My footsteps echoed softly in the communal warehouse, greeted by the scent of old wood and dry leaves. This warehouse was larger than it appeared from the outside—like a TARDIS with an agricultural feel. The walls were high, as high as the egos of the gossiping neighbors. But more solid, of course. And not prone to making things up.
Near the entrance, a long wooden table is covered with documents, baskets, and three people with expressions that are half-tired, half-resigned. Data collectors. One of them looks up as I approach, raising an eyebrow—the universal signal for "Your turn, please."
I handed over a bucket herbal medicine that I had worked hard to gather the night before. The leaves were still fresh, some emitting a subtle menthol scent that made my nostrils feel like they were being cleared by a sinus-cleansing spirit.
"Joul and Milda again?" The male clerk wrote quickly, his hair tied back with a hemp string. "The usual medicines, then. Thank you, your contribution is very important this year."
I just nodded. "This harvest season looks... slow."
He sighed, and his friend—a woman with a scar on her right cheek and eyes that seemed to have seen enough in life—added.
"The weather isn't cooperating. The soil is damp at the wrong time. The roots rot before harvest. And those mischievous spirits—I don't know why, but more and more of them are disturbing people's dreams."
"Two children wet their beds last night because they dreamed they were being chased by a winged goat," the man added. "That's not normal."
I quietly took note of it all. Spiritual issues, ecological problems, and a species of humanoid rats with suspiciously high IQs—all wrapped up in a sweet farming village package. This world certainly knows how to give... challenges.
After the recording was done and the bucket was dragged to the back by a tall boy who clearly belonged on a basketball court rather than doing manual labor, I was given permission to exchange goods.
I went deeper into the main warehouse—more accurately, a semi-organic labyrinth of piles of food, woven goods, bottles, bones, and objects that would make Marie Kondo have an existential crisis.
Every item had its place. Seeds in bags. Knitted items rolled up and tied with string. Bottles filled with blue, green, and one... bright red liquid like the blood of a vampire on a herbal diet.
I navigated the aisles between the piles, weighing my options. Need wound ointment? Maybe. Body-warming root tea? Possibly. Woven blankets? The allure was strong, especially the one with the two-headed dragon pattern. But I was also looking for something that could be useful for... well, winter and maybe, magic.
Now I know, winter here isn't just "cold." It's more like nature deciding to test who can survive. Rima had warned me: "Trade what's useful. Not what's beautiful."
But still, I am human. I also want one or two things that make me feel alive, not just surviving.
My eyes then caught something... strange.
A large circle hung on the wooden wall. It wasn't a wheel. Nor was it a decoration. It was shaped like a large ring made of curved square blocks. Thirteen curved bars, each a different color. In the center, there was another inner circle filled with white scratches. Chalk, perhaps?
I approached it.
It wasn't a decoration. It was a calendar. I realized this after noticing the small circles on the outer edge—crescent, half, full, new—all resembling the phases of the moon. Stellunar.
And today, the last small circle to be marked, I recognized the pattern above it. The shape of last night's moon: waxing gibbous. Exactly like the eighth segment of one of the outer curved rods.
This calendar... is not just local decoration. It is mathematics disguised as aesthetics. A system. Even... a working system.
There are six weeks per bar, and each week has five days. Let's say that's 30 days per bar. But I see some bars that are narrower, maybe only 29 days. A small difference, but noticeable.
Thirteen bars. Some multiplied by 29, others by 30... totaling around 384 days. But that's not the end of it.
On the outer edge, there are 16 empty circles. Not crossed out. Not marked. As if... deliberately left special. Special days?
Maybe celebrations. Festivals. Time to sing, drink, and pretend to forget that the world often tries to kill you.
The number fits. Three hundred eighty-four plus sixteen. Four hundred days.
Longer than a year on Earth. Longer, colder, more... lunatic in the literal sense. But it makes sense. Like how people here structure their lives. Not too dependent on numbers, but logical enough to survive.
I nodded slowly, half to myself.
This calendar is more honest than all the digital wall clocks I've ever used. And it doesn't need to ask the time. It observes. It adjusts.
It knows when to save, and when to be grateful.
And for a moment, I stopped choosing. Just standing, staring, letting my mind play with shapes, colors, and the rotation of time that I didn't understand... but was beginning to understand.
"Oh dear, if you keep staring at it, the calendar won't cook the rice, kid."
His voice was light, but clear enough to snap me out of my reverie. A sturdy man with a beard like coconut fiber and a shirt made of raw wool looked at me while carrying two large bags filled with dried roots. Behind him, the recording table remained busy, and the sound of items being stacked was like a regular rural symphony.
I smiled slightly. "Sorry, I was... mesmerized."
"Cool, huh?" he said as he approached. "A merchant gave us this calendar a few months ago. He traded it for a few sacks of wheat, salt, and two jugs of honey. We thought we lost out... until we realized we had an easy way to see the changing seasons."
I turned my head. "Don't you already know how to calculate the seasons?"
He laughed briefly. "Oh, we know... but it's all just numbers in the elders' heads. The calculations are complicated, using the position of the stars, double full moons, mountain shadows. With pictures like this, everyone can see without thinking."
"And why... not from the beginning?" I asked, a little sarcastically.
"Because we didn't think of it," he replied lightly. "Besides, it's the village elders who decide when the seasons change. If they say it's still the harvest season, then it is. Even if the fields are dry."
My inner voice began to chatter: Great. So the entire lives of the villagers are regulated based on the 'feelings' of a group of old people who could be suffering from thrush and decide that we are not yet allowed to harvest. Democracy? No. This is agrarian astrology with a dash of spiritual authority.
The warehouse manager leaned his sack against a pole, as if he had just finished moving one season to the next. "You must be waiting for the festival, right? Thinking about food, right?"
I nodded slightly, pretending to go along with him. "Of course. Food. And maybe a little atmosphere."
"Right, the atmosphere is starting to feel like last year... do you still remember your first harvest festival?"
I nodded and held back a smile. "I do. I also remember how Milda almost punched the little boy who tried to steal her pickles."
He chuckled. "That boy was naughty. But that's how the atmosphere was. Every house was showing off their dishes—mushroom soup that could make you forget your own name, grilled meat with that strange red sauce, remember? I'm still not sure if it wasn't forest fruit juice."
"Milda said it was fermented black fruit," I replied. "But yeah, it could also be fruit juice. Or someone's blood."
"But my favorite part," he continued, "is when we put some of the food on the altar for the guardian spirits. Then everyone sits in a circle, eats together, and shares stories. For some reason, the food tastes... heavier. In a good way, I mean."
I nodded, and in my heart began to piece together the fragments that still lingered.
The Harvest Festival.
Held at the peak of the Harvest Moon, when Stellunar hung full like a giant lantern. On that night, gratitude was not spoken—it was served. On banana leaves, in clay bowls, placed on an old wooden altar still entwined with living roots.
The villagers cooked the best dishes from that season's harvest. There was no competition. There were no judges. But we knew, from the way they looked at their respective tables, that each recipe held pride and heritage.
Some of the dishes were placed for the spirits that guarded the fields, rivers, and forests. The rest were eaten together, sometimes in silence, sometimes accompanied by songs that even the elders had forgotten who wrote.
Last year, Rima and I also participated. We brought soup made from rare roots that only grow in the early morning mist. Rima said it was a form of "cultural respect." I prefer to call it a diplomatic strategy. Because after that, many doors began to open more warmly.
"Oh yes, and don't forget the End of Summer Festival," continued the warehouse manager. His tone changed slightly—calmer, deeper. "It starts in the middle of the month of Simpan. Stellunar full moon. Then it ends at the end of the month, when Lunara is also full."
I snorted softly, looking back at the stellunar calendar and muttering softly. "Two full moons in a row. Two reasons to sleep with a seal under my pillow."
And I remembered those nights—the full moon, the old songs sung by the elders, the bonfire that never went out, and the paper lanterns that floated like light prayers.
Then there was the incident at the altar: a plate of food disappeared, just like that. No trace. No animals. No wind. Just... gone.
Rima sat silently by the hearth for hours that night, just staring at the fire, then said softly, "Someone came, but hasn't chosen a door yet."
It wasn't a threat. It was just an announcement. That not everything unseen is uninvolved.
I looked at the ninth branch, noticing the outer circle pattern that indicated a full moon. It was mid-month, and Lunara appeared at the end of the month. In society, Stellunar was the giver of harvest blessings, while Lunara was the giver of spiritual blessings...
"Hey, which one are you going to choose?" the man's voice interrupted my reverie. Again.
I smiled stiffly. "Not yet. Still... weighing the function and level 's ego."
He chuckled briefly. "Alright, hurry up. Don't take too long. It might freeze before winter even arrives."
I returned to the pile of items. Several small bags contained spiritual herbs: leaves that formed strange patterns when burned, small crystals to absorb nightmares, mushroom-based aromatic candles.
There were also amulets—whether they worked or not—made from chicken claws and dried feathers. Tradition sometimes leaves no room for logic. But sometimes... that's exactly what we need.
Just as I bent down to pick up a bag of herbs to ward off confused spirits, a loud noise sounded behind me.
THUD.
"WHAAT, YOU AGAIN?"
I turned around. The warehouse manager who had greeted me earlier tripped over a basket. Behind him, an old man with a voice as loud as a war drum approached and began to rant. His hands pointed like he was chasing a naughty rooster out of the kitchen.
I sighed. The problem was that I was too tall, I thought. Gravity was indeed divisive towards tall people.
I ignored him and went back to choosing items. Finally, I picked up some spices, a charm, and a small piece of string that was said to be able to 'tie down dreams'. Perfect for Rima. Or for me. Who knows.
As I walked towards the exit, someone greeted me before I could actually get away.
"Shinna."
Her voice was like the afternoon breeze. Calm, but impossible to ignore.
An old woman stood in the side doorway. Her back was slightly hunched, her hair white like hemp rope that had been used many times. But her eyes... sharp. Not sharp in a suspicious way—more like weighing, judging. As if I were meat on a scale that was a little too light.
"Ah... Mam." I bowed my head slightly. Not out of respect, but more out of... social survival strategy.
She smiled faintly. "What did you get today?"
"Spices... and dream-catching string. A little charm, if I may," I replied.
"Not a bad choice," she said. "You know, when we accepted you both into the village, we didn't expect much. Just... that you wouldn't cause too many waves."
I nodded slowly. "We're trying... to fit in."
"Sometimes... you like to play in the water too much, Shinna."
Her tone was soft, but her meaning was sharp as fish bones deliberately left unscreened.
Of course. About my little show last night at the bar. Tiny fire illusions, a dance of light that I formed from the reflection of wine in glasses. Cheap entertainment for drunks who think flashing lights are a true miracle.
"I'm sorry," I said softly, trying to balance sincerity without sounding weak. "I didn't mean to—"
"Your victims still see shadows," he interrupted. "Still feel metal in their throats. You touched the wrong layer, Shinna. Their world is too thin now."
I remained silent. My mouth felt dry. It seemed like I had had a little too much local wine. Too little control.
...A little too much of a side effect, it turned out.
I only used a drop of magic. The splash version. A shallow filter of reality. Not strong enough to open the door... it should have been.
But if the effect lasted... if they saw something else...
There was a chance I—accidentally—showed too much.
Damn.
She looked at me. Her wrinkled face was calm, but her eyes held dozens of seasons she had seen pass. There was no anger there. No pity either.
Just weariness. And a little... hope.
"I'm old. Too old to patch every crack. We need you. But not as naughty children with new toys. We need... guardians."
And that's where the real pressure lies.
I wanted to say: "It's not my fault. Why are the villagers so easily swayed by trivial illusions?"
But I also knew: It's not about the problem, but about why?
And...
...I hate failure.
Not because of my pride. But because I know I should be more precise. There shouldn't be any hallucinations left. The boundaries should remain secure. So if there's a leak, I need to know why. And fix it—not because I'm told to, but because I'm an expert. And, yes, curiosity. Purely scientific. Unfortunately, I care.
"I'll take care of it," I whispered. "After I deliver these items."
She nodded slowly, as if agreeing to a promise she would never repeat. But from her eyes, I knew: if I ignored her, she would come back. With the entire council of elders. And maybe bring a spirit-repelling plant that smells worse than their opinions.
I backed away slowly. Like someone escaping a conversation without triggering a social alarm.
"Oh, yes," she said before I could get away. "We'll come visit this week. To make sure your house... is still standing."
Of course. Because that's a completely reasonable reason, right?
I smiled bitterly. "Of course. Don't forget to bring tea. And low expectations."
She just gave a small laugh. A thin, meaningful laugh. The laugh of someone who knows too much, and still lives to laugh about it.
And so I left.
With a bag of spices in my hand, and an invisible burden on my back.
Magic may have no mass. But responsibility? Its weight can rival that of a gravestone.