Erika carried Leon toward the house that was now his home.
It stood on the southeastern edge of Acorn Village, no more than a short walk from the southern path that marked the village boundary. Beyond that path flowed the same narrow stream where Leon had spent the afternoon staring into the water. Cross the stream, and the land rose gently into a belt of young woodland—thin trees and tangled undergrowth that stretched southward until it merged with the outer reaches of the Whispering Forest.
Far deeper still lay Stone Ridge, where the foothills hardened into the vast spine of the Crosscut Mountains.
Stories clung to those peaks like mist. Tales of ancient beasts, of shadow-tainted creatures, of the Night Goddess's lost adornment said to have fallen there in ages past. Leon had heard the stories, of course—every child did—but he had never seen anything that proved them true. For now, they remained legends, passed from mouth to mouth beside winter fires.
His family's house was built of timber, its walls sealed inside and out with packed earth mixed with dried grass. It kept out the cold and slowed the spread of fire, though it did little for comfort. The roof was thatched, but several sections had been replaced with wooden planks—newer, sturdier than the straw they had supplanted.
Leon had seen his father working on them more than once during the past week, sawing logs by hand and hauling the boards up to patch the roof piece by piece.
A low fence enclosed the yard, little more than sharpened stakes bound together, but it marked a clear boundary between home and wilderness.
Erika stepped through the gate and set Leon down inside the yard.
Beneath an old ginkgo tree stood a rough wooden table. Seated there was a tall, lean man with sharp eyes and a short, uneven beard. His hair was cropped close, clearly cut with scissors rather than any skilled blade—Erika's work, Leon guessed. His own hair bore the same unmistakable signs of her handiwork.
The man wore a faded leather jerkin, scuffed and repaired more than once.
This was Tobias, Leon's father in this life.
He could not have been much over thirty-five, yet the years weighed heavily on him, carving lines into his face that made him appear older.
To Tobias's left sat a young girl in a red linen dress—the brightest thing in the yard by far. Her hair was tied into two uneven tails, her cheeks smudged with dirt, her frame thin but lively. She watched intently as Leon was carried in, her eyes quick and curious.
This was Isabella, his sister. Eight years old, already helping with chores, already entrusted with watching over her younger brother.
Leon's gaze drifted across the yard and briefly met hers, then slid away again, unfocused, vacant. To anyone watching, it would have seemed the same as always.
Supper waited on the table.
A loaf of dark bread, dense and coarse. A pot of broth made from forest deer bones, with wild greens floating near the surface. Salt, and nothing more.
Since regaining awareness, Leon had found food to be the hardest thing to accept.
The bread scratched his throat as he swallowed, and the broth carried a faint, lingering gamey taste. There were no spices here, no careful preparation—only what necessity allowed. Sometimes onions found their way into the pot. That was considered a luxury.
Even so, this meal was generous by village standards.
Most days brought little more than coarse flour boiled with greens, or beans cooked until soft. On rare occasions, thin strips of salted meat were added for flavor. Today's bread existed only because Tobias had brought down a forest deer.
Erika set Leon on a short wooden stump beside the table and placed a portion of bread and broth in front of him. She handed him a spoon—little more than a carved piece of wood with a shallow hollow.
Leon ate quietly, expressionless, while his parents spoke in low voices nearby.
The hide had already been stripped from the deer. The meat would be taken to the nearby town at first light and sold while the weather was still cold enough to preserve it. In summer, such a kill would have to be eaten quickly or packed in salt and dried.
After the meal, Leon remained seated in the yard, staring into nothing.
Behind him, Tobias let out a long, weary sigh.
"He'll be all right," Isabella said softly, leaning closer to her father. "He will."
Erika had already gone inside to feed the baby—born the previous summer, still unnamed, still sleeping in his parents' room.
Leon noticed everything.
This family was not wealthy. Every resource was measured. Every effort mattered. And yet they had never abandoned him. Never stopped speaking to him. Never treated him as though he were already lost.
Since awakening, Leon had wanted to tell them the truth—that he was awake, that he understood—but the fear of shattering their fragile hope held him back. He waited for the right moment.
Darkness came quickly.
With no candles to spare and oil too precious to waste, night meant sleep. Leon was carried inside and laid down in the small room he shared with Isabella.
She fell asleep almost at once, worn out from chores and play alike. Moonlight spilled across her face, softening the dirt and the day's exhaustion into something peaceful.
Leon lay awake.
The mattress beneath him was straw—bearable, if itchy. The blanket was no better, strands poking through the fabric and scratching his skin. He ignored it and turned his attention to the window.
The moon hung low and large, larger than it had ever seemed in his former world. Not long ago, it had taken on a faint crimson hue for several nights, yet no one in the village had remarked on it.
Days here were divided into twelve hours. The year into twelve months, marked by the waxing and waning of the moon. Familiar, and yet subtly different.
The stars were brilliant.
Too brilliant.
Leon searched for patterns he recognized and found none. No constellations he knew. No pale river of light stretching across the sky.
There was no denying it now.
This was another world entirely.
As sleep crept closer, his thoughts drifted inward. His mind felt sharper than it once had, memories surfacing that had long lain buried—though only those he had truly studied returned. Fleeting knowledge remained lost.
His body, too, seemed to grow faster than it should. At four years old, he was already close in size to children much older than himself.
Whatever had brought his soul here had changed more than his circumstances.
Leon closed his eyes, questions unanswered, thoughts unfinished.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.