The Place Between Worlds

The snow had slowed, but it hadn't stopped. It drifted now in slow, deliberate flakes—light, but constant, like a warning that hadn't yet raised its voice.

Vince sat near the fire pit, shoulders hunched beneath his coat, a damp wool blanket wrapped around his legs. His cough had faded to a dry rasp, but it still burned his ribs when he moved too fast or tried to speak too long.

He didn't need to speak much this morning.

Not yet.

The villagers gathered at his signal, drifting in one by one, boots crunching frost, faces pale and tired. Eldan stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes scanning. When Vince glanced at him, the old man gave a quiet nod. It was time.

Vince pushed himself to his feet with the help of his walking stick. His body screamed against the motion, but he forced it down. He shuffled toward the cleared patch of dirt they'd smoothed last night—a place meant for plans. For truth.

With his free hand, he crouched low and drew in the soil.

A circle. Then twenty-two marks inside it. Huts.

He pointed at each as he counted softly under his breath. Stopped at number eighteen. Drew four Xs through the last huts. Then looked up.

"No time," he said, voice hoarse. "Four… no fix."

Murmurs ran through the crowd. Eldan stepped forward.

"Four huts… cannot be repaired," he said in slow, careful words. "Too late. Snow… too soon."

Vince wiped the dirt smooth again. Drew three bigger huts. Marked them with double lines. Around them, small stick figures—families.

He pointed at the sturdy huts. Then at the villagers.

"Together," he said. "All sleep. All warm."

Some frowned. A woman whispered to her neighbor. A man at the edge of the group—tall, wiry, with grizzled gray hair—crossed his arms and looked away. Marek, Vince recalled. The one who always worked alone.

Eldan raised his voice, stronger this time.

"Together warm. Alone… die."

The words landed harder than any threat.

Silence.

Vince stood again and drew one more symbol—wind, rain, the jagged lines of storm. Then a figure, alone. A hut with a broken roof. He crossed it out.

He pointed at the crowd.

"You choose," he said simply.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then a woman stepped forward. Isola—the one with the infant he'd helped before. She put her hand over her chest, then pointed at one of the shared huts in the dirt.

"Together," she said softly.

Another nodded.

And another.

The group began to shift—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough.

Marek stayed still, jaw clenched. But he didn't speak.

Vince exhaled. Not relief. Just readiness.

He looked to Eldan.

"Start now," he said.

Eldan nodded once, then turned to the villagers and began organizing in the local tongue—words Vince still didn't know, but could now recognize as rallying tones.

They moved.

Because they understood.

And this time, not because they feared death.

But because they had decided to live. Together.

The day passed in motion.

Not the fast, frantic kind from earlier storms or trench digging—but a steady, determined rhythm. Tools were passed from hand to hand. Spare blankets pulled from storage. Bark and moss, once hoarded by families, now placed in shared piles without prompting.

Vince didn't swing an axe or lift poles today. His body wouldn't let him. But he didn't sit still either.

He limped slowly between groups, leaning hard on the walking stick, flanked often by a boy named Siljan—thin, bright-eyed, and eager to help without words. Siljan pointed, translated gestures, fetched things without being asked. Vince had never said "thank you" out loud. He didn't need to. The boy already understood.

By midday, smoke curled from every repaired chimney.

Not a single hut stood silent. Even the ones still too weak had voices—hammer blows, footsteps, whispered plans. Vince stopped beside one of the shared shelters, now housing four families. Inside, someone was boiling root broth. Children huddled on furs beside a reed mat. One of them waved at him.

He nodded back.

> This, he thought, is what I never had in Naples.

Not because there were no families.

But because people followed him out of fear. Because loyalty had been bought, or threatened, or forced.

Not here.

Here, people moved for each other. Carried things without being told. Paused to make sure someone else had enough.

Even Marek had returned—silent, brooding, but with an armload of chopped firewood. He hadn't looked Vince in the eye when he dropped it off. But he'd brought it. That was enough.

The sky darkened early, clouds turning thick and grey as dusk crept in.

A light snow began again, but none of the fires went out.

Not this time.

Vince sat under the awning of the storage lean-to, a crude shelter someone had reinforced with bark and fresh twine. Siljan curled up nearby, head on a bundle of rope. The village, for the first time, didn't feel like something waiting to fall.

It felt like something holding on.

Holding together.

Vince leaned his head back against the wood and watched the snow fall through slats in the roof. It dusted his legs, his blanket, the edge of his boots.

But he didn't brush it off.

The snow kept falling.

By night, it blanketed the roofs and softened every sound. Even the wind seemed to hush beneath its weight. The village shimmered in white—a fragile quiet broken only by the crackle of fires and the slow shifting of feet through frost.

Vince sat with his back against the reed wall of the shelter. His breath fogged the air. Every joint ached. But he was warm. Warm enough.

Inside, a few children had fallen asleep in a pile of furs and limbs. One stirred, curled tighter. Someone covered her with a second blanket. No words spoken.

Across from him, Eldan stood near the firepit, feeding it slowly. The old man's eyes stayed fixed on the flames, thoughtful.

"You stay," Eldan said suddenly, not looking at him.

Vince blinked. "Hm?"

Eldan finally turned. "Snow here. Cold. But… you stay."

It wasn't a question.

Vince didn't answer right away. He stared at the fire. At the sleeping children. At the patched roof above them all.

A long silence passed.

Then, quietly: "I don't have anywhere else."

Eldan gave a small nod, like he already knew.

"You build," he said. "You help. You Veshan."

The name again.

He didn't hate it.

He looked up at the old man. "What does it mean?"

Eldan frowned. Thought about it. Shrugged. "Strong. Maybe. Or… stubborn."

That made Vince huff a tired laugh.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Sounds about right."

Eldan moved toward the door flap but paused before exiting. "Tomorrow—last roof. We finish."

He stepped out into the snow.

Vince remained behind, listening to the stillness return.

> Last roof.

The trench was dug. The huts stood. Food was shared. Fire remained lit.

They had done what they could.

But the work had changed him more than it had changed the village.

He was no longer the man who ordered people from a chair in Naples. He was no longer a name spoken with fear behind it.

Veshan was something else.

And though he hadn't planned for it—hadn't even wanted it—he felt the shape of something new settling on his shoulders.

Not power.

Not revenge.

But responsibility.

A different kind.

And maybe this time, one that wouldn't end in ruin.