A village

New day, a new job. Today, I got something different.

With the officials lurking near the forest, the chief wants updated maps of the surrounding areas—paths, hunting trails, places we can disappear if things go south. And since I’ve been trying (and failing) to make my own map of the village, Io figured this would be a perfect opportunity to throw me into the deep end.

"You keep scribbling down your little notes," she had said, crossing her arms with that smug look she gets when she thinks she’s about to prove a point. "Let’s see if you can actually find your way around."

Great. Fantastic. Cartography—clearly a skill I’ve always needed in my life.

I don’t know if this is some kind of boy scout test, but if it is, I’m doomed. I never joined the scouts. Never spent time hiking in the woods. My experience with the great outdoors mostly involved walking to the nearest coffee shop and occasionally being forced into some ill-fated company retreat. And now, here I am—striding through the village outskirts, desperately trying to turn my half-baked sketches into something resembling an actual map.

I start simple. Circling the village, taking careful steps to estimate distances. I count them under my breath, matching them with rough measurements. Every so often, I glance at the small stones placed at path intersections—some marked with symbols, others just oddly arranged piles. Io told me they serve as waypoints for hunters and travelers, though I’m still learning to read them.

The paths themselves are more complex than I expected. Some are well-trodden, lined with flattened grass and faint traces of cart wheels. Others are little more than gaps in the undergrowth, used by those who know the forest well enough not to need a road. I follow the ones I recognize first, tracing the edges with quick sketches in my notebook. The process is… almost meditative. Almost.

Still, it’s hard to ignore the weight of what this task really means.

They’re preparing for something. Not just a famine—something bigger. The way the chief spoke yesterday, the way Io had been pushing me to learn faster—it’s clear they’re bracing for more than just bad harvests. They expect things to go south, and when they do, they’ll need places to hide, routes to escape, ways to survive.

And they’re trusting me to help with that.

Me.

I glance down at my notebook, my neat little lines barely forming the beginnings of a real map. This is important work—actual, tangible, necessary work. The kind that could mean the difference between life and death if the worst happens.

No pressure, right?

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck before moving further down the path.

The tree line thickens ahead, the forest pressing in as I step away from the cleared village border. The air is different here—cooler, filled with the scent of damp earth and moss. Birdsong filters through the canopy above, but beneath it, everything is still.

I press on, sketching as I go, marking turns and clearings, noting the little signs of life I pass—a worn trail likely used by hunters, a broken branch suggesting something larger had moved through. It’s slow, careful work. But for the first time since I got here, I feel like I’m doing something real.

The only problem?

I’m also getting farther from the paths I actually know.

And I have a creeping suspicion that if I don’t start paying closer attention, I might not find my way back as easily as I thought.

###

I got lost.

Great. Fantastic. Absolutely brilliant.

Good thing there aren’t any wolves around… I think. The last time I saw one was weeks ago, back when I first got here, half-starved and stumbling through the woods. Kind of weird, now that I think about it. This place should have more predators, right? Or maybe they just avoid people. Or maybe I just haven’t been looking hard enough.

Not the best train of thought to be having right now.

This was bound to happen sooner or later. I can try to act all competent, but I’m still the same city dweller as before. Forests are not my natural habitat. My idea of roughing it was running out of cell service, not wandering alone through endless trees.

It was morning when I set out, sun barely creeping past the treetops. I’d been walking for hours, measuring distances, sketching routes, marking anything I could recognize later. I checked my watch before—I’m past 1 PM. That means I’ve been out here way longer than planned.

Which also means I am probably some considerable distance from the village.

Great.

Why did they send me of all people? Am I really that dependable? That can’t be right. Maybe Io just wanted to see if I’d mess up. Maybe the chief thought throwing me into the wild was some kind of test. Or—wait. What if they’re trying to Hansel and Gretel me? I don’t have any breadcrumbs. Damn.

Okay, okay. No need to panic. Think.

I exhale slowly, forcing my mind to work through the problem. I need to retrace my steps, find a landmark—anything to get my bearings. A path, a stone marker, even a broken branch that looks familiar would do.

I glance around. Trees. More trees. A whole forest of identical trees.

Yep. I’m so screwed.

###

Finally, something.

A stone—broken, worn, its surface carved with something faded, something familiar. I crouch, running my fingers over the markings, but time and weather have eaten away most of the detail. Whatever it once was, it’s old. Really old.

I straighten, glancing around. A path—if you can even call it that—snakes away from the stone, barely more than a faint indentation in the earth. The trees are reclaiming it, their roots stretching over where feet must have once walked. But where did they walk to?

Only one way to find out.

As I step forward, I try to push down the unease curling at the edges of my thoughts. Why me? The question lingers, unwanted. There had to be someone better suited for this. A scout. A hunter. Someone who actually knows the forest instead of getting turned around like an idiot. Did the chief really trust me with this, or was this some elaborate way of seeing how long I’d last before I got myself into trouble?

Probably the latter.

The path winds deeper, the trees thickening, the air growing heavier. It reminds me too much of my first day here—lost, disoriented, desperate for something familiar. But at least now I look the part. Nate the Paperpusher has undergone the Forest Village Makeover™. A few months ago, I’d be stumbling over roots in dress shoes, muttering about how bad this was for my career. Now? I have boots, a knife, and a vague sense of direction. Progress.

Even so, I feel... exposed.

It’s been a long time since I was this alone. No merchants, no villagers, no Io. Just the forest, swallowing sound, pressing in from all sides.

I force myself to think of something else. Anything else.

The dish. The experiment.

I still don’t know what really happened back at the lab. Spaghettification? That’s the best theory I have—something ripped me through space like a black hole stretching matter into nothingness. But shouldn’t that have killed me? And the itch—why is it gone? It was part of me for years, that constant, whispering hum in the back of my mind. I don’t even miss it. Shouldn’t I?

Maybe it’s like being cured of some illness you had for so long you forgot what normal felt like.

I shake my head. New topic, new topic.

I have a roommate. Or a boss? Is living with Io a job perk? Either way, first time in years sharing a space with someone. And despite everything, I think... I like it. The village, the work—it’s different, but it’s real. More real than spreadsheets, more alive than meetings in sterile white offices.

The village.

That’s what everyone calls it—the village. I never even asked if it has a name. A real name.

Another question for later.

The village.

The—

Wait.

No.

This isn’t it.

Something's wrong.

The trees open up, revealing... ruins. Not the familiar sight of wooden houses and tended paths, but something gutted, something dead.

Where am I?

I step forward carefully, the silence too heavy, too thick. It’s been years since this place was alive, but I can feel it—something lingers, like the air itself is holding its breath.

This wasn’t abandoned. It was destroyed.

Is there someone sitting there?

###

It’s been some time since I last came here.

I need to think.

We are doing everything we can to protect the village. We plan, we prepare, we sacrifice. And yet, looking at these ruins, I can’t help but wonder—will it be enough? Will it ever be enough?

A familiar sensation prickles at the edge of my thoughts. That feeling again.

I exhale. “Nate, come sit with me.”

There’s a pause before I hear his steps approach. He hesitates just out of reach, then finally moves to sit beside me on the cold stone. It was part of a home, once.

“You knew I was here?” he asks.

I nod. “You were afraid, weren’t you?”

A breath. A shift. He doesn’t answer right away.

“You always seem to know,” he mutters.

Why is it that I’ve been feeling only him recently?

We sit in silence for a moment, staring at the remnants of what once was. The forest has started reclaiming it—roots breaking through what’s left of the foundations, moss softening the edges of broken stone. Time does what people never do. It tries to heal.

“Why are you here?” Nate asks, quieter this time.

I glance at him. His fingers dig slightly into his knee, like he’s bracing himself for something.

“I come here from time to time,” I say. “So I don’t forget.”

“Forget what?”

“All of this.” I gesture to the ruins. The bones of a place that no longer exists.

“Was this your village?”

“No. They were our neighbors.”

He frowns. “You mean more of your people?”

“No.” I shake my head. “They were the others. They settled nearby, but didn’t go deep into the forest. I don’t even know if they realized how close we were.”

Nate takes this in. “Then what happened?” His voice is careful. Too careful.

I swallow. The words feel heavy. “They… they’re dead.”

His expression shifts, but he doesn’t interrupt.

I point at the small mounds of earth near one of the ruins. “See? We buried some of them.”

He follows my gaze. I wonder if he was expecting more. A full cemetery, maybe. The graves are simple—unmarked. The people who buried them didn’t care about names.

His voice is quieter now. “Then why do you come here?”

I close my eyes for a moment. “I told you. So I won’t forget.”

“…But why?”

Because someone has to.

I exhale, watching the way the wind stirs the leaves around us. “Because we did this.”

Silence.

I don’t look at him, but I feel the shift. The weight of him realizing what I mean.

“…You did this?”

“We survived,” I say finally. “Years ago, during a heavy winter, some men from the village mounted a party and raided this place.”

Nate stares at the ruins again, his jaw tight. “You mean they took food.”

“They took everything.”

I hear the sharp intake of his breath. He wants to argue. Wants to push back. But he doesn’t.

For a long time, we just sit there.

Then, finally—

“Did they fight back?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. They didn’t have time.”

Another pause. Then, more carefully: “Did they… threaten you?”

I turn to face him fully now, and I see the hesitation in his expression—the desperate attempt to make this make sense.

“No,” I say. “They weren’t a threat.”

Something in his face crumbles slightly. He looks… lost. I know that feeling.

“You knew them - the party?” His voice is quiet, but I hear the weight in it.

I nod slowly. “Not well. I was a child.” I hesitate. “But… there were people I recognized.”

Nate exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I—” He stops himself. He doesn’t know what to say.

Neither do I.

He shakes his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Like I would go around advertising all the evil we committed.”

The wind shifts, stirring the ashes of a past that will never settle. The bones of the village sit in silence, offering no answers.

Nate’s voice cuts through it, careful but pressing.

“Do you feel guilty?”

He’s not looking at me now. His gaze is fixed on the ruins, his hands clasped together, knuckles white.

I exhale. There’s no point in dodging this.

“Do you know why I work in the village? Why I do everything that I do?”

He frowns. “What does that have to do with this?”

“A lot,” I say. “I don’t want this to happen again.”

His brows knit together, searching for something in my expression.

“I don’t think anyone holds this against you.”

“Well, I do.”

A pause. Then, softer— “Why? You were a kid, you said that a moment ago.”

I swallow, gripping my arms as if I can hold the words in. But they slip out anyway.

“Because… he did this.”

His head snaps toward me. “Who?”

I stare at the broken remains of what once was a home. A life.

“...My father.”

The moment stretches between us. I hear the way Nate exhales, the weight behind it.

“So you want to atone for his sins.”

I close my eyes. “But I can’t, because they’re already dead.” I lift a hand and gesture toward the blackened ruins. “They’re gone, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Nate’s voice is quiet. “So why do you work so much?” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “You think I haven’t noticed? You wake up before me, go to sleep after me. You keep sending me as an errand boy and doing three times the work yourself. Why don’t you quit, then?”

I scoff. “Is it that simple to you? Just walk away?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t see how exhausting yourself changes anything.”

My breath hitches, frustration creeping in. “I try to keep this from happening again. So that no one in our village gets a similar idea.”

“You really think the village is like that now?”

I let out a hollow laugh. “It doesn’t matter. Because no matter what I do, I can’t bring them back. And you know what the worst part is?” I glance at him, my throat tight. “I’m probably alive right now because of that raid.”

He stiffens. “What?”

I turn away, unable to meet his gaze. “We were starving. That winter, it was bad—worse than usual. If they hadn’t raided, I don’t know if we would’ve made it.”

Silence.

“When spring came,” I continue, “we buried them.”

Nate looks at me again, something unreadable in his expression. “Meaning what? The village—the raiding party—they wanted to be forgiven?”

I shake my head. “No. Me and a few others. I don’t think the rest of the village even knew.”

For a while, neither of us speak.

The weight of it sits heavy in the air—the truth between us, laid bare like the ruins themselves.

Moments pass, both of us unsure of what to say next. Then Nate circles back.

“You keep saying ‘I’ like this is all on you.”

I exhale sharply. “Because it is.”

“Is it? Or do you just think you’re the only one who can fix everything?”

My jaw tightens. “You don’t understand!”

“Then make me understand.” His voice is firmer now, pushing. “Why is this all on you? Why do you act like it’s your responsibility alone?”

I hesitate, staring at the charred remains of what used to be someone’s home. The walls are gone, but the foundation is still there—like a wound that never really healed.

“…Because I’ve seen what happens when the wrong people make choices.”

I turn to him, gesturing at the ruins around us. “And I won’t let it happen again.”

Nate studies me for a long moment before saying quietly, “…Io. You’re not your father.”

“Like I don’t know that?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “He’s sitting in his home with the other elders while I’m busting my ass for this village!”

Something shifts in Nate’s expression. “He’s alive?”

I scoff. “What, are you surprised?”

“…Just that you never said anything.”

I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah? Try to guess why.”

Nate hesitates, his gaze searching mine. He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. And maybe that’s what finally sets me off.

I shake my head, my grip tightening on my sleeves.

“You’re doing it again.”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“That thing you do.” I jab a finger toward him. “Every time something doesn’t fit your neat little view of the world, you make excuses. You find a way to twist it until it makes sense to you.”

Nate flinches, his posture stiffening. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, let me guess… You assumed that the big bad father was dead because that would be right in some way or it wouldn’t affect the way you see me now. ”

“I’m not thinking that!”

“Oh, you don’t? Because it’s always something, isn’t it?” My voice rises. “The big, bad church. The cruel, unfeeling winter. Poor Io, poor village, always the victims! This is not a fairytale!”

Nate opens his mouth, but I don’t let him interrupt.

“Stop that!” I snap, taking a step closer. “I don’t want to be labeled as a victim—not of the church, not of the others, not of the damn winter.”

My breath is coming faster now, and I don’t care.

“Do you really think we’ve never done anything wrong? Never done anything evil or even slightly immoral?” My voice is sharp, cutting through the cold air. “What are we to you, Nate? Some mythical creatures, untouched by the same rot as the rest of the world?”

He doesn’t answer.

I breathe in sharply, steadying myself. “If you haven’t realized it by now—this is real life. As far as I know, this is your life now too.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence between us. The ruins feel heavier than before, like the weight of everything we’ve said has settled into the stones beneath our feet.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair before turning away. “Come on. It’s getting late.”

Nate doesn’t move right away, but I hear him follow a few steps behind as we leave the dead village behind us.

###

The walk back is quiet.

Io moves ahead, her steps sure and steady, like she never doubted the path for a second. I trail behind, dragging my feet through the underbrush, her words still pressing into my skull like a vice.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know if I should say anything.

Is she right?

Do I treat this like it’s not real?

…Maybe.

I think back—to my first days here, to how I slotted everything into categories. The village was good. The church was bad. The merchants were complicated, but ultimately, they were just merchants—greedy, but predictable. The world made sense that way. It was neat. Understandable.

But it’s not real, is it?

It never was.

Maybe I’ve always done this. Taking messy, painful things and turning them into something easier to accept. Something I don’t have to confront.

Cancer is bad. Mom was good. That was enough to guide me through losing her. It was simple, and simple was easier.

But now?

Now, the people I trust, the people I’ve been living with—they did this. Not faceless villains, not some outside force. Them. And they live with it. They move forward. And I—

I don’t know what to do with that.

I sigh. “I’m just gonna start talking, okay?”

Io doesn’t answer, but I think she slows down—just a little.

“I think you’re right,” I say, voice quieter than I mean it to be. “I… I guess I really do struggle with the idea of real life.”

That gets her attention.

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn, but I can feel her listening.

“Now that I think of it… I’ve been doing this for a long time.” I frown, trying to put words to the thoughts unraveling in my head. “Trying to be what people expect. Trying to do the right thing, make the right choices. And to do that, I had to make everything simple. Easy to understand. Easy to live with.”

Silence. But she hasn’t walked ahead. She’s letting me speak.

I swallow, trying to gather my thoughts. “Tell me… have I ever talked about my old life without you asking?”

There’s a pause. Then, finally, “…No.”

That answer shouldn’t make my chest feel tight, but it does.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “I don’t think I ever had anything worth missing.”

Io glances at me now, just briefly. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

I hesitate, then let out a breath. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… for a long time, I barely lived. I just went through the motions. I kept everything at a distance, turned things into problems to solve, not things to feel. And now, I’m realizing how much that blinded me.”

I stop walking for a second, dragging a hand through my hair. “So you’re right. I have been seeing you as victims, because it made everything feel safe. Made me feel good about being here. Like I was helping. Like I could just settle into a role and not have to question anything.”

Io doesn’t say anything at first.

Then she exhales, rubbing her temples. “Idiot.”

I huff out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I’m starting to think so too.”

We walk in silence for a while, the only sound the rustling of the trees around us.

I don’t know if I’ve fixed anything. I don’t know if I can.

But at least, for once, I’m not running from it.

And maybe—maybe that’s a start.