The snow atop the cabin had begun to thin, a sign that spring would soon arrive.
Zio woke before the light fully reached the cabin window.
He sat at the edge of the wooden bed and waited for the cold to leave his limbs.
The air inside the cabin was still cold. The fire in the hearth had gone out during the night, leaving calm gray ash behind. Zio stood, put on his outer clothing, then opened the door.
Mountain air touched his face.
The sky was pale, the color of winter beginning to lose its sharpness. Snow still covered the ground, but not as thick as before. Between the stones, water began to flow more boldly, no longer completely locked by ice.
Zio walked down the path toward the lower forest without haste. His steps were steady, not heavy. His body moved with quiet confidence, as sunlight began to reach the upper slopes of the mountain. The water fell clear, cold, and hard, striking stone with a consistent sound.
Zio removed his clothes and stepped into the stream.
Cold struck his skin, sharp and honest. He stood beneath the falling water, letting it hit his shoulders and back. The shock lingered for a second, then passed.
It left him clearer than before.
When he stepped out, thin steam rose from his skin. He dressed again, tied his hair simply, then watched the flowing water for a few seconds longer before turning away.
When he returned to the cabin, the sun had climbed a little higher. The season had not truly changed yet.
The cabin felt quieter than usual.
The early-season wind carried less sound.
Zio closed the door behind him and stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light inside.
Everything was still in its place.
The wooden table near the window. The simple rack of tools. The cold hearth.
Zio’s steps stopped when he saw that the door to Zyon’s room was slightly open.
Zio approached without sound. On the small table near the window of that room, a single sheet of paper lay neatly.
He picked it up.
Zyon’s handwriting was immediately recognizable.
Zio sat on the nearest chair and opened the letter.
He read without haste.
When he finished, he folded the paper with the same care as before.
Only one breath, drawn slightly longer than before.
He folded the letter and put it away.
Zio stepped toward Zyon’s room. He pushed the door open and entered for the first time.
. . .
Several minutes passed.
Zio emerged from the room, a blade in hand. He let out a quiet breath and drew it from its sheath.
The hilt was short, wrapped in rough black leather that bit into his palm. A straight, single-edged blade of deep black, absorbing light rather than reflecting it.
Zio returned the blade to its sheath. Then he moved again.
He placed clothes into his small bag, enough dried meat.
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A waterskin still in usable condition.
He checked the corners of the cabin one by one. The windows were shut tight. The hearth was cleared of the remaining ash. No fire was left burning.
Everything was done out of habit.
At the doorway, he paused briefly.
His gaze swept across the room one last time before he closed the door.
Zio climbed into the upper forest without hesitation.
The snow was thicker here. The air colder.
He stopped when a large movement appeared among the trees.
The bear.
Its sharp eyes fixed on Zio.
They stared at one another.
Several seconds passed in silence.
Then the bear snorted softly, turned its head away, and walked back into the forest without looking back.
Zio remained standing until the sound of its steps fully disappeared.
Then he turned and continued on.
Zio descended past the cabin for the last time. He did not look back. He continued walking toward the lower forest.
The river became his marker. He walked along its side, sometimes crossing it, sometimes moving away when the ground was more stable. The water flowed fast, cutting through slopes and valleys.
The day was filled with long strides.
The forest changed. Large trees mixed with lower growth. Snow slowly diminished, turning into damp soil and wet stone.
Night came quickly.
Zio stopped only to rest. A small fire was lit in sheltered places, low and controlled. No time was spent on comfort.
By day, he moved again.
At times he quickened his pace, letting his body work harder. At times he ran briefly, not to chase, but to reduce distance.
Mana moved together with breath and muscle, used efficiently.
The northern mountains were already far behind.
The silhouettes of houses began to appear between the trees. Greyhollow lay before him.
Zio slowed his steps.
Trod’s forge was closed. Its wooden door was locked, its windows dark. There was no sound of hammering. No smoke from the chimney.
He looked away.
Martha’s house was closed as well.
Zio stood in front of the forge, scanning his surroundings with a feeling that did not immediately take shape.
Footsteps sounded behind him. “You’re the boy who used to be at Trod’s forge, right?”
Zio turned. “Yes,” he answered quietly.
“The forge was sold a year ago,” the man said. “Trod told people you’d gone to Elen’shade.”
Zio nodded slightly. “Where does Uncle Trod live now?”
Without answering, the man only pointed toward the edge of Greyhollow.
Zio walked into a small area enclosed by several trees.
He stood a few steps away, his gaze slowly sweeping over the wooden grave markers before him.
He walked closer to one marker bearing a name he knew.
The wind moved gently, carrying the scent of soil and wet grass. No birds made a sound.
Several minutes passed without movement.
Zio sat on the cold ground, slightly to the side, as if he did not wish to be directly in front of it.
He lowered his head.
His breathing remained steady. No sound came out.
Time moved without changing anything.
When he stood again, the light had shifted.
Zio turned and walked back toward his home.
The house was smaller than he remembered.
The wood was worn. The hinges creaked softly as Zio pushed the door open. The air inside felt sealed, like a space left unopened for too long, yet not unfamiliar.
Dust clung lightly to the floor and window frames. Not thick. Not left entirely alone. Someone had made sure this place still stood, even if it was no longer lived in.
He stepped into his room. The wooden desk, the small wardrobe, and the bed were all still in their places.
His attention was drawn to a bundle and a yellowed sheet of paper on the bed.
Zio sat and opened the letter.
He read slowly.
For Zio.
By the time you read this, you might already be taller than I ever was.
Before writing this, Martha sent a few letters.
As you know, she can be a bit fussy. She told me to tell you to open your mouth a little more when talking to other people.
If when you arrive in this village Martha is not here, she has returned to the land of Sylvaen.
You do not have to look for or follow Martha. You do not have to stay in this village.
Choose your own life, boy.
Be human.
You do not need many friends, as long as there are enough to cover your loneliness.
I am leaving you a bundle of clothes and a pouch of coins from the sale of the forge. Consider it your wages for all these years.
Keep breathing.
And one more thing.
Welcome home, boy.
- Trod
Zio remained silent, staring at the bundle for a long time before sitting on the bed.
His shoulders lowered, as if something he had held up for so long finally lost its reason to remain standing.
He bowed his head, tears running down his cheeks without him realizing it.
Without screams. Without shouts.
He cried for the first time.
When Zio finally lifted his head, the light inside the room had shifted.
Zio tidied the room before morning was fully complete.
He walked toward the door, closed it, and made sure the latch was secured.
He walked out of Greyhollow without looking back.
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