The Place Between Worlds

The cold came early.

The wind wasn't sharp yet, but it had weight—an edge that lingered in the bones, not just the skin. Vince stood at the edge of the treeline with his arms crossed and eyes on the sky. The clouds had thickened. Birds flew lower. His breath showed when he exhaled.

He found the old man—Eldan, he'd come to learn—seated near the trench's end, stacking dry reeds into a split basket. Still barefoot. Still quiet. But his eyes met Vince's now without hesitation.

Vince crouched beside him, drawing a circle in the dirt. Then lines radiating out. A simple sun.

He pointed up. Then at the drawing.

"Cold," he said. Then hugged his arms, shivering for effect. "Winter."

Eldan nodded. Then pointed at the sun. Shook his head. "No more."

Vince nodded back. Then pointed at the village. At the roofs. He mimed collapse with his hands, letting them fall apart slowly. Pointed to a hut, then jabbed a finger toward the ground.

Eldan's brow furrowed. But he followed.

Vince leaned forward and drew a rough figure—a hut with sloped sides, like the one he'd helped reinforce yesterday. He tapped it, then gestured wide with his arm to the rest of the village.

Then he made a sweeping motion with both hands, gathering an invisible crowd. Finally, he pointed at Eldan, then back at himself.

"You, me, all," he said. "Work."

Eldan squinted. Then nodded slowly. "All… help?"

Vince smiled faintly. "Yes. All help."

Eldan stood. Stretched his shoulders. Then tapped his chest and said firmly, "Eldan help Veshan."

Vince didn't correct him.

He hadn't in a while.

The name had stuck—Veshan, spoken first by one of the children and then passed around like a soft stone smoothed by time. In this place, in this language, it belonged to someone else. Someone not feared. Someone not hunted. Someone trying to build something.

"Good," Vince said, rising with him.

The old man held up a hand, fingers outstretched.

"Five days," Eldan said. "Then snow."

Vince blinked.

It wasn't a warning. It was a timeline.

He nodded. "Five."

Then looked back at the huts—still too many, still too fragile.

Five days.

He needed them all.

By midday, the air turned colder. The sky hung low, thick with gray.

Vince—Veshan to them—moved through Breden with longer strides. No time to lose.

He found Eldan, Branik, and Rhosyn near a half-collapsed hut. Eldan stood up when he saw Vince approach. Vince knelt in the dirt and began drawing.

A square. A slanted line for roof. Then a big circle around it.

Then two fingers. He jabbed the dirt beside the circle—another, then another.

"Many," he said. "Still weak."

Branik leaned over. "More… roof?"

Vince nodded. Then pointed to the sky and hugged himself, miming shivering. "Four," he said, holding up four fingers. "Days."

Rhosyn looked at Eldan. "Snow?"

Eldan nodded once. "Soon."

Vince stood and pointed to each of them, one by one, then pointed to the other huts.

"You. Help. Roof. Wall."

He mimed hammering, lashing rope, bracing a beam. Then made a sweeping motion—circle again with his arms.

"All help. All."

Rhosyn grinned. "Veshan boss now?"

Vince gave a tired smile and shook his head. Then tapped his chest and hers.

"Not boss. Work. Together."

The mood shifted. A few quiet chuckles.

Then: movement.

---

They didn't have tools. Not real ones. But they had hands. Rhosyn and Ferren grabbed poles from the drying pile. Branik took twine and called out to someone in the huts. A girl—Irie—ran to get bark strips. Eldan didn't speak. He just walked to the next hut and started peeling back rot.

Vince stayed near the center, watching, miming, helping where he could. When someone hesitated, he would point. Show. Guide.

He found Maeren, the older weaver, near her hut with a bundle of wet reeds.

He crouched and tapped the bundle, then pointed at a leaking roof.

Maeren scowled. "Too wet."

Vince nodded. Held his hands wide, mimed sun and drying. Then lifted the bundle, spread it wide on stones in the clearing.

She watched. Then slowly helped.

---

By late afternoon:

One hut had a fully repaired sloped roof.

Another had its leaning wall braced with pine poles and clay.

Two more were partially reinforced, waiting for bark or stone.

Eight more untouched.

The day was running short.

Vince sat on a stump, catching his breath, when Taren, the lanky boy, came running with a bark scrap.

He'd scratched a rough village map into it—twenty-two huts. Eleven marked with a line.

Taren pointed at the lines. "Fix."

Then pointed to the others. "Not yet."

Then held up four fingers. "Snow."

Vince looked at the map. Then the huts. Then at the sky.

He nodded.

"Go again," he said. "Fast."

Taren grinned, turned, and ran off.

And behind him, one by one, villagers moved again.

The rain started with a whisper.

Just a mist at first, brushing over the rooftops like a warning. But by the time Vince had dragged the last bundle of bark to the newest hut—one built for a mother with twins—it had turned to steady drizzle. Cold. Relentless. Seeping through his coat, down his back, into his boots.

He didn't stop.

Couldn't. Not with five days left.

He tied another support with fraying rope. His hands fumbled. Twice, the knot slipped.

He swore under his breath and started again. His vision blurred.

He wasn't just cold now. He was shaking.

By the time the sloped roof held its shape, Vince couldn't stand fully. He stumbled when he turned from the wall, one hand catching the edge of the frame.

A voice behind him—Rhosyn?—called out.

He waved her off.

He didn't remember walking back to his own hut. Didn't remember falling inside. Just cold, smoke, then nothing.

---

Darkness, then light.

A roof above him—woven tight. New. Not his.

A fur pulled over his chest. Smoke-scented. Soft.

Vince blinked slowly.

Someone sat beside him.

Eldan.

The old man gave a small grunt of approval when Vince stirred. Then reached for a cloth and pressed it to Vince's forehead.

"Veshan… hot," he said.

Vince tried to speak. His throat burned.

"Sleep," another voice said gently. Rhosyn appeared at his side, holding a shallow bowl. She raised it, cooled the contents with a breath, then tipped a little into his mouth. It tasted of herbs and ash. Not good—but warm.

Vince didn't argue.

Not this time.

He drifted again, but not deep. Just enough to feel the fire's warmth at his feet.

---

He woke at dusk.

Voices outside. Familiar ones. Someone sharpening a blade. A child laughing—distant, but real.

He sat up slowly, ribs aching. A blanket slid from his shoulders.

The door flap rustled. Joran stepped in, eyes wide. He held something in both hands.

A bowl. Stew. Thin, but steaming.

He handed it over, then sat beside the bed without a word.

Vince took it. Ate in silence.

It wasn't until the bowl was half empty that he realized the hut wasn't his.

It had been built while he was unconscious.

For him.

New walls. Tight seams. A firepit dug into the center.

They had made it for him.

He set the bowl down, throat tight. Joran watched him, then reached into his pocket.

A token. Carved wood—rough but recognizable.

A slope. A hut. A figure with broad shoulders.

"Veshan," Joran said softly, tapping the figure.

Vince nodded.

Not because he agreed.

But because he understood.

Outside, the cold deepened. The rain had passed. But the smell of snow rode the breeze now.

Winter was still coming.

But tonight, Vince had shelter.

Because they had built it for him.

And in that small, quiet gesture, the line between him and the village blurred a little more.