The Place Between Worlds

The trench still ran with water, smooth and obedient. Rain had come and gone, and the drainage held. Not perfectly, but enough. Enough to prove a point. Enough to show that even a stranger could shape something useful.

Vincenzo Moretti stood at the edge of his work, one boot planted on a flat stone, arms crossed against the bite of morning. His shoulders ached. His lower back barked. But inside, there was a stillness he hadn't felt in years. Not peace. Not pride. Something quieter. Purpose, maybe. Routine. The kind of weight that anchored a man.

The village stirred behind him.

He heard it now, the patterns. The cough of waking men. The rasp of cloth against washboards. Buckets clinking. A dog snarling half-heartedly. He'd begun to learn their rhythms the way he'd once learned street corners, the way he'd read turf boundaries and understood who controlled what without needing to ask.

This was a different kind of map.

He turned as soft footsteps approached.

The same girl from before. Seven, maybe eight. Her hair was pulled into a crooked braid, the tail of it damp from the mist. She held a twig in one hand and a broad leaf in the other. At her side, the boy—younger, quieter, but no longer hiding behind her skirt.

They stopped a few feet away.

Vince crouched, knees popping. He pointed to the leaf in her hand.

"Leaf," he said.

The girl blinked. No understanding.

He tapped his chest. "Vincenzo."

She hesitated. Then tapped her own.

"Anelka," she said.

He nodded slowly. Said her name back. "Anelka."

Her smile was small but real. She pointed to the leaf, lifted it higher. He repeated the word.

"Leaf."

She frowned. Looked at the boy. Then tried. "Leef."

Close. He grinned despite himself. "Good."

They did this for several minutes. Words. Objects. Names. Repetition. Her accent bent his sounds in new shapes, but she tried. She wasn't afraid.

And for a man who had built his life on the manipulation of fear, that courage struck deeper than he expected.

Soon, the boy joined in. He pointed to the trench. Vince tapped it with his hand.

"Drain," he said.

The boy repeated. Garbled, but clear.

"Drain."

Vince nodded. Drew lines in the dirt with the twig the girl had dropped. Channels. A crude map. He tried to explain, without grammar, how water moved. How waste could make people sick. He didn't know the words in their language, but he had hands. He had tone. He had the urgency of a man who had seen a child die from drinking sewer runoff.

They watched. Listened. The girl nodded. The boy kept drawing.

Then she pointed to herself again. "Anelka," she said.

And pointed at the boy. "Joran."

Vince smiled. "Joran. Anelka."

She hesitated. Then pointed at him. "Vin...zen?"

"Vince," he said gently. "Or Vincenzo."

She tried again. "Veen-cho."

He laughed. It surprised him. A rough, cracked sound that hadn't lived in his throat for years.

From behind, a voice called. The children turned. A woman stood in the clearing, arms folded. Not angry. Not welcoming. Just waiting.

The girl grabbed her brother's hand.

Anelka turned back and pointed at the trench. Then at her eyes. A gesture. A promise.

She would return.

He watched them go. Watched the way they moved together, steps in rhythm, like family that still believed in each other.

And in the silence that followed, Vince felt something shift.

--

The next day, he returned to the trench early. The bowl had been left again. This time with roasted tubers and a handful of nuts. Not much, but food meant trust. Or habit. He accepted both.

He ate slowly. Watching steam curl in the air.

Footsteps again.

Anelka. Alone this time. She carried something wrapped in hide. Papers. No—pages. Plant paper, coarse and yellowed. She knelt beside him, opened the wrap, and revealed charcoal sticks.

She looked at him.

"Teach," she said.

He stared.

She pointed to a stick. Then the paper. Then tapped her forehead. "You," she said. "Teach."

He exhaled. Sat beside her.

They drew. He printed the word "water" in big, blocky letters. Then drew a wave line under it. She copied it. Clumsily, but with focus. They did the same for "rock," "sun," and "tree."

They made a game of it. He acted out words. She laughed when he mimed "goat" by lowering his head and charging. He drew a rough goat. She corrected him. Laughed harder.

For an hour, there was no trench, no silence, no village watching.

Just Vince and a child and the possibility of understanding.

Then she paused. Her hands stilled. She looked up at him with something older than laughter.

"Why?" she asked.

He blinked. "Why...?"

She tapped her chest. Then pointed at the trench. Then the paper.

"Why you do?"

He looked down at the page.

Why.

He thought of the nights in Naples. The long silence after Lucia's voice was gone. The way the house felt too big for just him. The way the world kept spinning, indifferent. The way the graves didn't answer when he begged.

He saw Elena then. Small hands reaching for the alphabet magnets on the fridge. Lucia bent over her, teaching her the sounds.

"E is for Elena," she had said.

The memory landed like a stone in his chest.

He didn't answer Anelka.

Not with words.

He pointed at the trench.

Then tapped his heart.

She nodded slowly.

Maybe she understood.

--

That evening, the fire pit drew company. People had started to linger where he sat. Not close. Not speaking. But they sat. Shared the space.

One man left a bundle of dried moss.

A woman left flint.

Small things. Tokens. But they meant more than offerings now. They were acknowledgments. You build. We see.

He didn't speak their words. But silence was its own dialect, and he was fluent.

Before he slept, he carved another figure. This one with wings. He wasn't sure if it was meant to be a bird or an angel. Maybe both.

He placed it beside the bowl.

And for the first time in weeks, he slept without dreams.

--

In the morning, the children returned. This time with other children.

Vince crouched again.

Pointed.

And said the word.

They echoed it.

And language, slow and uncertain, began to build its bridge.