The Place Between Worlds

The fire cracked low, breathing soft warmth into the morning stillness.

No birdsong. No wind. Just the hush of snow resting thick over everything. A white stillness that muffled thought. The kind that didn't press on the village so much as wrap around it—tight, cold, and tender.

Vince sat just outside the shared shelter, wrapped in two furs. His walking stick leaned against the frame beside him. He no longer needed help to move. Not really. But his body still ached in the early hours. Stiff from the nights. Bruised from the storm. Heavy from the day she died.

The matriarch's furs had been folded. Her spot was empty now. Covered with a bark mat and silence.

The village didn't speak of her.

They didn't need to.

They moved differently now. Slower, not from weakness—but from care. A boy helped his grandfather stand without being told. A mother shared her cup with a neighbor's child. Someone added extra bark to the fire before sleeping, even when their own family's pile was low.

Vince didn't comment. Just watched.

His own hands were steadier now. Less coughing. Less fever. His ribs still barked when he stood too fast, but the sharp edge had dulled.

He walked short distances again. Not far. But enough.

Siljan had already gone to help the fire team sort dry rootwood behind the western shelter. Joran and Anelka sat at the trench edge, sharpening a wedge with stones. Rhosyn had passed earlier carrying a bundle of moss-wrapped herbs, nodding to Vince without pausing.

The rhythm hadn't broken.

Just shifted.

The elders gathered less now. A few still lingered near the center fire pit, silent in their own way. One woman—her hair plaited tight, streaked with grey—sat with her back to the flames, eyes fixed on the place where the matriarch had once sat.

Vince didn't know her name.

He remembered her face, though. From the day they buried the old woman. She had helped carry the furs.

Now, she sat without motion, as if waiting for a voice that would never speak again.

Vince shifted his weight. Pulled the matriarch's charm from inside his coat. Held it quietly in his lap. Twined it once around his fingers. Then tucked it back.

A shadow passed beside him.

Branik.

He didn't stop. Just muttered something low in the local tongue. Not meant for Vince. Meant for the air. The ancestors.

But as he walked away, Vince caught one word. A name.

"Veshrin."

The matriarch's name.

He remembered her hand pressing the cup of water into his palms that first day. No kindness in the face. Just action. A gesture that, somehow, had told him you are allowed to be here.

She hadn't spoken to him again after that.

But she didn't need to.

Vince leaned back, slow. Watched frost flake from the edges of the thatch above. Light filtered pale through the sky. Not sun. Just a thin suggestion of it, distant behind the clouds.

Someone nearby started grinding dried roots with a stone. The scrape echoed soft.

The day moved.

And the world, for now, did not.

By midmorning, the snow had turned to a fine powder—too dry to pack, too soft to hear underfoot. It drifted down in constant silence, dusting shoulders, lashes, rooftops.

Vince stepped slowly through it, one hand on his stick, the other in his coat pocket, fingers brushing the old charm.

The work didn't stop. It never did. But now it felt different.

Not urgent. Not frantic.

Just necessary.

He passed the repair team near the east wall. Maela was balancing a plank on her shoulder, Branik hammering a wedge into the frame above her. Neither looked down as he walked by, but Maela gave a small nod—just once, eyes flicking toward him. A shared rhythm. She didn't need help. Just awareness.

Vince didn't speak. His language still didn't stretch far. A few names. A few gestures. Simple phrases.

But his presence meant something now. Not authority. Not even guidance.

Just… weight.

He paused at the trench, watching as Joran stirred ash into the slush lining its base. Beside him, Anelka pressed frozen moss into cracks along the edge, reinforcing the barrier they'd built weeks ago.

Anelka looked up and signed with her hand—flat palm tapping chest, then pointing to the wall.

Strong.

Vince nodded.

Joran mimed two fingers walking along a line, then pointed to the back of the trench where ice had crept over the edge.

Vince raised a fist. Stop.

Then a flat palm down. Dig later.

They understood. Or at least they didn't question.

That was enough.

He moved on, slow steps taking him to the lean-to by the supply shelter. Eldan stood inside, sorting bark and twine with the help of Ferren and Lorin. At the sound of Vince's approach, the old man turned.

"More dry now," Eldan said, holding up a rope-wrapped bundle. "You take… see?"

Vince took it in both hands, nodding slowly. The bark had been cured near the fire, packed with moss and ash to keep moisture out. It smelled of smoke and old pine.

"Good," he said.

Eldan leaned in slightly. "Maybe storm again. One, maybe two."

Vince's brow furrowed. He looked up at the sky—grey, still, no sign of anger. But he trusted the old man's tone.

He pressed thumb to chest. Then tapped his lips and pointed up. Watch sky.

Eldan huffed through his nose. "You learn," he said.

They worked together, silent but coordinated. Sorting bark, tying bundles, checking root storage under the lean-to. Ferren broke twigs for kindling without being told. Lorin used his knife to carve slats from an old sled plank, eyes sharp with focus.

When it was done, Vince stepped back out into the snow.

The air had thickened. Clouds heavier now. Wind still holding its breath—but not for long.

He turned toward the shared shelter again. Took the long way back, circling past the elder huts. Most were quiet. A thin line of smoke from two chimneys, nothing more. He paused at one door, then moved on. Not everyone had the strength to move today. But they were still here. Still present.

He crossed paths with Isola near the fire pit. She had her child on her back again—bundled tight, silent. Her eyes met his for just a moment. She didn't speak.

But she touched her chest with two fingers.

Then pointed at him.

Then the sky.

Then her hut.

The meaning was unclear. But the feeling wasn't.

She trusted him.

Even in silence.

Even in cold.

He nodded once, and she moved on.

Back at the shared shelter, he sat again near the fire. Taren had drawn lines in the dirt beside it—a rough circle of the village with simple marks for shelters, paths, trenches. It was primitive, but not careless.

Vince tapped the lines softly. Adjusted one. Pointed to the east hut.

Taren frowned, then moved a pebble closer to the wall. Understanding dawned. He smiled and nodded.

Vince leaned back.

He didn't speak the language.

But he didn't have to.

Not anymore.

That night, the wind returned.

Not fierce. Not loud. Just steady, like something pacing just beyond the trees.

Vince sat near the fire, legs wrapped in furs, head low. Joran and Anelka slept nearby, their backs curled inward, arms tucked close. Eldan muttered in sleep. The fire popped softly, its glow reaching only as far as the walls.

Vince blinked slowly.

Something was wrong.

He lifted his head. Held his breath.

Then heard it—faint. A crunch.

Not the normal kind. Not drift settling or bark shifting. This was heavier. Close. Deliberate.

He looked at the entrance flap.

No shadow.

No voice.

Just another crunch, slower now.

Vince reached for his stick.

Then held still.

Listening.

Not moving.

Not breathing.

Only waiting.

And outside, something waited too.