The Place Between Worlds

The matriarch was gone.

No sudden gasp. No sharp cry. Just the quiet closing of a long, slow day.

The fire in the shelter flickered low, casting soft shadows on the worn walls. Vince sat near the matriarch's bed, hands folded, eyes distant but steady. The small stone charm rested heavy in his palm—her last gift, now his burden.

Outside, the village moved in hushed rhythms. The wind whispered through the frost-laced trees, carrying with it a silence that felt like mourning.

No words were spoken. None were needed.

Vince's mind drifted back to that first day—the day she had found him sitting apart, shivering and unsure. Without a word, she had come close, settling beside him with a steady calm. Her hands, rough but gentle, had pressed a small wooden bowl into his palms. Water. Clean, cool water.

She had looked into his eyes, then nodded slowly. A simple gesture—"Sit." No language, only kindness.

That moment had marked the first flicker of trust.

Eldan stood beside Vince, shoulders heavy, gaze fixed on the earth beyond the shelter. He traced slow circles in the dirt, as if drawing invisible lines between past and future.

She had been the village's hearth.

Now, the hearth was cold.

But the flame she kindled remained — in the hands of those she left behind.

A child's soft footstep broke the stillness. Siljan approached, eyes wide and unsure, carrying a bundle of dry bark. Vince nodded once, wordless, and the boy quietly placed it near the fire.

The village was small. Fragile. But it held.

And so would they.

Vince stayed seated by the fire, the charm still pressed beneath his coat like a heartbeat he didn't want to lose. The village around him moved in slow patterns. No one said her name aloud. They didn't need to.

She had been a presence, not a voice.

A warmth, not a command.

And now that warmth had gone still.

Eldan crouched beside him. He said something soft in their language—Vince didn't catch it all. Maybe it was about her spirit, or the fire, or the cold. It didn't matter. The meaning was clear in his face.

Vince didn't speak. Just nodded once, then raised two fingers over his heart and curled them in toward his chest.

Hold. Keep.

Eldan mirrored the gesture. They understood each other enough now.

She had only spoken to Vince once.

Back in the beginning.

She hadn't used words. She had simply motioned to a flat stone and gestured for him to sit. Then handed him water in a cup that looked older than most things in this world. No smile. No curiosity. Just water. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to offer something to a stranger who hadn't earned anything yet.

After that, she was never close. Never present. Always somewhere inside the shelter, beneath layers of warmth, seen but not part of the work or the days that followed. She never called to him again. Never looked his way.

But she had watched, he knew. Through cracks in walls. Through the slow knowing of someone who had nothing left but time and eyes.

He hadn't spoken to her.

Not once.

But now, sitting here with smoke curling around his knees and the wind hushed beneath snow, he missed her.

Not as a friend.

But as something rooted. Something unmoved.

Branik passed the doorway, stepped inside. He held a single piece of dark bark, shaped like a hand. Without a word, he laid it down near her sleeping place and left again.

Rhosyn arrived later with a strip of cloth. It had been red once. Now faded orange. She folded it small and tucked it above the bed.

Joran brought a bowl of broth. Steam curled thin into the air. He didn't look at anyone. Just set it beside the pelts and sat cross-legged, head bowed.

Anelka sat beside him.

She carried a dried flower. Vince didn't know where she'd found it. She placed it gently on the floor.

They didn't cry.

No one did.

But everything was softer today. The steps. The voices. Even the fire.

Maela brought a candle. She didn't light it. Just rested it by the wall and touched the mat once with her fingertips. A single moment. Then she was gone.

Vince didn't move much. Just stayed by the fire, his hands resting over his lap, his stick across his knees. His breath fogged the air. The charm pressed against his ribs.

He remembered the cup.

The cracked rim. The cold water. The way her hand hadn't trembled, though her body had already begun to shrink beneath age.

He had been no one to her.

And she had still given him something.

That, he knew now, was what strength meant here. Not control. Not commands. But giving when you had little. And expecting nothing in return.

He raised a hand, slow, and touched two fingers to his lips. Then to the fire. Then to the sleeping place.

Not goodbye.

Just thanks.

And then he stayed still.

Because silence, here, said more than sorrow ever could.

They gathered at dusk.

Not because anyone called them.

But because the light faded, and the wind held its breath, and they all knew what came next.

The matriarch's body had been wrapped in thick cloth—layer over layer, stitched with bark thread and old beads. Someone had combed her hair. Someone had braided her hands together with a red strip of fabric. Vince didn't know who. It hadn't been announced.

These things simply happened.

Eldan stood near the fire, staff in hand. His face unreadable. But he nodded once to the group, then turned his gaze to Vince. Not asking permission. Just sharing weight.

Vince stood, slowly, leaning on his stick.

Then they walked—quiet steps, no chant, no songs. Just the soft hush of boots over packed snow.

The path led beyond the trench, past the older shelters with frost-bitten roofs. A grove stood there now. Trees stripped bare by wind, their branches bowing like they grieved. Someone had cleared the snow from the ground, revealing frozen soil, pressed smooth by gloved hands and wooden shovels.

They laid her down gently. No box. No fire.

Just the earth.

Maela stepped forward. She opened a palm. In it, the stone charm the matriarch had once worn.

She looked at Vince.

He hesitated—then slowly reached into his coat and pulled out the one she had given him.

He held it for a long moment.

Then walked forward and placed it beside the first.

Two stones.

One for who she had been.

One for what she had seen.

He stepped back.

No one spoke.

Not even Eldan.

Instead, each person took a handful of earth—dark, cold, heavy—and pressed it into the grave by hand. No tools. No rush. One after another, until the snow crept in again and softened the edge of the mound.

Joran stood beside Anelka. He looked at Vince, then pressed a small reed carving—a child's toy—into the snow above the grave.

Anelka followed, placing a bundle of dried grass shaped like a bird.

They didn't bow. They didn't cry.

They just stood. Together.

Vince's breath fogged the air. His side ached. He leaned harder on the stick, and when Eldan moved to help, he shook his head gently.

He needed to stand on his own.

For her.

As the last light faded, Maela lit the candle she had brought before.

She set it down in the snow, just beside the stones, its flame a flicker against the dark.

It burned crooked.

Then straightened.

And held.

No words were said.

But every person stayed until the candle burned low.

Only when it guttered and fell into itself did the first person step away.

Then another.

Then Vince.

He looked back once, at the stones, at the toy, at the grass bird.

And he raised two fingers to his heart, then to the sky.

Not a goodbye.

Not exactly.

But something close.

And the snow kept falling. Not sharp. Not cold.

Just quiet. Like breath.

Like memory.