The Shape of Ordinary Days

Chapter 2 - The Shape of Ordinary Days

Morning had not fully settled yet.

Zio was already seated in front of the workshop while most of the village doors remained closed.

The wooden beam beneath him felt cold, still holding the dampness of night. His legs hung freely, swinging without any pattern. His palms rested against the edge of the beam, fingers loose, unmoving.

He drew in a slow breath.
Counted it.
Then let another follow.

He no longer remembered when the habit had started. Sitting still and counting his breathing simply made his chest feel less crowded, as if whatever pressed inside him loosened when given time.

A door creaked open across the road.

A middle-aged woman stepped outside, a wooden bucket hooked over one arm. Her hair was only half tied, her face dull with sleep.

“You again?” she said, not fully surprised.

Zio turned toward her. “Morning.”

“Morning for what,” she muttered. “It’s barely light.”

Zio did not respond.

She walked a few steps, then paused and glanced back. “Trod hasn’t opened yet.”

“I know.”

“Then why sit there?”

Zio stayed quiet long enough that she assumed she would not get an answer.

“So I’m close,” he said finally.

“Close to what?”

“The workshop.”

She released a small breath, then laughed under it.

She headed toward the well. The bucket was lowered, water drawn up. The sound echoed softly between the houses still wrapped in quiet.

On her way back, she passed Zio again.

“Don’t fall today.”

Zio lifted his head. “I didn’t fall.”

“You fainted.”

“That’s different.”

“To anyone watching, it’s not,” she said, already walking away.
“If you haven’t eaten later, come by.”

Heavy footsteps sounded from inside the workshop.

The old wooden door creaked as it was pulled open, rough and familiar. The smell of cold iron and damp charcoal spilled out, mixing with the morning air.

Trod stood in the doorway.

He was not tall, but his posture filled the frame. His shoulders were set, his back shaped by years of bearing weight. His beard remained untidy, a few strands still out of place, and his face carried the look of someone only halfway awake.

He stopped when he saw Zio.

“You’re always too early,” he said.

Zio looked up. “Morning.”

Trod let out a short sound through his nose. “Did you clean your house?”

“Yes. Before coming.” Zio shifted his legs slightly, clearing space as Trod stepped past him.

“If you want to stay here again, say it.”

“No.”

Trod did not press. He lowered the door bar and continued with his routine.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, not turning around.

“Not yet.”

“Why.”

Zio shrugged. “Not hungry.”

Trod stopped. He turned and looked Zio over, head to toe. Brief. Exact.

“You fainted yesterday,” he said.

“Only for a moment.”

“A moment still puts you on the floor,” Trod replied. “Iron doesn’t care how long you stood before it.”

Zio nodded once. He did not argue.

Trod disappeared inside, then returned with a piece of bread.

“Eat half,” he said, holding it out. “The rest later.”

Zio took it without speaking. He bit carefully, chewing slowly, as if each motion needed to be counted.

Trod lit the furnace. The fire caught quietly. Metal touched the anvil, light and controlled.

“Clean the floor,” Trod said. “Start by the door.”

Zio slid off the beam and took the broom. His movements were calm, deliberate. Metal filings gathered little by little, pale streaks forming across the floor’s old scars.

As he bent, his breathing shifted.
Slower.
Measured.

Trod noticed from the corner of his eye.

“If it starts to blur,” he said, “sit.”

Zio paused. “And if it doesn’t?”

“If it doesn’t,” Trod replied, “keep going.”

Zio nodded and swept on.

Outside, the village began to stir. Doors opened. People passed without stopping. No one lingered to watch the child working inside the old workshop.

Martha stopped at the doorway, as she had for years.

“Zio,” she said. “Did you eat?”

“Yes, Auntie.”

Her eyes dropped to his hand. The bread was still nearly whole.

“Don’t push him,” she said. “He hasn’t really eaten.”

“He isn’t fragile,” Trod answered.

“Being strong isn’t the same as being ready,” Martha said.
“Let him play sometimes.”

“If he wants to,” Trod replied.

“I’ll bring lunch later, Zio.”

She left without waiting.

The workshop settled again.

Not silent, but steady. Fire breathing low. Tools shifting softly. Wood complaining when weight passed over it.

Zio finished the area near the door and moved inward. He swept in one direction only, never rushing.

He stopped when his chest tightened.

Two breaths in.
One long breath out.

When the pressure eased, he continued.

Trod said nothing.

He heated a small piece of iron, not shaping it, only warming and cooling it, checking for weakness.

“Bring the tongs,” Trod said.

Zio retrieved them and handed them over correctly, grip turned.

Trod took them without comment.

The fire stayed low. No sparks. No forcing.

Time passed unnoticed.

Villagers came and went. Tools were collected. Words were exchanged briefly. No one spoke to Zio.

That suited him.

By midday, sunlight cut farther into the workshop. The floor’s scratches stood out clearly.

“You can stop,” Trod said.

Zio paused but remained standing.

“I said you can,” Trod added.

Zio nodded and sat against the wall, hands resting on his thighs. He lowered his head and counted again.

One.
Two.
Three.

Sweat gathered at his temple. He wiped it away.

A different smell entered the room.

Food.

Martha returned with a wooden container.

“It’s time,” she said.

Trod shut off the airflow. The fire shrank.

She set the container down and looked at Zio.

“Dizzy?”

“No.”

She checked his wrist anyway, brief and practiced.

“Even breathing,” she said. “Good.”

She uncovered the food. Simple. Warm.

“Slow,” she told him. “No talking.”

They ate in silence.

When finished, she gathered the containers.

“Not too late,” she told Trod.

“I know.”

She turned to Zio. “If your head feels heavy, go home. I’ll leave dinner.”

Zio nodded.

She left.

The afternoon work was lighter, but longer. Tools cleaned. Iron sorted. Tables wiped.

Zio stopped on his own when his hands trembled.

Trod noticed.

“Sit.”

Zio sat without complaint.

The sun lowered. The furnace was fully out.

Nothing remarkable happened.

When the workshop closed, Zio helped lower the bar. They did it together.

Outside, the village quieted.

Zio walked home. Tired, but steady.

Days like this passed without marking themselves.

He came early. Swept. Helped. Stopped when needed.

Sometimes he fainted. Sometimes he did not.

Martha came when she could. Trod stayed the same.

The fire was never allowed to grow too strong.

And Zio grew inside those limits.

Slowly.
Carefully.

Far from Greyhollow, someone opened his door and paused.

The night air touched his face. He stood still, listening to something no one else could hear.

His hand rose to his chest without thought.

A slight frown.
Then a quiet smile, like something long forgotten had stirred.

Without a word, he stepped outside.

In Greyhollow, Zio slept, breathing even.
The silver pendant rested nearby, unchanged.