely.

Not out of malice.

Just out of quiet,

Respectful terror.

The blacksmith's wife asked if you could unsee her husband's back pain.

You told her you didn't know how.

She nodded solemnly and brought you a boiled root anyway.

Children began following you from a distance.

Leaving gifts.

Mostly moss.

Sometimes rocks.

Once a dead frog with daisies in its mouth.

You tried to explain.

Tried to tell them you weren't magic.

You were barely functional.

But the more you denied it,

The more convinced they became that you were hiding your powers out of humility.

You became star talker.

You found out from the old man who cleaned the well.

He said it casually.

Like everyone had agreed and no one had thought to tell you.

The baker stopped speaking entirely.

Just set your bread down with both hands.

Eyes averted.

Mouth tight.

You missed being ignored normally.

Regular.

Everyday dismissal.

This was different.

This was reverent silence.

Which somehow felt worse.

At one point,

A woman brought her baby to you and asked if the stars would favor him.

You panicked and said,

He has a strong aura.

She wept with joy and gave you a jar of pickled eggs.

You hate pickled eggs.

But you accepted them.

Because at this point,

Saying no to anything might only deepen your myth.

Osric found the whole thing hilarious.

You could charge,

He said,

Mouth full of something root based.

People would pay.

Even in turnips.

You didn't want turnips.

You wanted to go back to being new boy.

At least that was simple.

Annoying,

Yes.

But understandable.

This was unsettling.

You began watching what you said.

Avoiding metaphors.

Refusing to comment on weather,

Harvests,

Dreams.

You nodded and smiled and said nothing of value.

Just in case.

But it was too late.

You'd said something celestial.

And now moss was your currency.

One morning,

A child handed you a perfectly round stone and asked if the moon was angry.

You said no.

They smiled.

Later,

You caught Osric carving a tiny star into your wooden cup.

You glared.

He didn't stop.

You thought about the world you came from full of astrology apps and zodiac memes and horoscopes that told you to avoid X's and wear green on Tuesdays.

None of it had meant anything.

Just noise.

But here,

It did.

Your accidental superstition had become belief.

And belief,

Once born,

Doesn't die easily.

Especially not in a village with more goats than logic.

So,

You let them believe.

Because maybe it gave them comfort.

Maybe it made the rain hurt less.

Maybe it made the bread rise better.

Maybe the moss meant protection.

And maybe,

Just maybe,

In a world where you didn't belong,

It gave you a place.

Even if that place smelled faintly of frogs and lies.

It wasn't a decision.

It was a failure.

Your shoes gave up on you.

One morning,

You slipped them on and felt something shift.

A soft tear somewhere near the heel.

You ignored it.

Walked anyway.

By midday,

One sole had peeled halfway off.

By evening,

Both had split,

Like old fruit left in the sun.

Osric looked at them,

Nodded solemnly and said,

They've returned to the earth,

Which felt unnecessarily poetic for footwear made of splintered wood and disappointment.

You tried patching them,

Wrapped them in twine,

Stuffed the insides with straw.

Nothing worked.

They were done.

You stared at them like fallen comrades,

Then left them by the fire as a quiet offering.

And you walked out barefoot.

It was meant to be temporary.

Just until someone found you something else.

Another pair of clogs.

Even a sack you could tie around your feet.

Anything.

But no one did.

And after a few days,

You stopped waiting.

At first it hurt.

The ground was not kind.

There were stones,

Roots,

Unexpected bits of bone and mystery metal.

You learned quickly to tread lightly,

To read the earth with your soles.

But then,

Something shifted.

The ground warmed.

The cold dirt of spring gave way to the soft,

Sun-soaked soil of summer.

The grass grew fat and lazy.

The paths became dry and crumbly.

And one afternoon,

Without thinking,

You curled your toes into the warm dust and just stood there.

And it felt good.

Not just tolerable.

Not just survivable.

Good.

Like the earth knew you were fragile and decided,

Just for a moment,

To hold you gently.

You began to walk slower.

Not because you were tired,

But because you wanted to feel it longer.

The mud between your toes near the pig trough.

The mossy patches behind the bakery.

The cracked,

Sun-drenched dirt near the garden wall.

Each texture told you something.

Here is where the rain lingers.

Here is where the goats have passed.

Here is where people rarely walk,

But sometimes sit.

Shoes had muted all of that.

Barefoot,

The world spoke to you.

And you listened.

There was a joy in it.

A strange,

Quiet joy.

Not loud enough to call happiness,

But close enough to make your chest feel soft.

You caught others watching you.

Some with pity.

Some with amusement.

A few with a strange envy.

Like they remembered what that freedom felt like once,

Long ago,

Before chores and pride and splinters made them forget.

One child followed you once.

Mimicked your steps.

When you turned,

They giggled and ran off.

Barefoot as well.

The next day,

Two more did the same.

A barefoot parade.

A rebellion made of silence and skin.

You didn't lead them.

You just walked.

And the dirt received you.

On hotter days,

It scorched a little.

But that too became part of the rhythm.

A dance.

Step fast on the hot stones.

Linger where the shadows stretch.

Learn the secrets of the village.

Not by eyes or ears,

But by the nerve endings on the bottom of your feet.

You found places you hadn't noticed before.

A patch of ferns behind the smithy that felt like velvet.

A dry creek bed lined with pebbles that rolled under your toes like laughter.

A flat sun-baked stone near the fence where you'd sit sometimes and let your souls rest.

No one asked you why.

Maybe they assumed it was punishment.

Maybe they thought it was a ritual.

Or maybe they just accepted that you were strange,

Moss hoarding,

Star mumbling,

Barefoot you.

And you accepted it too.

You didn't need shoes anymore.

Not for identity.

Not for protection.

Not even for respect.

You had the earth.

And it was enough.

Sometimes at night,

You'd step outside when everyone was asleep and feel the ground cooling under the moon.

Damp in places,

Crisp in others.

The dog would follow,

Lay beside you,

Breathe in time with the breeze.

No one talked about this kind of peace.

It wasn't celebrated or praised.

It just existed.

In small moments between the noise.

Warm dirt.

Bare feet.

A breath that doesn't feel borrowed.

You hadn't chosen it.

But it had chosen you.

And for once,

You didn't need anything more.

It happened fast.

One moment the child was running.

The next,

They were gone.

The puddle wasn't even that big.

You'd stepped around it earlier without thinking just another shallow mud trap among dozens that form when the road decides it's tired of pretending to be solid.

But the child,

Sprinting barefoot and wild-eyed with a stick in hand,

Didn't see it coming.

Their foot caught the edge,

Slid forward,

And the rest of them followed.

They didn't fall gracefully.

It was arms flailing,

Knees first,

Face nearly planted into the muck.

A flump,

A splat,

And then stillness.

For a second,

No one moved.

You were standing a few feet away,

Holding a half-empty bucket and pretending to care about the laundry line.

The child stayed crouched in the mud like they'd just discovered the floor of the earth was an emotional home.

A pause stretched into three seconds,

Then four,

And then they looked up.

Moss in their hair,

Dirt on their cheeks,

A single worm clinging to their sleeve like a passenger unwilling to disembark.

They grinned,

Not a smirk,

Not embarrassment disguised as bravery,

Just pure,

Shameless delight,

Like falling was the whole point of running in the first place.

And you laughed,

Not politely,

Not because it was expected,

Not to blend in.

You laughed the way people laugh when their ribs forget to protect them.

Sudden,

Unfiltered,

So sharp and full you startled yourself.

It broke out of your throat and spilled into the air like something that had been locked away too long.

A laugh that didn't come from irony or bitterness,

But from somewhere real,

Somewhere old.

The child giggled back,

Triumphant in their mud-coated glory.

They stood up,

Arms outstretched like a scarecrow,

And shouted something unintelligible before charging down the path again twice as fast,

Now soaking wet,

Unconcerned with everything.

You stood there,

Breath catching,

The ghost of a grin still on your face,

And realized it had been weeks.

Weeks of silence mistaken for peace.

Of smiles performed like rituals.

Of nodding when spoken to,

And walking with the deliberate caution of someone trying not to break.

You hadn't laughed.

Not like this.

The last time you had,

It might have been during the firewood incident.

When Osric tried to chase a goat off the roof with a broom and ended up falling into a haystack.

You'd chuckled then,

Maybe even snorted,

But it had been the kind of laugh that covers discomfort.

The kind you use when you want people to think you're okay.

This was different.

This was light.

And it felt like something cracked open inside you.

You didn't even notice the mud on your boots,

The wet laundry dragging behind you.

You just stood there,

Letting the sun warm your face,

Still half-smiling like you just remembered something important and couldn't quite name it.

Later,

While folding clothes near the fire the old woman yells with,

You think her name is glanced over and said,

Heard you laugh today.

You looked up,

Startled.

She didn't smile.

Just nodded once.

About time.

Then went back to her sewing like she hadn't just marked a milestone.

But it was a milestone.

One you hadn't been tracking.

One that didn't come with a speech or ceremony or bread.

Just a fall.

A child.

A moment.

You found yourself watching the others more after that.

Not just studying them.

Seeing them.

How the blacksmith hums when he sharpens blades.

How the baker scratches his neck when nervous.

How Osric,

For all his scowling and grumbling,

Always tosses a bit of crust to the dog under the table when he thinks no one's watching.

There is humor here.

Not loud or clever or sarcastic.

Just soft.

Constant.

Like moss underfoot or wind through wheat.

It doesn't demand attention.

It waits for it.

And now,

You notice.

You catch yourself smiling at silly things.

At the chicken who thinks she owns the path.

At the piglet who sneezes mid-run.

At the goat that still refuses to acknowledge you unless you're carrying food.

You still miss things.

The warm buzz of artificial lights.

The hum of your old life.

The sarcasm that used to be armor and entertainment all at once.

But for a moment,

Just a moment,

You laughed like none of that mattered.

And for that heartbeat,

That breath,

That flicker of sun across the mud,

It was enough.

It started with horns.

Not battle horns.

Not warning horns.

Just.

.

.

Celebratory ones.

Loud,

Off-key,

And impossible to ignore.

You were stacking firewood behind the bakery,

Trying not to get splinters under your thumbnail again.

When the first blast echoed through the village,

You froze.

Waited.

Another followed.

Then a third.

Then laughter.

Shouting.

Feet running.

You peeked around the corner and saw something bizarre.

People smiling.

All at once.

Not the usual smirks or exhausted grins after a long day of surviving pigs and bad weather.

But actual,

Unfiltered joy.

A little chaotic.

A little manic.

The kind of joy that comes with fermented drinks and very low expectations.

Osric passed by you wearing something that looked like a flower crown,

But was mostly just weeds and feathers.

He didn't stop walking.

Just tossed you a garland and said,

Come on.

The goat's about to be crowned.

You had questions.

You received no answers.

You followed anyway.

The town's square,

What passed for it,

Was already alive.

Someone had hung colored cloth between two trees.

Children were chasing each other with sticks wrapped in ribbon.

A fiddler was tuning their instrument with the casual grace of someone who knew it would sound terrible no matter what,

And didn't care.

And there,

In the center of it all,

Stood the goat.

Not just any goat.

A large,

Confident,

Slightly menacing goat with one crooked horn and a posture that suggested it knew something you didn't.

It was wearing a cloak.

Someone had embroidered little suns and stars onto it.

A crown,

If you could call it.

That sat,

Lopsided on its head.

More weeds.

A feather.

Possibly a spoon.

The villagers surrounded it like royalty.

You leaned over to Ellsworth and asked,

What is this?

She grinned.

Festival.

Yes,

But what for?

She shrugged.

It's time.

That was it.

Apparently the why didn't matter.

Or if it did,

No one was in a hurry to explain it.

It wasn't a harvest celebration.

It wasn't a saint's day.

It wasn't commemorating a victory or a birth or anything you could track.

It just was.

And maybe that was the point.

Music started sharp and fast and wildly inconsistent.

But feet began to move.

Hands clapped.

People twirled.

Stomping and laughing.

Spinning with the kind of abandon you'd only seen in toddlers and very drunk wedding guests.

You stood on the edge.

Awkward.

Until a hand grabbed yours.

A child.

The same one who once threw moss at your face during your bath debacle.

Now smiling,

Tugging,

Pulling you into the chaos.

You resisted for half a second.

Then relented.

Because why not?

Why not let go for a few hours?

Why not stomp your bare feet into the dirt and let the rhythm claim you,

Even if you had no idea what beat you were supposed to follow?

So you danced.

Badly.

Arms too stiff.

Movements too late.

You bumped into people.

Tripped over your own foot.

Almost collided with the goat.

The goat did not flinch.

It merely stared at you as if to say,

Respect the crown.

You bowed.

The goat ignored you.

Someone handed you a cup.

You drank.

It was something like cider,

But stronger.

Warmer.

Possibly fermented in a boot.

You drank again.

You started laughing.

Not because something was funny,

But because everything was.

Osric was trying to juggle turnips and failing spectacularly.

The blacksmith was dancing with a broom.

Someone's grandmother was reciting a love poem to a loaf of bread.

The goat was eating its own crown.

And in that blur of sound and spinning cloth and uneven clapping,

You forgot that you didn't belong.

Because in that moment,

You did.

Not as a seer.

Not as new boy.

Not even as the barefoot stranger from another world.

Just as a person.

Dancing.

Laughing.

Alive.

The sky turned orange,

Then deep blue.

The music slowed.

The crowd thinned.

People sat on the ground,

Leaning against each other,

Sharing crusts of food and sips from the same dented mug.

The goat,

Crownless but undefeated,

Curled up by the fire like it had been ordained to do so.

You sat too.

Breathless.

Sweaty.

Light.

You still didn't know what the festival was for.

No one ever told you.

And maybe that was the magic of it.

That for one day just won the village didn't need a reason to celebrate.

They just did.

And for the first time in a long time,

You didn't need a reason to smile.

You just did.

It was late.

The kind of late that didn't care about clocks.

Just the steady hush of a world that had finally run out of things to say.

No more voices.

No more chores.

No more shouting about spilled milk or goats gone missing.

Or whose turn it was to fetch the night water.

Just.

.

.

Silence.

You stepped outside without really meaning to.

The fire inside the cottage had started to dim.

And your mat felt too warm.

Too close.

Too full of dreams you didn't want to dream.

So you slipped out barefoot.

Wrapped in someone's cast-off cloak.

And let the door creak behind you.

The air outside didn't rush to meet you.

It just.

.

.

Was.

Cool.

Still.

Thick with something that wasn't quite fog and wasn't quite breeze.

The kind of air that makes you pause before you breathe.

Just to see if it's safe.

It was.

And above you the sky.

You'd forgotten.

Forgotten what darkness really looked like when it wasn't competing with street lamps or headlights or a neighbor's bathroom window.

Left glowing at 3am.

This was black.

But not empty.

The stars were violent in their clarity.

Endless.

Unapologetically bright.

They didn't twinkle,

They burned.

Hung there like secrets no one had the right to know.

And yet everyone was allowed to see.

You stood still.

Let your eyes adjust.

Let your shoulders drop.

Even the pigs were quiet.

A few lay curled in their pen a few yards off.

Dreaming whatever pigs dream when they aren't biting,

Squealing,

Or trying to escape.

One let out a soft grunt barely audible like a punctuation mark to the silence.

You walked farther out past the wood pile.

Past the fence.

With the one loose plank no one ever bothered to fix.

Into the tall grass where the earth felt warmer and the world stretched wider.

You lay down.

Right there.

No blanket.

No cushion.

Just damp dirt and flattened weeds and the faint smell of livestock and ash.

And you looked up.

It hurt a little how beautiful it was.

How indifferent.

How vast.

How still.

It reminded you of the moments before sleep back home.

When the phone was finally down and the lights were off and there was nothing but you and your heartbeat and the thoughts you couldn't outrun.

But here the thoughts didn't chase.

They circled.

They softened.

They fell apart before they could form teeth.

You couldn't remember the last time you'd been bitten by a mosquito.

That thought alone was almost enough to make you cry.

No high pitched whine.

No slaps in the dark.

No itching your ankle until sunrise.

Just stars.

Air.

Dirt.

Peace.

Not the loud kind.

Not the kind you post about or earn through struggle.

The quiet kind that arrives when everything else gives up and lets you be.

A shooting star crossed your vision.

You didn't make a wish.

You didn't need to.

Because you were already somewhere impossible.

Not home.

Not really.

But not lost either.

The strange part was you hadn't noticed it happening.

The shift.

The letting go.

Weeks ago,

You were clinging to everything.

Language.

Identity.

Routine.

Now,

You couldn't remember what day it was.

Couldn't remember the last time you used your own name.

And that should have been terrifying.

But it wasn't.

Because here you weren't anyone in particular.

You were just a body in the grass.

Eyes on the sky.

Heart beating slowly enough to count the spaces between stars.

No one asked where you were.

No one cared.

And somehow,

That was a gift.

You stayed there for what could have been minutes or hours.

Time didn't pass here.

It settled.

Like dust.

Like dew.

Like breath.

Eventually,

You sat up.

Legs stiff.

Hair tangled.

Dew on your arms.

A chill in your spine.

But your face?

Dry.

No tears.

No salt.

Just something softer.

Something looser in the chest.

You whispered,

Thank you to no one.

And meant it.

A pig snorted in response.

You smiled.

Then stood.

Walked back toward the cottage.

Slow.

Careful not to disturb the peace that wasn't yours.

But had let you borrow it for one strange,

Miraculous night.

The door creaked again as you stepped inside.

The fire had gone out.

You didn't relight it.

Didn't need to.

You curled up on your mat.

Pulled the threadbare blanket to your chin.

And let the stars you could no longer see keep watch outside.

And for once,

You slept like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

You didn't mean to volunteer.

It just sort of happened.

You were passing the bread table and someone muttered something about short on hands.

And you nodded without thinking.

That was all it took.

A nod.

A tiny,

Sleep deprived gesture.

Now you were holding a dented bowl of flour and staring down your greatest culinary enemy.

Yeastless,

Medieval bread.

You'd never made bread before.

Not in your old life.

You'd watched videos about it.

Sure dreamy montages of golden crusts and time lapse bubbles,

But that was back when everything came with a pause button and a comment section.

Now there was just flour,

Water,

Salt and judgment.

Elswith handed you a wooden spoon and said don't kill anyone.

You thought she was joking.

You were wrong.

Bread,

It turned out,

Was serious business.

Not fancy.

Not gourmet.

Just essential.

Daily.

Expected.

It kept people alive or didn't.

The line between sustenance and dental crisis was thin and you were walking it with muddy boots and zero confidence.

You poured in water.

Too much.

Scrambled to fix it.

Added more flour.

Stirred.

It clumped like dry clay.

Your arms started to ache,

But you kept going.

The dough resisted you.

Mocked you.

Tried to leap from the bowl once.

You needed or tried to.

Your wrists protested.

The surface was uneven.

A dog wandered by and stared,

Judgmental and vaguely hungry.

You shaped the lump.

Lopsided.

Sweaty.

More weapon than food.

You slid it into the hearth oven with all the reverence of a final prayer.

And then you waited.

Thirty minutes of pacing.

Of sniffing.

Of trying not to inhale ash.

Osric passed by.

Sniffed the air and raised one eyebrow.

You weren't sure if that was a compliment or a warning.

Finally,

It was done.

Or done enough.

It looked like bread.

Smelled like bread.

Hadn't exploded.

So far so good.

You set it on the table like an offering.

No one rushed to try it.

You couldn't blame them.

Eventually,

Elswith cut the first piece.

Steam escaped.

She tilted her head.

Bit in.

Chewed.

Slowly.

You held your breath.

She swallowed.

Then nodded.

Just once.

Not dramatic.

Not emotional.

But it meant everything.

Others followed.

A few villagers.

Osric.

The baker's apprentice who still wouldn't look you in the eye after the star comment incident.

They ate.

And they lived.

Someone said,

Not bad.

Another said,

Fills the stomach.

And one child,

Possibly lying,

Possibly honest,

Whispered,

I like it.

You didn't know what to do with the feeling that followed.

Pride.

Relief.

Validation.

All of the above.

You'd made something.

From scratch.

With your hands.

Not because it was fun or trendy or for likes.

But because people needed it.

Because bread is what stands between hunger and exhaustion.

And you'd done it.

It was dense.

Lumpy.

A little too salty.

But it fed people.

It warmed their mouths.

It brought silence to the tablanot awkward silence.

But the kind that comes when chewing is more important than talking.

You sat down,

Took your own piece,

And bit in.

It was fine.

But it was yours.

And that made it better than fine.

You caught Ellsworth looking at you again.

She didn't say anything.

Just passed you a second lump of dough.

And smiled.

Not big.

Not wide.

Just enough.

That night,

Your hands ached.

Your back ached.

Your shoulders burned from stirring and lifting and trying not to drop a glowing hot peel on your foot.

But you were full.

Not just your stomach,

Your chest.

Your head.

Some small dusty corner of your soul that hadn't felt useful in weeks.

You'd made bread that didn't kill anyone.

And in a world like this,

That was a win.

It started with the fence.

A storm had blown through the night before angry wind.

Sideways rain.

The kind that made the shutters rattle like bones.

Morning came gray and thick with mud.

Everyone looked a little more hunched than usual.

A little more tired.

You stepped outside expecting the usual routine.

Fetch water.

Avoid the chickens.

Maybe scrub something that didn't need scrubbing.

But then you saw the fence.

One side of it was crumpled like a kicked chair.

The boards had snapped clean through in places.

The posts leaned like they'd given up halfway through their job.

A goat stood proudly in the wreckage.

Chewing on what may have once been someone's laundry.

You didn't think.

You just walked over and started clearing debris.

It wasn't much at first.

Just lifting fallen planks.

Stacking them neatly.

Pulling loose nails out with the edge of a rock.

Osric appeared with a hammer.

Didn't say anything.

Just nodded once and got to work beside you.

A child brought rope.

Someone else brought new boards.

It became a rhythm.

Hold.

Nail.

Tie.

Shift.

The smell of damp wood.

The sting of a fresh splinter in your palm.

The satisfying thunk of a board locking into place.

You didn't talk much.

No one did.

Just the sound of working hands and a few grunts of approval.

And then he said it.

A man you'd only seen once or twice.

Older.

Wore a hat that might have once been white.

Now mostly resembling a leaf pile.

He was adjusting one of the outer posts when he looked over and said,

Good eye,

Neighbor.

That one was loose.

You froze.

Not because of the compliment.

But because of the word.

Neighbor.

Not stranger.

Not new boy.

Not even the whisper name they used when talking about you behind your back.

Just neighbor.

It landed softly.

Like dust.

Like rain.

Like something true that didn't need to be shouted.

You nodded.

Didn't trust your voice.

Just kept hammering.

Later that day,

You walked past the bakery and the baker nodded at you without the usual squint.

The blacksmith offered you the last turnip without being asked.

One of the children waved with both hands.

Like you were something worth waving at.

You didn't feel different.

But somehow,

You were.

There was no ceremony.

No one handed you a ribbon or painted your face with ash or said you belong now.

But you did.

Not because you'd earned it in some grand way.

Not because you'd passed a test or lifted a cart off a drowning pig.

But because you'd stayed.

You'd woken up here.

You'd fallen here.

You'd eaten their food,

Shoveled their manure,

Survived their gossip,

And danced at their goat festival.

You'd made mistakes.

You'd laughed anyway.

You'd baked bread.

You'd bathed in the river and lived to tell about it.

And now,

Now,

You were one of them.

Not fully.

Not perfectly.

But enough.

Enough that someone called you neighbor.

Enough that no one corrected him.

You found yourself walking differently.

Standing straighter.

Not out of pride,

But out of comfort.

You knew which stones on the path would shift under your feet.

You knew which chickens to avoid and which ones liked to peck ankles for sport.

You knew when the bell would ring and how long the prayer would take and who always mumbled the last line.

The village hadn't changed.

But you had.

And in tiny,

Invisible ways,

It changed for you too.

That night,

You passed by the repaired fence.

Ran your fingers along the wood.

It wasn't perfect.

Some boards stuck out too far.

One post leaned a little.

But it held.

It did the job.

Just like you.

You sat by the edge of the road as the sun began to bleed into the horizon.

The sky turned that familiar medieval orange-eth.

Kind that said the fire should be lit soon and the bread should be cooling.

Osric passed by with a bundle of sticks.

Didn't stop.

Just said,

See you tomorrow,

Neighbor.

And this time,

You said it back.

It sneaks up on you.

At first,

The absence is loud.

Phantom vibrations in a pocket that isn't there.

That quiet,

Compulsive twitch of your hand when the silence lasts too long reaching for something familiar.

Comforting.

Flickering.

You'd tap your thigh,

Feel the rough fabric,

And pause every time.

But there's no phone.

There never is.

In the beginning,

That loss felt sharp.

Like losing a limb or a part of your memory.

You didn't know what time it was.

What day.

You couldn't check.

No updates.

No buzzing.

No light glowing in your palm to keep the dark from settling in too deep.

At night,

You missed the screen the most.

Back home,

Your phone was the final voice of the day.

The last comfort before sleep.

You'd scroll until your eyes blurred.

Lull your brain into forgetting what it didn't want to feel.

It wasn't entertainment.

It was escape.

Every headline,

Every video,

Every picture of food you wouldn't eat it gave you something to disappear into.

But here,

There's nothing to disappear into.

Just firelight.

And breath.

And the wind outside your door.

You used to panic at the stillness.

Like your brain would overheat if you didn't give it something fast and flashing.

You'd lie in bed and wish for notifications.

Like they could stitch your mind back together.

Now,

You just lie there.

You stare at the wooden ceiling.

You listen to the snores of the dog.

The creak of the shutters.

The low murmur of the wind moving through the trees like it's humming to itself.

And that's it.

No screen.

No glow.

No feed to refresh.

Just stillness.

And then one day,

You notice something strange.

You haven't reached for your pocket in a while.

You haven't imagined a buzz or found your fingers curling into that familiar scroll shape.

Your body stopped asking.

The urge quieted.

Like a song you'd heard too many times finally lost its hook.

You don't know when it happened.

Maybe it was the bread baking day.

Maybe it was during the goat festival.

Maybe when you were too tired to think or when you were laughing too hard to remember you ever needed distraction.

You just forgot.

Forgot the need.

And it's not like you suddenly hate technology.

If someone handed you a phone right now,

You'd probably cry.

You'd check the weather and your texts and what bizarre world events you missed.

You'd watch at least one video of a raccoon doing something human.

But you don't crave it anymore.

You don't miss the noise like you thought you would.

Because here,

There's enough.

The sky tells you what time it is.

The people tell you what matters.

The silence fills the gaps you used to patch with pixels.

You've learned to sit still with your own mind.

And that's terrifying sometimes.

It's not all peace and clarity.

Sometimes the thoughts are loud.

Ugly.

Regretful.

They echo harder without distractions to soften them.

But you don't run from them now.

You let them arrive,

Stay a while,

And then leave.

Like visitors,

Not invaders.

You learn to listen to the wind again.

To the way rain sounds on a wooden roof.

To how fire crackles differently depending on what wood you burn.

You never noticed those things when you had a screen in your face.

You didn't need to.

But now,

You hear everything.

A bird nesting near your window.

The far off clank of a blacksmith's hammer.

The way Elswith hums the same tune every morning when she stirs the pot.

A song you once thought was meaningless now loops in your head like a lullaby.

This world is quieter,

But not empty.

And for the first time in your life,

You realize how much space you were filling just to avoid being alone with your own presence.

Now,

Your presence is the thing you look forward to.

You sit outside and watch the light change.

You don't post about it.

You don't snap a picture.

You just watch.

And that's enough.

You still remember your phone.

Its weight.

Its feel.

The crack in the corner from the time you dropped it on the sidewalk.

But the attachment is fading.

You don't miss scrolling.

You don't miss buzzing.

You don't miss filling every second with noise.

You've remembered how to live without it.

And strangely,

You don't want it back.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Not while the sky keeps turning gold at dusk.

Not while the wind keeps whispering secrets only the quiet can hear.

The dreams come slower now.

You used to fall asleep with the flicker half thoughts.

Static.

Images blurred by blue light.

Your brain.

Always running.

A movie you didn't remember choosing.

Playing on loop behind your eyelids.

You'd wake up exhausted.

You'd wake up with your jaw clenched and your fingers curled like you were bracing for something.

But here,

Dreams arrive differently.

They float in.

They settle.

Like ash from the fire or the hush after a long,

Hard rain.

There's no buzz before sleep now.

No inbox reminders.

No digital clock burning red into the dark.

Just the soft flicker of the candle low.

Warm.

Sometimes sputtering in protest.

Sometimes leaning gently toward you.

Like it wants to be the last thing you see before you drift off.

You close your eyes and the world doesn't rush in.

It exhales.

Your body doesn't tense anymore when you lie down.

It sinks.

The straw mattress still scratches.

The blanket still smells faintly of smoke and dog.

But they've become part of the rhythm.

Familiar textures.

Predictable discomforts.

Anchors.

In their own strange way.

And then it happens.

The dream.

You're standing in the woods.

Not lost.

Just there.

Trees taller than seems possible.

The air soft.

Like wool against your skin.

You can hear something moving in the distance.

A fox maybe.

Or just the wind.

You don't panic.

You don't wonder where your phone is.

Or who's trying to reach you.

There's no reaching here.

No needing.

There's only noticing.

And then from somewhere off the path a woman appears.

You don't know her.

But somehow,

You do.

She's carrying a bucket.

It swings gently from her hand as she walks.

Her feet are bare.

Like yours.

Her hair's tied with twine.

She doesn't speak.

Just nods at you.

Once.

The kind of nod that says you're late,

But it's alright.

She keeps walking.

You follow.

Not out of curiosity.

Not out of fear.

Just.

Because.

She leads you to a stream.

The water is clear.

Ridiculously so.

You can see tiny rocks beneath the surface.

Little snails clinging to them.

Bits of leaves drifting past like they have somewhere to be.

She kneels.

Fills the bucket.

You watch the water rise.

You feel its weight.

Even before she lifts it.

Then,

Without a word,

She hands the bucket to you.

You take it.

It's not heavy.

But it matters.

You look up and she's gone.

You don't panic.

You just turn.

Walk back the way you came.

Bucket in hand.

You don't know where you're going,

But your feet do.

The candle flickers beside your bed.

You shift.

In your dream,

The trees part.

A village rises in the distance.

Not your village,

But not not yours either.

Smoke from chimneys.

A crooked fence.

The sound of chickens losing some argument.

You feel the weight of the bucket against your leg.

You keep walking.

The dream doesn't end.

It just fades.

And when you wake,

It's not like before.

No gasp.

No dread.

No fumbling for a forgotten charger or scanning for a notification to tether you back to the noise.

You open your eyes slowly.

Let the dim light find you.

Let the stillness settle in your chest,

Like warmth from tea.

You remember the trees.

The bucket.

Her.

You don't know what it meant.

You don't need to.

Some dreams aren't puzzles.

They're places.

And you've started visiting them more and more.

Dreams without voices.

Shouting your name or deadlines chasing you.

Dreams without sirens.

Without rush.

Without that strange low-level anxiety that always trailed behind you like a second shadow.

Now,

It's just her.

The bucket.

The woods.

And you,

Walking through candlelight into something unnamed.

Sometimes you wake with the image still pressed behind your eyes.

Sometimes it disappears like breath on a mirror.

But the peace stays.

Even after you rise.

Even after the day begins with its usual clang and chaos and chores.

The dream lingers.

Not in your mind,

In your bones.

Like the memory of being handed something simple and being trusted to carry it.

You didn't ask for the bucket.

But you hold it anyway.

Because in the dream,

It always felt like yours.

It was nothing special.

The morning came like it always did.

With the rooster screaming in victory and someone clanging a bucket against a post just to make sure the rooster had backup.

You groaned.

Stretched.

Sat up slowly.

Your blanket was half off.

Your back a little sore but not worse than usual.

You rubbed your face and didn't hate the idea of standing.

You stepped outside.

The light was soft.

Pale gold.

The kind that makes the whole village look like it's holding its breath.

Just for a moment.

Before the noise begins.

You breathed it in.

The air still had a bite to it.

But it wasn't cruel.

Just a reminder that you were alive.

You didn't even flinch at the cold dirt under your feet.

Elswith nodded at you from the well.

She didn't say anything.

She didn't have to.

You weren't new boy anymore.

You weren't a curiosity.

You were just you.

One of them.

Here.

Awake.

You helped carry the water without being asked.

The dog followed you most of the way.

No barking.

No leaping.

Just quiet companionship and the occasional sniff of approval.

Breakfast was porridge.

Again.

But it was warm.

And this time you didn't mind the lumps.

Someone had added a pinch of herbs.

Or maybe it was just salt.

Either way it tasted better than it had any right to.

You ate slowly.

No one rushed you.

There was a joke told at the table.

You didn't catch the beginning.

But you laughed anyway.

Not because you were trying to fit in.

But because the laughter around you made sense.

It filled the space.

It echoed in your chest.

Later you helped mend a fence.

Not the broken kind.

Just one that leaned a little more than it should.

You tied rope.

Adjusted posts.

Wiped sweat from your brow.

And didn't feel bitter about the work.

Your hands moved without needing to think.

Your back complained.

But you ignored it.

The sun was warm.

The grass underfoot was dry for once.

You didn't slip.

Or fall.

Or drop anything important.

Lunch was bread and cheese.

A little stale.

But filling.

You ate sitting on a stump beside the blacksmith who grunted approval at the sky like he owned it.

No one asked anything of you.

No one avoided you.

You weren't a guest.

You weren't a burden.

You were just there.

Same as everyone else.

You sat in the sun afterward.

For a long time.

No reason.

No urgency.

Just because you could.

You leaned back.

Eyes half closed.

And listened.

Chickens squabbled nearby.

A woman sang a tune you didn't recognize.

Off-key and honest.

A child ran past.

Giggling over something too small to explain.

You didn't check the sky for planes.

Not once.

You didn't wonder what day it was.

You didn't feel the ache to leave.

Or the fear of staying.

You just.

.

.

Were.

Someone passed you a plum.

You didn't ask for it.

They didn't say anything.

Just placed it in your hand and walked on.

You bit into it.

Sweet.

Messy.

Real.

It stained your fingers.

You wiped them on your trousers and didn't care.

The sun slid slowly down the sky.

Shadows stretched but didn't threaten.

The day grew quieter,

Not colder.

You stood,

Stretched again,

And made your way back to the cottage.

No stubbed toes.

No awkward encounters.

No disasters hiding around corners.

Just quiet.

At the door,

The dog was already curled up.

You sat beside him,

Not quite ready to go in.

The stars would come out soon.

You didn't feel the need to count them.

Or name them.

Or wish on them.

You just wanted to see them.

The candle would be lit inside.

The straw mattress waiting.

The soft rustle of someone shifting in sleep.

The night would hold its breath.

Then let it out slow.

And you'd sleep.

Without restlessness.

Without fear.

Without needing anything more than what you had.

It was a good day.

That's all.

No great revelations.

No turning point.

No deep meaning to extract and carve into stone.

Just a good day.

And somehow,

That felt like a miracle.

It's quiet.

Not the usual kind.

The kind with creaking shutters and someone snoring across the room and the distant shuffle of animals waking up before the humans do.

No.

This quiet is thicker.

Still.

Like everything has paused.

Just for you.

You open your eyes.

Slowly.

The ceiling above you is unfamiliar again.

Too smooth.

Too white.

Not wood.

No smoke.

No straw.

Just blank.

You blink.

Try to sit up.

Your body doesn't ache.

There's no crust of mud on your hands.

No cold in your toes.

The air smells sterile.

Not like fire.

Not like sweat.

Not like bread or cabbage or moss.

Just clean.

You look to your side.

A digital clock glows red.

4.

37 AM.

The numbers blink at you.

Steady and indifferent.

You sit there.

Breathing.

Your chest doesn't feel heavy.

Your mind isn't racing.

But something is different.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

Carpet.

Not dirt.

You press your feet into it and almost laugh.

It's too soft.

Too forgiving.

It doesn't argue back like the earth did.

It doesn't teach you how to walk around puddles or avoid sharp stones.

It just holds you.

Gentle and neutral.

You stand.

Look around.

The room is yours.

Familiar.

The bookshelf.

The half folded laundry.

The faint glow of a street light bleeding through the curtain.

Everything exactly where you left it.

But you're not.

You walk to the mirror.

Your face is your face.

But there's something else now.

Something older.

Not in the skin,

But in the stillness behind your eyes.

Like a story that's been told only once,

But remembered forever.

Was it a dream?

The thought arrives like a whisper.

Logical.

Dismissive.

But you look at your hands scallows somehow.

You touch your arm expecting softness.

But there's a phantom soreness that shouldn't be there.

You remember the rooster.

The bread.

The mud.

The cold river.

The children's laughter.

The dog curled by the fire.

The woman with the bucket.

You remember the moment someone called you neighbor.

You remember laughing without sarcasm.

Sleeping without dread.

Eating without checking a screen.

Feeling your own heartbeat slow beside the stars.

It was too vivid to forget.

Too specific to invent.

Maybe you never left.

Maybe you're still there.

And this is the dream.

Maybe the candle is still burning.

You sit back down on the bed.

The modern one.

The one without splinters.

Or the threat of a goat barging in.

It's comfortable.

But it doesn't feel like yours anymore.

You close your eyes.

And you're there again.

The dirt under your nails.

The call of the village bell.

The weight of a pail in your hand.

Filled with water you actually worked to gather.

The ache in your muscles that felt like proof you existed.

You open your eyes again.

The room hasn't changed.

But you have.

You stand and walk to the window.

Outside,

The world is still.

Quiet cars.

Dark houses.

Everything's sleeping.

But the stars are there.

And suddenly,

They don't feel like background noise.

They feel familiar.

Like they've followed you across lifetimes just to remind you you were there.

You lived it.

Even if no one else will believe you.

Even if it fades like smoke the moment the sun rises.

You don't need proof.

You lived a whole life without noise.

Without news.

Without needing to be anything but present.

And that's the part that stays.

Not the dirt.

Not the bread.

Not even the rooster.

Just the stillness.

The quiet that felt earned.

You lie back down.

Pull the blanket over your chest.

Close your eyes again.

You don't need to decide if it was real.

You just know you're warm.

And for the first time in a long,

Long time,

You rest.