The hearth crackled softly, filling the silence with warm, uneven rhythms.

  Caleb sat on the bench where Rael had left him, staring at the flames. The heat was a relief. His fingers, numb from the cold outside, were starting to tingle again.

  She was still in the room, sitting at a table near the wall, flipping through parchment scrolls and thick, worn books. Occasionally, she glanced over at him. Not with suspicion — more like she was assessing something. Measuring his reactions. Trying to understand him as much as he tried to understand her.

  They’d tried to communicate for over an hour. She’d pointed to objects, spoken slowly, watched his attempts to mimic the words. He had maybe five or six now: fire, water, yes, no, food, name.

  It wasn’t much.

  But it was more than nothing.

  He looked around the hall again. The furniture was simple but solid. No metal screws. Everything was pegged and slotted, handcrafted. The cups were ceramic, the windowpanes cloth-covered, no glass in sight.

  No wires.No outlets.No nails.No plastic.

  Every detail confirmed what he already knew: this was not his world.

  He rubbed his face with both hands, groaning softly. His beard was starting to itch. Not full yet, but scruffy. How long had he been out? Days? A week? More?

  His stomach growled again. Rael noticed. She stood, walked to a cupboard, and brought back a slice of flatbread and a small bowl of something that looked like stew — thin, but fragrant. She set it in front of him.

  Caleb met her eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

  She didn’t respond to the words, but nodded.

  He ate slowly, chewing every bite. The bread was coarse, but fresh. The stew — root vegetables, maybe — was barely seasoned, but warm. Every spoonful grounded him just a little more in this strange, silent reality.

  When he was done, she cleared the bowl and spoke again. A full sentence. Maybe two.

  He just stared.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I really don’t know what you’re saying.”

  She tilted her head, then reached for something on the table — a piece of charcoal and a square of thin parchment.

  She began to draw.

  She began to draw.

  Her hand moved quickly, practiced. First, a simple tree. Then a circle above it — the sun. A squiggle to one side: the stream. She pointed to the paper, then to him.

  Caleb leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You saw me there?”

  She tapped the tree, then mimed walking. Pointed at herself. Then back at the drawing.

  She’d found him. Or seen him. Maybe followed him.

  He pointed at the drawing, then at her. Then raised both eyebrows.

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  So she’d been watching.

  He took the charcoal from her and flipped the parchment over. On the other side, he drew a rough shape — a square with windows: a building. A street. Cars, or something vaguely car-like. Then a stick figure: himself. He added a question mark beside it.

  Her brow furrowed.

  He tapped the paper, then pointed around the room, at the fire, the bench, the stone walls. Then pointed back at his drawing. Two separate things.

  Two worlds.

  She looked at it for a long moment. Then looked at him. Her expression wasn’t disbelief. It was uncertainty.

  She took the charcoal again. Drew a circle. Then a line between the circle and his square. Between her tree and his street.

  A line. A connection.

  A path.

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  Caleb stared at it.

  “You think... I came from there?” he asked softly.

  She didn’t respond. But her eyes searched his face like she was trying to read something that wasn’t on the page.

  He let out a long breath. The pressure in his chest didn’t ease, but it shifted — from panic to weight. At least he wasn’t the only one confused.

  Rael stood and spoke a word. Then gestured to a door at the side of the hall.

  He followed her through it into a small adjoining room. There was a cot with folded blankets, a small stool, a bucket in the corner. Basic. Clean. Shelter.

  She pointed to the bed and said something soft. A gesture of rest.

  “You want me to stay?”

  She nodded.

  Caleb swallowed, throat dry.

  “Thank you,” he said again.

  Then, quietly: “I don’t know why you’re helping me… but thank you.”

  She gave him one last glance — unreadable — then left the room, closing the door behind her.

  He sat on the edge of the cot, staring at the blank wall across from him.

  He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know the rules. He didn’t know the language.

  But for now, he wasn’t alone.

  And that was enough.

  The room was quiet. Not the comforting kind — the heavy kind. The kind that settled on your shoulders and refused to lift.

  Caleb lay on the cot, staring at the wooden beams above him. He hadn’t taken off his boots. He didn’t feel like he belonged here — not enough to rest, not enough to let his guard down.

  His stomach had stopped growling, but the emptiness inside hadn’t gone anywhere.

  He turned onto his side and looked at the door.

  Rael was somewhere beyond it. Maybe just outside, maybe already asleep. Maybe watching the village. He didn’t know. He barely knew her name. And yet, she’d given him food. Shelter. Safety.

  Why?

  He pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to silence the spiral of thoughts.

  How long before someone decided he was a threat?What if this world had rules he didn’t understand? Laws he’d already broken?What if he said the wrong thing — or drew the wrong symbol — and ended up in chains?Or worse?

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air was warmer here. Smelled of herbs. Dried leaves. Smoke.

  Not home.

  He didn’t dream that night — or if he did, he couldn’t remember.

  When morning came, the light filtered in gently through the cloth-covered window. No alarm. No buzzing phone. No honking cars or city noise. Just birdsong, footsteps outside, and the distant clatter of tools on stone.

  He sat up slowly.

  There was a folded cloth on the stool beside the bed — a clean tunic and trousers. Modest. The kind of thing he’d seen in old historical films, or maybe Renaissance fairs. Earth tones. Tightly stitched seams. Durable.

  He changed without thinking too much about it. His old clothes — if they had been his — were damp, torn, and starting to smell of forest rot. These were better.

  Familiar? No.

  But they fit.

  He stepped outside, squinting against the sun. The village was alive now — carts being loaded, animals being fed, children running barefoot through narrow paths between homes. Everyone had something to do.

  And no one looked twice at him.

  He was just another part of the landscape now.

  Somehow, that was more terrifying than being stared at.

  He walked slowly through the village, staying close to the edges, trying not to draw attention. A few villagers nodded to him in passing — polite, guarded. One woman handed him a piece of fruit without a word. A child pointed at him and asked something to his mother, who gently pulled the child away with a soft laugh.

  He didn’t feel hated.

  Just… other.

  Rael was nowhere in sight, but he didn’t panic. She’d let him out. That had to mean something.

  Caleb wandered toward the edge of the village, where the houses were more spaced out. A few people worked in small gardens, turning soil or harvesting long, leafy stalks. Others carried buckets from a communal well. The tools were all handmade — no iron blades, just stone or bronze, with wooden handles bound by rope or sinew.

  He watched every motion, storing it in his mind. These people weren’t primitives. They were skilled. Intentional. They used what they had — and what they had wasn’t much, but it was enough.

  And yet, everything here felt crafted, not manufactured. No factories. No logos. No machines.

  Everything bore the mark of human hands.

  He reached the well and paused. Two women were filling jars with water. One of them glanced at him, then said something with a slight smile. Friendly.

  He smiled back and bowed his head slightly — not knowing if that meant anything here, but hoping it did.

  She handed him a small clay cup filled with water. He took it carefully, miming thanks. She watched him drink, then returned to her task.

  The water was clean. Cool. Satisfying.

  And something inside him started to shift — slowly, subtly.

  He wasn’t just surviving now.

  He was beginning to observe.

  The fear was still there, humming quietly beneath everything. But so was a new emotion, creeping in at the edges of his thoughts:

  Curiosity.

  This wasn’t home.

  But maybe — just maybe — he could learn.

  He found her near the windmill.

  She was speaking to an older man, tall and weathered, with white streaks in his hair and a staff taller than himself strapped to his back. Their conversation was calm but focused. Rael gestured toward the horizon once, and the old man frowned.

  When she saw Caleb, she raised a hand — not waving, but acknowledging.

  He walked up slowly, unsure if he was interrupting.

  The old man turned to look at him. His eyes were sharp, but not unkind. He said something to Rael, who responded with a short phrase. Then he nodded once, tapped the staff on the ground, and walked off toward the forest edge.

  Caleb watched him go.

  Rael gestured for him to follow her.

  They walked without speaking — not that they could — and returned to the hall from the day before. Inside, the fire had been rekindled. The same table. The same quiet.

  Rael brought out fresh parchment and drew again.

  This time: two figures. One clearly meant to be him — short hair, tunic, unfamiliar — and another wearing a cloak and long braid. Hers.

  Between them: a spiral.

  Then another figure: older, with a curved staff.

  She tapped the old figure, then made a motion — fingers to lips, then outward, as if speaking. Then she pointed at Caleb. Then at herself.

  He stared at the drawing. Slowly, the pieces clicked together.

  The man she spoke to — he had something to do with language.

  She was trying to find a way to talk to him. Properly. Fully.

  A flicker of hope stirred in his chest.

  He pointed to the spiral between the two figures and raised his eyebrows.

  Rael nodded once.

  Not today.

  But soon.

  They would speak.