Chapter 27-- A world that Moves Without You.

Ydoc stood at the edge of the dancers.

The fiddle’s slow lilt had shifted to a gentle waltz—
drawn-out strokes, kissed by tambourine jangles and tired voices singing old, familiar lyrics.
Not professional. Not polished.
But that wasn’t the point.

The point was togetherness.

And together they were.

Couples spun lazily in the lantern light, the dirt beneath their feet kicked into soft little clouds.
A child raced between legs, crowned in bent reeds and glitter paste, chasing a ribbon tied to a stick.
An older man, belly wide and laughter wider, clapped in time with the music while balancing two mugs of cider—one for him, one for the woman whose hand he’d been holding since dusk.

Nearby, a young woman with mossy dreadlocks wrapped in dyed silks stood on a stool, giving away handmade necklaces.
Another, a burly blacksmith with a nose ring and soot still on his arms, was laughing too hard to finish packing his tent—choosing instead to arm-wrestle his apprentice over a leftover hunk of sweetbread.

There were drifters and lovers, woodcarvers and fire-tenders.
Mothers with sunburnt shoulders, teenagers in rope-tied boots still covered in Divide mud.
A trio of traveling bards was bartering songs for wine.
An old healer in a green shawl sat cross-legged on a blanket, handing out herbal teas and little pouches of river salt like they were fortunes.

Some were already packing to leave—
folding wagons, striking canvas, handing out excess wares like they were sacred heirlooms.

“Take the plum jam, it won’t keep,”
“No, no—your little one liked this toy, didn’t he? Please, it’s yours.”

There was music.
And dirt.
And glitter.
And love.

And it all flowed around Ydoc like a river—warm, full of meaning, of shared lives and whispered stories that stretched back generations.

But…

It wasn’t his.

He tried to smile.

He really did.

But something deep inside had begun to ache again. Not a sharp pain—but a hollow one, like a soft breath inside a locked, empty room.

This wasn’t his community.

The songs didn’t hold his name.
The faces didn’t remember his dreams.
The tents were not pitched in his direction.
The arms that held others close didn’t open for him.

He was the watcher.
The quiet one at the edge of the fire.
The odd-colored leaf drifting through the current, admired but not kept.

Behind him, the cold breeze rolled in again from the outside hills.
It brushed against his bruised arm, tugging at his sleeve with icy little fingers, reminding him—

He was still in the last days of winter.
Still caught between two seasons.
Still not quite home.

He rubbed the sore spot gently, eyes darting toward where Ruby had gone.

She was taking a while.
But candy took time, right?

He told himself that.

He watched as a nearby man with blue stripes painted across his cheeks began to cry while dancing—happy tears. His partner kissed the center of his forehead and spun him gently in her arms.

A voice in Ydoc’s mind whispered:

You don’t belong here, little ghost.
You’re just the echo that got left behind.

But just as that sadness began to swell—

A soft clack of wooden clogs behind him.

A girl passed by—young, perhaps thirteen—with a wicker basket, offering slices of warm bread spread with garlic honey.

She paused at Ydoc. Looked up. Offered one.

“You look hungry.”

He blinked. Hesitated.

She smiled. “It’s from my mom. She says sad people need two slices. You want two?”

Ydoc… smiled.

Only slightly.
------
[A Subtle Pain] 

Ydoc took the slice of bread with both hands, as if it were something sacred.
The honey clung to his fingertips—sticky, warm, laced with garlic and thyme.

“Mmn—yum,” he mumbled softly, not even faking the delight.

The little girl lit up like a festival lantern—her cheeks blushing, her eyes shining with those childish stars, the kind only born when your good deed gets noticed.
She clapped once, excited, barely able to contain herself.

“Told ya! Garlic honey fixes everything!”

She looked ready to say more, maybe even plop down and offer the whole basket.
But—

“Elma!”

A sharp voice sliced through the soft moment.

The girl flinched, her body tightening like a snapped marionette.
From the crowd, a woman emerged—tall, with stiff shoulders and a wind-worn face wrapped in a faded scarf.
Her apron was still dusted in flour.

“What did I tell you?” the mother hissed under her breath, grabbing the girl’s wrist, yanking her gently—but firmly—away from the clearing. “You don’t speak with them. Don’t even look at ‘em that long.”

The basket bounced at the girl’s side, the slices rattling in their cloth.

“But—he was nice—he was just hungry—”

“That’s how it starts, Elma. That’s how they get in your head. Spirits are one thing. But that one—he’s from the Divide.”

She didn’t even bother to lower her voice on that last part.

“Monster,” the woman muttered under her breath.
“The monster of the Divide…”

Ydoc froze mid-chew.

The sweetness turned bitter in his mouth.
His bruised arm suddenly itched harder.
He hadn’t moved. But somehow, he felt too visible. Like his very skin was glowing wrong.

Monster? Me?

That was a bit harsh.

He turned slightly, looking at the girl's retreating back—how she glanced back just once, eyebrows tilted in guilt, eyes apologizing for something she didn’t even understand.

Ydoc raised the bread slice toward her like a quiet thank-you.

But she was already gone—
her small footsteps lost in the drumbeat of other lives.

He looked down at the bread in his hand, then at the honey dripping down his wrist.

His heart thumped in an uneven rhythm, and not from the music.

A wives' tale, he told himself.
Just local superstition. Nothing to be hurt over.

But the sting was still there.

Even if it wasn’t true, it was believed.
And belief had power.
Enough to make you lonely in a place full of lanterns and love.

He rubbed his sleeve over the sticky honey, trying to clean himself up.

It only smeared.
------------------
[The familiar gazes] 

The candied bread still clung to his fingers, but he no longer tasted it.

Ydoc stood quiet among the cheer, still tucked at the edge of the dancers' circle, just outside the ring of lanternlight. His boots scuffed against frost-dusted earth—never fully sinking into the muddy grass like the others.
He looked around.

At first glance, it was still lovely.

A slow song was rolling now, fiddles drawn like brushes over canvas.
Couples spun lazily. Children dashed between legs.
Old farmers swapped tales on painted benches.
Gift baskets passed between hands like shared blessings.

But behind it—beneath it—
There were... gazes.

He caught the first one near the cider stand.

A woman, red-nosed from drink, wrapped in a sheep-fur coat.
She was laughing with her friends. Then she glanced to the side.
Her face paused. Her smile dimmed.

A heartbeat later, she turned back and whispered something behind her mug.

Then another—a juggler, backstage.

He wore diamond-patterned sleeves, eyes rimmed in blue greasepaint. He’d been juggling knives not long ago, but now he just leaned against the curtain post, chewing a toothpick.
Watching.

Not with wonder.

But with... scrutiny.
Like a magician trying to figure out a trick he didn’t understand.

A small troupe of clowns, behind him now, gathered by a trunk of face paints and half-finished wigs.

One had a sunflower stuck to his vest.
Another a rubber chicken tucked into his belt.

They weren’t laughing.

They were staring.

Three of them, each at different times, had looked his way.
Not by accident.
Not glances.

Stares.

Long. Lingering.
The kind you give something you’ve heard about before.
Something dangerous you hoped was only a rumor.

Ydoc reached up to fix his collar.

He was so warm in his black feathered coat.
It shimmered when the lanterns hit it—raven dark, elegant, handsome in that gothic dreamway. The trim was Green-threaded, and when he moved, it whispered.

“Too much?”

He asked himself, inside his own head.

Was this too much?
Am I overdressed?

His breath caught.
He looked down.
The sleeves were beautiful.
So much care had gone into the stitching. The shoulders fit perfectly.

No…

He straightened up.

No, I look good today. Really good. This is—me. I like this coat.
I feel safe in this coat.

That should’ve been enough.

But it didn’t stop the sting that now climbed behind his eyes.
Not the arm anymore. Not the shoulder.
But his head—his mind—felt too heavy, too visible.

More people were quietly packing up now.

A young couple beside a fruit stall folded their table cloth.
One of them kept looking at Ydoc as if trying to remember where they’d seen him before.

A little girl with a paper lantern dropped it when he walked too close.
Her father didn’t scold her.

He just reached for her hand—without taking his eyes off him.

All the while, the clowns stood still.
The jugglers whispered.
One of them held up a flyer—an old one, torn, rain-warped.

Ydoc couldn’t see what was on it.
But he saw the way their faces changed when they looked from it—to him.

The world was still cheerful.

Still glowing.

But it was as if he were a cracked glass in a room full of fine crystal.

Something had been done.
Or said.
Or whispered.

And it had spread.

Maybe… I did something wrong.

Maybe that’s why he left me....