The Place Between Worlds

The morning came damp and gray. Mist hovered just above the soil, softening the edges of the world. Vince stretched beneath the crooked pine, joints stiff from sleep and labor, but something in the air pulled him upright faster than usual. He didn't know what, not exactly. Just a change. A subtle reordering.

The bowl was there again.

Set neatly on its usual stone, as if it had never been removed. But this time it wasn't food inside. It was water. Clear, with a single reed floating in it. A message, maybe. A metaphor. Or just a gesture. He picked it up, held it to the light. The water shimmered faintly, catching the overcast sky.

He smiled. Not wide. But real.

He set it aside carefully and walked the trench line, boots sinking slightly into the damp, newly softened soil. Something else had changed.

Footprints.

New ones. Not just small ones, like the children's. Larger, deeper. Men's feet. Women's. Someone had walked the trench route, possibly early in the dark. The prints overlapped. Vince crouched beside one and traced its heel with his finger.

They were inspecting it. Watching it work.

The trench still ran with water. Smooth. Obedient. No new blockages. No sabotage. Just the hum of gentle movement, the flow of purpose etched into mud.

He exhaled slowly.

They were paying attention.

He was still surveying the lower slope when he saw her.

A middle-aged woman. Short, broad-shouldered, with a scarf tied around her head. She approached the trench with a wooden bucket held in both hands. Her steps were cautious, but deliberate. She didn't glance at Vince.

She paused at the higher point of the trench system, just past the main turn.

Then, without fanfare, she poured the bucket's contents into the channel.

Soapy water. The grayish hue of washing. Bits of food pulp and torn leaf fragments floated in it. Vince stood completely still, heart held tight in his chest.

The water didn't pool.

It moved.

Followed the curve. Traveled along the edge, passed beneath the low bark ramp he'd wedged against the side, and disappeared into the deeper channel.

The woman watched it, then nodded to herself.

Then she left.

He didn't call after her. Didn't say a word. Just watched her silhouette fade behind the hut shadows.

Later that morning, she returned. Another bucket. Another pour.

The trench was no longer just his.

By midday, the sun broke through in fractured beams. Steam rose from the mud as Vince lifted a flat stone he'd found near the treeline. He meant to use it to reinforce the outer ridge.

He heard dragging.

Turned.

The old man again.

Still barefoot. Still silent. He carried a piece of bark and a long pole. Dragged it rather than carried it, but with clear intent. He walked up beside Vince and pointed at the trench's south bend.

Without waiting, he stepped into the ditch.

Vince followed.

They worked without instruction. Reinforcing a low point where water collected more than it flowed. Vince laid the flat stone; the old man packed clay around it. The bark became a stabilizing barrier. The pole was wedged across the top, like a brace.

Near them, a boy stood poking a stick into the water, watching leaves float and vanish around a bend. A child's curiosity. But it mirrored Vince's own memory.

---

A flash: Elena, age three. A plastic duck in a bathtub.

"Quack-quack," she'd said, and Lucia had laughed.

She had turned to him, brushing Elena's damp curls. "She thinks it swims on its own."

"Let her think it," he had murmured. "That's the magic part."

He blinked hard. The boy pushed another leaf. It twirled, caught a current, vanished downstream.

He didn't smile. But his shoulders loosened.

---

Two men arrived in the heat of the afternoon. One younger, with a broad jaw and straw-colored hair. The other older, balding, cautious.

They carried tools. Spades. Picks.

They didn't speak, just approached the western edge of the trench where a new runoff channel had formed. The younger one gestured toward it, made a face. Grunted.

He pointed at a section where water had begun pooling again, too shallow to clear itself.

Vince walked over, assessed the angle. The soil had collapsed slightly. He nodded.

The men started digging. Not waiting.

Not asking.

Just helping.

The trench widened. A deeper branch carved. The channel shaped and curved.

Then came the moment.

The younger man said, with effort: "Drrrain."

Broken. Clumsy. But the word.

He said it again, prouder. Pointed at the trench. "Drain."

Vince met his eyes. Nodded.

The man grinned.

That night, Vince sat beside the fire pit. The flames cracked softly. The smoke smelled of moss and bark.

But he was not alone.

The woman who had poured the water sat on the far end of the circle. One of the men who dug today sat sharpening a tool. A child dozed beside a bundled sack.

They didn't look at him. Didn't address him.

But they were near.

One man stood, walked over, and placed a woven mat beside Vince. Said nothing. Just walked away.

A woman approached. Laid a flint shard near his boot. Not as a gift. As a resource.

He didn't move.

Didn't thank them.

He simply accepted it. Like a builder does.

Later, as the fire dimmed, Vince pulled something from his pack. A carved figure. Wings stretched. Half bird, half angel. He had shaped it during one long night when his hands had needed a task.

He placed it beside the trench bowl.

A symbol. A placeholder.

A story in wood.

And that night, for the first time since arriving, he slept dreamless.

---

Morning, Again

Birdsong. Real, faint, from the edge of the trees.

Vince stood at the trench.

Children approached.

Anelka, Joran, and three others. A group now. Not hiding. Curious.

Vince crouched.

Pointed to a rock. "Rock."

"Rrrrock," they echoed.

Pointed to the water. "Water."

"Wa-ter," they repeated.

The bridge had begun.

Not made of stone.

Made of language.

And trust.