After packing my things, I tightened the straps of my bag and hit the road again. My stomach wasn’t particularly hungry, so I figured I could skip a meal and keep going. The morning air was crisp, and the soft rustling of the trees around me provided a peaceful rhythm to my footsteps.
But after a long walking, almost without warning, the rain began to fall. At first, it was gentle, a light drizzle that I thought I could manage. I pulled my hood up, adjusted my bag, and kept walking.
Soon, though, the drizzle turned into a steady pour, the kind that soaks you to the bone in minutes. The dirt road beneath my feet became slick, and the rain drummed against the ground, drowning out the quiet sounds of the countryside.
The rain came down harder, soaking the earth and turning the road into a muddy mess. As it poured, my eyes scanned the horizon, desperate for shelter. That’s when I saw it—a small, open-sided shack standing in the middle of a rice field.
The structure was simple, just a few wooden posts holding up a tiled roof, with no walls to speak of. Beneath it sat a lone figure, a farmer, cross-legged on the wooden floor, his hat resting beside him as he watched the rain fall around him.
Wading through the flooded path, my boots squelching with every step, I made my way toward the shack. When I reached it, I hesitated for a moment, brushing the water from my cloak. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice loud enough to rise over the rain. “Would it be alright if I waited out the rain here?”
The farmer looked up, his face weathered but kind. He gave me a simple nod and gestured with his hand for me to sit. I stepped into the dry space under the roof, settling onto the wooden platform with a sigh of relief.
The rain poured in relentless sheets, drumming against the tiled roof of the small shack. I huddled under it with the farmer, grateful for the shelter as the muddy road disappeared into the flooded rice field around us.
The farmer sat cross-legged, his hands reaching into a small bundle beside him. He unwrapped his meal—a simple portion of fried fish and rice—and glanced at me as if appraising my presence. Then, without a word, he pinched a small amount of rice and fish with his bare hand and held it out to me.
I blinked, caught off guard. His hand hovered, steady and insistent, the look on his face telling me that refusing wasn’t an option.
Under the rumbling protest of my stomach, I let out a quiet sigh and leaned forward, letting him feed me the small offering. The warmth of the rice and the crisp saltiness of the fish spread across my tongue. It wasn’t just good—it was soul-soothing.
The farmer smiled faintly and continued eating, alternating between feeding himself and offering me another pinch of food. I didn’t complain. Something about it felt oddly familiar, almost comforting, though it had been years since anyone had shared a meal with me like this.
As I chewed, my mind wandered back to a distant memory, one I hadn’t thought of in years. I was a boy then, no older than eight, sitting on the beach with my mother. She’d fed me with her hands just like this, while my father worked on repairing a small fishing boat nearby.
It had been a simple time. Mornings spent playing on the sand, collecting seashells, and chasing crabs. Afternoons learning to write and read with my mother. Evenings… well, evenings were often punctuated by the sharp scolding of my father, followed by the occasional swat if I made a mistake.
The thought brought a laugh to my lips, sudden and unbidden.
The farmer paused, looking at me curiously, his head tilted in silent question.
“No, it’s just a memory,” I said, shaking my head with a smile. “Sorry.”
He nodded once and went back to his meal, finishing the last of it with quiet efficiency. When he was done, he gestured toward the rainwater dripping off the edge of the roof. I took the hint, washing my mouth and hands under the cool stream, the taste of the fresh rain sharp and clean.
I pulled out my flask, letting the rainwater fill it, careful not to waste a single drop. The farmer did the same with a small clay jar he carried, his movements deliberate but unhurried.
As I sat back under the shack, watching the rain fall around us, I realized how peaceful it felt to share this moment of quiet with someone who had said nothing at all. There was a beauty in it, a simplicity that reminded me of times long gone.
The rain continued to pour, the rhythmic sound filling the quiet between us. After a moment, the silence felt heavy, so I decided to open a conversation.
“So,” I asked, shifting slightly where I sat, “where are you from?”
The farmer didn’t answer. Instead, he spread his arms wide, gesturing to the vast expanse of the rice field surrounding us.
“Ah,” I said, nodding in understanding. “A farmer family, I see.”
He gave me a simple nod in response.
“What do you grow here?” I continued, genuinely curious.
The farmer looked around, his brow furrowing slightly as though confused by my question. Then, after a moment, he bent forward and pointed at a few grains of rice that had accidentally fallen onto the floor between us.
“Oh,” I said, chuckling at my own lack of observation. “Rice. Of course.”
But as I said the words, a realization dawned on me—slowly and embarrassingly late. He hadn’t spoken a single word since I arrived. He couldn’t answer my questions verbally.
He was mute.
The realization hit me, and for a moment, I was about to apologize. The word sorry hovered on the tip of my tongue, but then I stopped myself, a memory of Ellara flashing through my mind.
She’d once had a friend who was mute—a bright, kind girl who could express herself more clearly without words than most people could with them. I remembered Ellara telling me about her, how her friend had written her a note explaining something important: she wasn’t suffering from being mute, nor did she see it as something to apologize for. It wasn’t something broken about her—she just simply had it.
I swallowed the unnecessary apology, replacing it with a warm smile. “Well,” I said, letting my tone remain light, “it looks like you’ve got a good crop here.”
The farmer smiled back, his hands resting comfortably on his lap. The silence between us returned, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It felt peaceful, the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.
I leaned back, the rain still drumming against the tiles of the shack’s roof. The farmer sat quietly across from me, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes calm but attentive. Without even realizing it, words started spilling from me.
“You know,” I began, looking down at my hands, rough and calloused, “I wasn’t always a craftsman. Used to be a merchant. Vegetables, mostly. A good, honest trade, but not something I was ever passionate about.”
The farmer tilted his head slightly, as though urging me to go on.
“Crafting things from wood? That started as a hobby. Something to pass the time when the garden didn’t need tending.” I smiled faintly, memories of my small workshop in Willowshade coming to mind. “First, it was just little things. A toy horse here, a simple bird there. But then the kids in the village got wind of it.”
I chuckled, glancing at the farmer. He gave me a knowing nod, the kind of expression that said he understood what it meant to be surrounded by children, their energy endless and infectious.
“They’d come running up to me, asking for toys or little figures. At first, I thought, ‘What’s the point?’ Toys don’t feed you. They don’t make you smarter or give you more time in the day.” I paused, my smile softening. “But then, I saw the way they’d clutch those little figures. How they’d hold onto them while they slept or take them on their adventures through the fields. That’s when I realized—it wasn’t about what the toys could do. It was about the comfort they brought.”
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The farmer’s gaze didn’t waver, his eyes steady on mine, like he was absorbing every word.
“I started making more,” I said, leaning forward slightly. “Not just toys, but other things. Wooden cradles for newborns, little stools for the older kids. Small things that made life just a bit easier or brighter. It’s funny—when you’re a merchant, you measure success by what you sell. But as a craftsman, you measure it by the smiles you get in return.”
The farmer’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, and he gave a small nod, encouraging me to continue.
“The thing is,” I continued, my voice softening, “all the work I put into crafting, all those little things I make—it always makes me think of my daughter, Ellara.”
The farmer tilted his head slightly, his quiet encouragement clear.
“She’s everything to me,” I said, the words coming easily. “When she was little, she’d sit beside me while I worked, her tiny hands trying to mimic mine as I carved. She’d ask me questions about what I was making, why the wood felt rough, or why certain pieces didn’t fit right. Always curious, always watching.”
I paused, smiling faintly at the memory. “Now she’s grown up, off building a life of her own. Marrying a King, if you can believe that. But to me, she’ll always be that little girl, covered in sawdust, with a wooden bird she tried to carve herself clutched tightly in her hands.”
I looked at the farmer, who was listening intently, his gaze never leaving mine. “Do you have children?” I asked.
He nodded, his expression lighting up with unmistakable enthusiasm.
“A girl?” I asked, a smile tugging at my lips.
The farmer nodded again, this time more eagerly, his face beaming with pride.
I chuckled softly. “Girls have a way of changing you, don’t they? They see the world differently. They make you see the world differently.”
The farmer leaned in slightly, as if urging me to go on.
I laughed, shaking my head as another memory surfaced. “I remember one time—Ellara couldn’t have been older than five—we were at the market in Redvale. It was a busy day, and I was distracted with customers, trying to haggle over a bag of potatoes. When I turned around, she was gone. My heart nearly stopped.”
The farmer’s eyes widened slightly, as if he could feel the panic I must’ve felt.
“I looked everywhere—around the stalls, through the crowd—calling her name louder than I ever thought I could. And then, just when I was about to lose my mind, I heard this tiny voice yelling, ‘Papa! Over here!’”
I laughed at the memory, shaking my head. “She’d wandered off to another vendor’s stall and was standing there, holding up the biggest carrot I’ve ever seen. She’d found it herself and was trying to haggle with the vendor, just like she’d seen me do. The way she spoke, with all the confidence in the world, you’d think she was running the whole market.”
The farmer let out a breath of air, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
“I grabbed her, scooped her up in my arms, and couldn’t even be mad. All I could do was laugh and tell her, ‘Next time, tell your old man where you’re going before you run off trying to buy the biggest carrot in Redvale.’” I paused, my voice softening. “She just smiled and said, ‘But I was going to bring it back for you, Papa.’”
The farmer clapped his hands suddenly, the sound sharp but filled with warmth. Then he pointed at me, his expression saying what words couldn’t: I know exactly how you feel.
I smiled, nodding back at him. “Yeah,” I said softly, almost to myself. “I guess you do.”
The quiet between us lingered, a peaceful understanding hanging in the air. It wasn’t until I shifted slightly that I noticed something had changed. The sound of the rain had softened. The heavy drumming on the roof had faded to a light patter, gentle enough that I could hear the faint rustle of the rice stalks swaying in the breeze.
“Well,” I said, pushing myself up and stretching, “looks like I can get back on the road. The rain’s kind enough to let me move along.”
The farmer nodded, his quiet smile unchanged. But before I left, one last question came to mind.
“The fish,” I asked, motioning to the spot where his meal had been. “Where did you get it?”
He turned slightly, pointing past the edge of the rice field. Following his gesture, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before—a small village in the distance. The thatched roofs of its houses peeked out from the greenery, and beyond it, glinting faintly in the now-damp sunlight, was a lake.
I smiled, realizing what he was telling me. “Ah, from the lake, then?”
He nodded, his expression calm but full of quiet pride.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and reached out a hand. “Thank you. For the shelter, the meal, and the company.”
The farmer didn’t shake my hand but nodded deeply, his warm smile carrying a silent farewell.
Turning away, I stepped off the wooden platform of the shack and back onto the road, my boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The rain still fell in a light drizzle, cool and refreshing against my skin as I walked.
This time, I wasn’t heading straight down the road. Instead, I turned toward the village and the lake beyond it, the thought of fresh fish pulling me forward. For the first time in days, my steps felt lighter, the journey ahead brightened by the promise of something simple but satisfying.
The walk toward the lake was calm, the world around me transformed by the rain. The rice fields stretched out on either side, vibrant and green, the stalks heavy with water that shimmered in the soft light. The earthy, sweet smell of wet soil filled the air, mingling with the freshness of the rain as it clung to the leaves.
The ground beneath my boots was soft, almost slippery, but the mud didn’t bother me. It squelched slightly with each step, but the coolness of the air and the peacefulness of the fields made it easy to ignore. The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle, barely more than a mist now, and every so often, drops would fall from the tips of the stalks, splashing against my legs.
As I approached the small village the farmer had pointed out, I noticed how quiet it was. The houses, small and humble, with thatched roofs and simple wooden walls, sat in clusters along narrow paths. Smoke from a few chimneys curled into the air, faint but steady, a sign that people were still sheltering inside from the rain.
I didn’t stop or linger, not wanting to disturb anyone. Instead, I walked through the village with quiet steps, following the path that led to the lake.
When I reached it, I paused, taking in the sight before me.
The lake stretched wide and calm, its surface rippling gently with the breeze. The rain left tiny circles dancing across the water, each drop sending out ripples that seemed to merge and disappear into one another. Around the edges, tall reeds swayed, their tips bending under the weight of raindrops. The smell here was different—fresh and clean, with a faint hint of something mineral, like wet stone.
I smiled faintly to myself, the memory of my father surfacing as I walked along the shore. He’d been a fisherman, and while I’d never inherited his trade, the lessons he’d taught me were still there, tucked away like an old tool waiting to be used.
I looked around and found a sturdy stick lying near the shore, just the right size to serve as a makeshift fishing rod. With the stick in hand, I dug into the soft, rain-soaked ground, feeling the cool earth give way easily beneath my fingers. It didn’t take long to find what I needed—a fat, wriggling worm. Perfect.
Threading the worm onto the string I’d brought from my bag, I tied it tightly to the end of the stick, securing it as best I could. The line wasn’t much, but it would do for now.
As I stood at the edge of the lake, the drizzle still faintly falling around me, I cast the line into the water with a flick of my wrist. The ripples spread outward, and I stood there, waiting patiently, the calm of the lake settling over me like an old, familiar friend.
The line tugged sharply, and I felt a sudden weight at the end of it. My grip tightened instinctively as the fish fought back, the rod bending under its resistance. After a few moments of steady pulling and careful patience, I managed to haul it out of the water.
The fish flopped wildly in my hands, its silver scales glinting in the faint light, water dripping off its thrashing body. It was a big one, almost as long as my forearm. A satisfying catch.
I laid it flat on the ground, holding it firmly with one hand. My other hand drew the knife from my belt—a simple but reliable tool. With practiced precision, I found the spot at the back of its head and pressed down quickly, ending its life as painlessly as possible. My father had taught me this method when I was young, and though I rarely fished these days, the knowledge came back to me easily.
“Thank you,” I murmured, as much to the fish as to the lake itself.
Sliding the fish into a separate pouch, I glanced back at the water. One fish was good, but two? Two grilled fish for dinner would be a feast. I baited the line again and cast it out, watching the ripples spread across the surface as I settled in to wait.
The air around the lake was still, almost unnaturally so. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving the lake’s surface smooth and glassy. I watched the line, my thoughts drifting to the meal I’d prepare, when suddenly, a sound broke the stillness—a deep, resonant splash, louder than anything I’d heard before.
I turned my head sharply toward the lake just in time to see something massive fall from the sky.
The figure plunged into the water with a force that sent waves crashing outward, soaking the shore and rocking me back on my heels. I scrambled to my feet, my heart racing as the ripples spread across the lake, their energy unnatural, charged.
And then, from the epicenter of the disturbance, it rose.
A humanoid figure emerged from the water, towering above me even at this distance. Its body was slick and glistening, covered in twisting, writhing tentacles that clung to its form. The tentacles curled and flexed, some draped over its limbs while others extended outward, swaying with eerie purpose.
Its head was partially hidden beneath a mass of smaller tentacles that writhed like a crown of serpents. Beneath them, I caught a glimpse of pale, mottled skin and two sunken eyes that glowed faintly, a sickly green that pierced through the misty air. The creature’s movements were unnervingly smooth, its feet—or whatever it used to stand—never touching the water as it floated across the surface.
It was taller than I was, its presence overwhelming. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run, but my legs refused to move. I stood frozen, my breath caught in my chest, as it began to approach with terrifying speed, gliding over the lake as though it was no more than air.
This wasn’t a creature I’d ever heard of, let alone seen. It wasn’t from this world—at least, not the part I knew. My hands clenched at my sides, my mind scrambling for something, anything, to do.
But I had no idea what to do. For the first time in my life, I was utterly paralyzed.
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To be continued...