When the Body Hesitates

Chapter 11 – When the Body Hesitates

Several knocks landed against the door, loud enough to cut through the village sounds already waking outside.

“Zio?”

No answer.

A few seconds passed, then the sound of fabric shifting behind the door. The latch turned slowly. Martha pushed the door open with her elbow, both hands full. A wooden bowl, a piece of coarse bread still steaming, and a small cloth wrapped neatly around it.

“It’s almost midday,” she said, her voice flat, though her eyes swept the room at once.

Zio sat on the edge of the bed. His hair was still a mess. He stared at the floor, as if his body needed time to catch up.

“You’re usually out before the sun gets that high,” Martha continued as she stepped inside. She set the bowl on the small table, thin steam rising, filling the room with the smell of simple soup. “I thought you’d already be in the forest.”

Zio shook his head slightly. The movement came late, as if his body lagged half a step behind.

“Sleep too deeply?” Martha asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. She unfolded the cloth, broke the bread. “Eat first.”

Zio reached for the bowl. His hand paused in the air for a moment, then lowered again. He blew across the surface of the soup, though the steam had already thinned.

“Warm,” he said at last.

“It’s still morning,” Martha replied. She sat on the short stool near the door. Not too close. Not too far. A position she had chosen long ago.

Zio ate slowly. His spoon made no sound. Usually the bowl would be empty before Martha had time to sit comfortably. Today, he stopped mid-bite, swallowed carefully, then set the spoon down on the rim.

“Are you sick?” Martha asked. Her tone was light. Her eyes were not.

“No,” Zio answered quickly. Too quickly. He picked the spoon up again, as if to prove it.

Martha nodded. She accepted the answer the way one accepts the weather. Neither argued with it nor fully believed it.

“Lately,” she said while folding the empty cloth, “people have been noisier than usual in the mornings.” She paused, then looked at Zio. “Don’t think about it. People are quicker to judge than to prove.”

Zio didn’t look up.

He finished half the bowl before stopping. His breathing sounded slightly heavier than it should have been for a room this small.

“You don’t have to finish it,” Martha said. “You can take it with you.”

Zio nodded. He wrapped the remaining bread without a word. When he stood, his legs hesitated for a moment before fully bearing his weight. He didn’t fall. He simply stood still, then stepped forward.

Martha stood as well. She looked like she wanted to say something, then let it go. Her hand hovered in the air before dropping to her side.

“Don’t come back too late,” she said at last. A familiar sentence.

“I’m not going anywhere far,” Zio replied.

“Mmm.”

Martha stepped outside first, stopping at the doorway. She glanced back once more.

“If you sleep in again tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll knock harder.”

There was a small smile there. Zio returned it, thin and brief.

After Martha left, Zio stood for several seconds inside the house as it fell quiet again. He closed the door softly, tied the bundle of food at his waist.

When he stepped outside, the morning light felt heavier than usual on his shoulders.

Zio left without looking back. The sounds of the village slowly faded behind him, replaced by softer ground and cooler air.

As the trees began to block the view of the village, Zio adjusted his breathing once, then let his body take over.

He moved deeper in, choosing a path he rarely used. The ground was still damp with night dew, tracks easy to read, but he wasn’t looking for anything.

He slowed his breathing by a single beat, then walked on.

The sensation came once.
Short. Deep.
Like pressure rising from inside his chest, not from his lungs.

Zio stopped.

When there was nothing but his own heartbeat, he continued, more careful now, not of the ground, but of himself.

A branch snapped to the left. Not far. Not close.

Zio turned without thinking, keeping distance from the sound. The forest fell silent again, but the quiet felt delayed, as if something had chosen not to move.

His hand dropped to the dagger’s hilt.

Zio walked on, following his steps. Without realizing it, he had gone too deep into the forest.

The brush ahead shifted.

Not a wild movement. Not a hurried sound.
A small pause, like something stopping just before revealing itself.

Zio stopped as well.

He didn’t move his feet. Didn’t raise the dagger. He only lowered his shoulders and let his breathing slow.

The animal emerged slowly from behind the leaves.

Not in a leap, but with deliberate steps meant to be heard. Broad shoulders, muscle moving beneath dull brown, faintly striped fur. Its head stayed low, level with Zio’s chest.

Yellow eyes stared sharply, like a predator sighting prey.

It was close enough for Zio to see its breath fog in thin bursts.

Before, this distance would have meant running.

Now, Zio only felt his heart beat harder. Not faster.

The animal stopped three steps away.

Its tail flicked once, brushing dry leaves. Its claws dug into the ground, not to leap, but to hold position.

Zio slid one foot to the side. Slowly. Without breaking eye contact.

The dagger was in his hand, but kept low, level with his thigh. A deliberate movement, enough to be ready, not enough to provoke.

The animal growled softly.

The low vibration traveled through the ground, up into Zio’s legs. His body reacted on its own, knees bending slightly, his back leaning forward.

For several seconds, nothing moved.
The forest seemed to stop.

The animal shifted its weight. Its right shoulder dipped slightly. Its eyes narrowed.

Zio read the line.
He adjusted his position a fraction of a step first.

Then the animal lunged.

Soil exploded backward. The distance they’d held vanished in a single burst.

Zio moved half a second too late.

Claws sliced through the air where his chest had been. His jacket tore, heat flashing briefly against skin. He twisted into the line of attack instead of retreating.

His first punch landed beside the animal’s jaw.

The impact was real. Heavy. Not like the old dreams that always ended with his back on the ground.

The animal staggered half a step.

A roar tore out.

And there was no avoiding the fight anymore.

The beast gave no second warning.

Its body shot low, leaves and dirt thrown aside.

Zio moved before thought caught up. He leapt sideways, his shoulder barely missing the sweep of claws. When his feet hit the ground, his body wasn’t fully stable, but his arm was already moving.

Another punch.

Not to the head. To the lower neck, where the muscle anchored the front shoulder.

It didn’t stop the animal, but it tilted its body as it landed. A short roar burst out, more surprise than pain.

The beast spun and lunged again.

This time Zio didn’t jump. He stepped back once, lowered his body. Claws cut the air above his head.

The dagger slashed.

It struck the front leg, just above the joint. Not deep, but enough to break skin.

Blood hit the ground.

The animal landed lighter on one leg. Its breathing changed. Its movement lost balance.

It kept attacking.

The next roar was louder.

The third leap was shorter, but wilder.
As the animal rose, Zio shifted aside and lifted his arm.
The dagger moved upward, not in a straight thrust, but in a crossing arc toward the face.
The tip passed one eye.

Not a full stab. Just enough.

The beast screamed.

Its massive body landed badly. It backed away, limping, blood streaking one side of its face.

A few steps. It stopped. Growled.

Zio only watched. He didn’t pursue.

The animal finally turned and vanished into the brush, leaving behind a broken trail of blood.

The forest began to move again.

Zio lowered his arm slowly.
His breath drew too deep, then stalled for a moment before leaving.
He realized it instantly.

The dagger was still in his hand. His grip didn’t loosen right away. When he finally slid it back into its sheath, the end of the hilt scraped his skin.

He exhaled.

The ground beneath his feet felt hard. He stepped again, then stopped. His gaze dropped to the toe of his boot, as if something there needed checking.

He rolled his shoulders, turned his neck once. His muscles obeyed. His outer body was fine.

His hand drifted to his abdomen, just above his belt. Not pressing. Just resting. He stayed like that for several seconds, then drew another breath.

Zio sat on a fallen log. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His thumb tapped the dagger lightly once, an old habit that usually followed a hunt.

Leaves rustled nearby. Insects resumed their sound. The forest hadn’t changed.

Zio closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them, he stood. He chose a longer path back, avoiding the small incline he normally crossed without stopping.

He didn’t quicken his pace.

When the village rooftops appeared between the trees, Zio stopped once more. He straightened his back, loosened his shoulders, set his face neutral.

Then he walked home, carrying no game.

The air in Greyhollow was slightly colder at night.

An oil lamp burned dimly in the corner, its light unable to chase away shadows, only move them. The house felt smaller in silence, as if the walls leaned in when no sound came from outside.

Zio sat on the edge of the bed. His boots were off, his jacket hung carelessly on a wooden peg. The dagger lay on the table, cleaned without care. A thin scratch marked the blade, one he didn’t remember making.

He curled his toes slowly. Then straightened them again.

His body felt… different.

Not sharp pain. Not the weariness of a long hunt. More like a weight set slightly too deep, in a place meant to be empty. Every time he inhaled, his chest felt full before it truly filled.

Zio stood, took two steps, then stopped. He waited. The sensation didn’t fade. It only shifted, like something trying to find its place.

He let out a slow breath, more careful this time.

“I’m tired,” he muttered, though the word didn’t quite fit.

Zio sat again, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His hand pressed unconsciously against his side, a little deeper. The pressure eased the weight for a moment, then it returned when he released it.

He lay down with his back to the wall. The blanket was pulled to his chest. The oil lamp was extinguished, and the room sank into familiar darkness.

A few seconds passed.

Then the sensation returned, slower, deeper. Not like a wound. More like a pulse moving the wrong way.

Zio let out a quiet groan, barely audible. His fingers clenched the blanket, then slowly loosened.

He closed his eyes.

Outside, the village was fully asleep.

Inside, Zio waited until his body stopped resisting itself.