What Doesn’t Answer

Chapter 5 - What Doesn’t Answer

At the edge of the Greyhollow village road, a man stood behind his child. His hands closed around the small wrist, guiding the palm forward. The child tried again. A spark appeared, small and pale, then died before it could grow.

The man did not react. He shifted his finger’s position by a fraction.

“Repeat.”

The flame returned. This time it held, no larger than a coin. The child smiled, lost focus, and the light vanished. They tried again.

A few steps away, two other children sat on wooden crates. One formed a tiny flame at his fingertip, then snuffed it out on purpose. The other copied him, failed, and laughed once.

Adults passed by with sacks of grain. Someone dragged a bucket toward the well. No one slowed. No one stopped to watch.

Zio crossed the path carrying a wooden board on his shoulder. He glanced once, then looked away. His pace stayed the same. He set the board down in front of the workshop and stacked it with the rest.

Zio paused at the workshop’s edge, the last board still in his hands. From the corner of his eye, the practice continued. Small flames appeared, faded, and returned. None of them lasted long.

He did not move closer.

A child lifted a hand too quickly. The flame bent and died. The father shifted the child’s foot half a step. No explanation. The child tried again, slower this time. The fire held a little longer, then went out.

Zio noticed details without lingering on them. A shoulder dropping after a mistake. Eyes staying forward instead of chasing the flame. No one waited for a signal. No one paused to feel something change.

The flames were uneven. Some brighter. Some barely there. It didn’t seem to matter.

Zio added the board to the pile. Wood met wood with a dull sound. He adjusted it so it wouldn’t tilt and let go.

He understood what he was seeing. He also knew what he wasn’t doing.

It felt like judging the weight of something before lifting it. Nothing more.

The morning continued as usual.

Zio returned to the workshop before the sun fully rose. There were no instructions waiting. He moved what needed moving. Cleared what blocked the path. Leftovers of wood. Small iron pieces pushed aside. A water bucket that never stayed where it was meant to.

Trod worked at the front bench. Sometimes hammering. Sometimes standing still, looking at something unfinished. When he pointed, Zio moved. When he didn’t, Zio waited until the moment passed on its own.

By noon, the heat settled in. Dust clung to his arms and neck. Zio washed his hands in a bucket. The water clouded quickly. He shook his hands once and wiped them on his trousers.

The meal was brief. Hard bread. Thin soup. Spoons made more noise than voices.

Martha appeared for a moment. She set down a bowl, shifted a stool out of the way, and asked one question that didn’t need a long answer. Zio nodded. She left it at that.

The rest of the day moved forward without a clear order. Small tasks finished themselves one by one. Zio followed the rhythm without thinking about anything else.

By late afternoon, the workshop’s shadow stretched across the ground. Zio lifted the last load and stopped because it was time to stop.

When the workshop quieted, Zio didn’t head home.

He walked behind it, to a strip of land that wasn’t used for much. Not quite forest, but far enough from tools and voices. The grass grew thin there. Pebbles pressed through the soil.

He stood still long enough to know no one was nearby. Not out of secrecy. The place was simply empty.

Zio adjusted his footing until the ground felt steady. His shoulders loosened on their own. His breath moved as it did.

He listened to distant metal and closer insects. A brief wind passed through the grass and was gone.

Zio raised his hand.

His hand stayed where it was.

Zio looked at the ground a few steps ahead, an open patch between stones. He waited for something to move the way he had seen before, without pushing for it.

Nothing happened.

He stayed there a moment longer.

Then his head felt light, like standing up too fast. The sounds around him shifted, still present but slightly out of place.

His fingers tightened.

A thin pressure built behind his eyes. The ground seemed to tilt, though he knew it hadn’t. His breath caught once, short and sharp.

Zio lowered his hand halfway before his knees gave out.

He hit the ground on his back. Not hard. Just fast enough that he didn’t catch himself. His head knocked lightly against the dirt.

Darkness came and went.

Light pulled him back.

Leaves moved overhead, breaking the brightness into fragments. For a moment, he didn’t remember how he ended up there.

The ground against his back answered that.

Zio breathed in. His chest felt hollow, slow to follow. He sat up carefully. The lightness lingered, dull but manageable.

The woods sounded as they should. Insects resumed their noise. Wind passed through the branches and left.

He waited until his fingers responded when he moved them. Until his feet pressed firmly into the soil.

When he stood, his weight felt like his own again.

Zio brushed dirt from his clothes and picked up his bow. His movements stayed even.

Nothing needed explaining.

Zio didn’t leave.

He stood where he was, the bow resting against a tree. The place hadn’t changed. That was reason enough to stay a little longer.

His hand lifted halfway, then dropped. He tried again, slower this time. No preparation. No adjustment beyond balance.

The pressure returned almost immediately. Lighter than before, but familiar.

Zio stopped.

His hand fell. He shifted his stance until the sensation faded on its own. His breath came out once, then steadied.

This time, he stayed upright.

That was enough.

Zio sat on an exposed root, his back leaning into it. The wood was cold against his palms. He let his weight settle where it wanted.

The forest continued.

Leaves slid over soil. Insects called, one at a time, then together. A breeze moved through the trees and passed on.

Zio listened.

His breathing found its pace without help. The last trace of pressure eased away.

He stared at the ground near his feet. A footprint, nearly gone. Earth pressed flat and left alone.

He stayed there until the light shifted.

Evening reached the workshop as Zio returned. Slanted light stretched between table legs and woodpiles. The smell of iron and dust hadn’t changed.

He joined the work. Lifted. Moved. Set things back where they belonged. Trod worked nearby, hands busy, glancing over once before turning back.

When the light thinned, Zio rinsed his hands in the bucket. Cold water. He hung the rag on a nail, aligned the tools, and sat briefly on the threshold.

Greyhollow kept moving. Doors closed. Smoke rose straight from chimneys. Children were called inside.

Zio stood when it was time.

Night came.