You don't realize how strong you are until no one's asking you to kill.
I went ahead and kept unloading the logs, placing them neatly into the shed one by one, stacking and arranging, making use of every inch of space. The roller was emptied. I went back, loaded more logs, returned. Again and again.
These weren't kindling sticks or light-cut branches. These were full-grown timber cuts, thick with moisture, each log easily weighing over eighty, sometimes a hundred pounds. Seasoned men usually moved them in pairs or with pulleys and sleds. It wasn't just the weight, it was the bulk, the awkward grip, the splinters, the slow grind of lifting one after another.
But I didn't stop. My pace never broke. I loaded them with my bare hands, hoisted them over a shoulder, and moved like I'd done this my whole life. I hadn't.
Several men were standing around the area, roughly five, maybe more, each one with a log in hand, but none of them working. They were frozen. Just watching. Not speaking at first, as if trying to figure out whether what they saw was real.
The old man and I moved past them. I went ahead and kept unloading the logs, placing them neatly into the shed one by one, stacking and arranging, making use of every inch of space. The roller was emptied. I went back, loaded more logs, returned. Again and again.
Still, none of them moved.
Then I heard murmurs.
"Jeez, what is this guy even made of?" one said, whispering but not quietly enough.
"I bet he eats a whole pig in a single sitting, all by himself," another added.
"Nah. Look at those arms. That's not just a muscle. That's a goddamn muscle. The kind built from carrying something heavier than a log."
"Did he really just do all that by himself?"
"Three sheds in a morning. That takes five men a full day."
I kept working. Not because I wanted their attention. I just didn't know what to do with it. I focused instead on the rhythm, lift, step, place, stack. The silence between them only made the murmurs clearer.
By the time I stopped, my shirt clung to me, drenched in sweat, but my breath was steady. I didn't feel tired. I felt clear.
The old man finally approached again, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist, as if he was the one who did all the work.
He glanced at my arms, then at my face. There was a pause, meant for something more than gratitude.
"You're not from around here," he said, half-question, half-thought. "I can tell. A newcomer?"
I didn't respond.
He tried again. "You worked like someone who's done worse things for less thanks."
Still, I said nothing. I wasn't trying to be rude. I just didn't want to talk about it.
"Name's Harvin," he said after a beat. "You?"
I hesitated, then gave it.
"Eron."
He repeated it with a nod, like rolling it over in his mind.
"You used to work lumber somewhere else?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"Farming?"
"No."
He raised an eyebrow. "Then where'd a man learn to haul timber like that with no pulleys?"
I paused.
"I carried things heavier than wood."
That was all I said.
He studied me for a second, eyes narrowing with curiosity. But he didn't pry further.
"Well," he said finally, "wherever you learned it, it came in handy today."
"To think you did all that, and just in a morning," he said, staring at the full sheds. "Young man, you might've overdone it carrying that many logs. Five full batches. But you've helped the village more than you realize. I owe you for this. What can I do for you?"
I waved it off. "No, no. It's okay. I don't need anything in return."
He looked at me, almost offended by the thought.
"No, no. This amount of work, it's not just helping out anymore. This is labor. A hard labor. You've done more than I expected of any man. What you did, it's the work of five men."
Then he smiled. "Let me pay you for it."
Pay?
I blinked. Oh. So he's the one responsible for lumber collection, maybe the village's woodcutter, or the one who oversees supplies like firewood and cooking stock.
I opened my mouth, but no words came. I looked around. The men who had stood in awe were still watching. The old man looked at me, waiting patiently, still smiling.
It wasn't rehearsed. It wasn't even something I planned.
I just breathed deep—
—and said, quietly,
"I want to have a job. Please."
There was silence again, but not the kind that follows effort. It was the kind that follows confusion.
The old man didn't smile this time. The men around us were quiet, no longer whispering jokes or admiring comments.
One of them scratched the back of his neck. Another looked away awkwardly. The air felt heavier now than when I was hauling the logs.
I glanced around.
Wait, why are they looking at me like that? Did I say something wrong? Did they really want to pay me that badly? Or did I just offend everyone in a single sentence?
I only meant to help.
I shifted my weight, trying to explain, "I don't want a job just for the pay. I mean, not right now. I'm not trying to get something out of this. I just want something to do. I liked the work. Carrying the logs, it felt good. Purposeful."
The old man raised his hand gently to calm me down. "Easy. I understand you."
Then he looked at the others, before turning back to me.
"But young man, do you understand what you're saying?" he asked. His voice was not angry, but cautious. Measured.
"You working here, doing this much work in just one morning, means replacing all of these men. The woodshed doesn't need ten men anymore if it has you. What happens to them then?"
I looked at the others again. No one met my eyes.
"I'm not saying you don't belong here," the old man continued. "And I'm not saying I won't accept you if you want to work under what I manage, cutting, hauling, storing, maintaining the wood."
He tapped his fingers on his cane gently, choosing his words.
"It's just that maybe, maybe you deserve more than this. You're not just strong, you're something else entirely. You're trained. Built. Men like you don't just fall from the sky."
Then he said it.
"Maybe a city. Maybe even a kingdom. Wouldn't that suit you better?"
I didn't respond.
I couldn't.
Wait, what is he saying? That I don't belong here? That I'm not good enough? Or too much?
I wasn't sure.
The worst part is, I didn't know which one hurt more.
I stood there for a moment. Not because I didn't know what to say. But because something inside me moved. Not like a sudden crack of realization. More like a slow undoing. Like rust breaking off iron.
The old man had a point. He wasn't turning me away. He wasn't even trying to repay a debt.
He was trying to show me something. Something I had never been taught. Not by my generals. Not by the men I led. Not even by the kings I bled for.
This wasn't a battlefield. There were no enemies here. No strategies. No formations. No need to calculate who dies first so others can live.
Just work. Simple, repetitive, unforgiving work. And people who depended on it to keep going. Not to win. Just to live.
I looked again at the men nearby.
Calloused hands. Tired shoulders. Stiff backs. None of them knew how to kill. But every one of them knew how to endure.
And for the first time, I realized. I had never been taught how to live. I'd been trained how to survive. How to fight. How to destroy. How to follow orders. How to give them. How to kill cleanly. How to bury what it did to me and call it duty.
But living...
Living was something else entirely.
You wake up before the sun. You haul logs heavy enough to break a man's back. You sweat. You ache. You get paid in coin or gratitude. You eat. You rest. You repeat.
And no one sings about it. There are no flags. No honors. No silence for the fallen.
Only quiet. But in that quiet, something else exists. Not victory. Not glory. Not even purpose. Maybe dignity.
A kind that wasn't earned by killing, but by choosing not to.
I didn't fully understand it yet. But for once in my life, maybe I didn't need to.
I gave the old man a nod. He saw something in my eyes. Not pride. Not resolve. Something simpler. Maybe gratitude. Maybe the first crack in the armor I'd worn too long.
"Hello, young man?" the old man said, a bit hesitant. "Are you thinking about it right now? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."
I looked up from the ground.
"I'm not looking for a place that suits me," I said finally, voice low. "I'm looking for a place I don't have to fight to stay in."
A long pause followed.
The old man blinked, then scratched the back of his head, sheepish.
"Well now, I might've jumped the horse a bit too fast. Don't mind this old skull of mine." He looked around at the filled woodsheds, then back at me. "Actually, now that I think about it, you'd work better as a lumberjack."
He nodded to himself, like the thought had just landed.
"We've got two men already working the trees out west, just past the ridge from the village. Good, steady lads, but they could use someone like you. Strong. Quiet. Endurable." He chuckled. "You won't be replacing anyone that way, just joining where help is needed most."
I didn't respond yet.
He took that as hesitation.
"You wouldn't need to start today," he added. "Just go out there tomorrow morning. You'll see a tent, a chopping area, a cart with spare axes and saws. I'll send word that you're coming."
I gave a small nod.
Not because I was excited. Not because it was some grand calling. But because it felt right. Simple. Earnest. Work with purpose.
And more than anything, it didn't require a sword.
I walked back alone. Not in a hurry. Not dragging my feet either. Just walking.
The dirt path was the same one I took earlier this morning. Same scattered leaves, same low fence running along the road, same stretch of open field and clustered trees beyond the ridge.
But the world felt different. Or maybe I was just noticing it now.
A crow passed overhead. One flap, then another. I watched it for a moment before looking away.
What was I even doing?
I glanced down at my hands.
They looked the same. Calloused. Strong. A little dusty from the morning's work. But they weren't shaking. Not anymore. Maybe the weight of carrying something useful, something normal, had steadied them.
A man once told me, if you stop swinging a sword, your hands forget what they're for. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they remember. Maybe they just want something else to hold.
"...something else to hold," I murmured.
I reached the pond without thinking. The same one Jeren pointed out when I first arrived. A dragonfly hovered above the surface before zipping off.
I sat on a rock. Not because I was tired. Just needed to sit. Think.
What did a "normal" life even look like? Waking up early, eating breakfast, helping others, earning a wage. Chopping wood, stacking logs, walking home with sore shoulders and an empty stomach that wasn't born out of stress, but work. Honest work.
"...honest work," I said under my breath.
Was this what people called peace?
I leaned forward, resting my arms on my knees.
Even when nothing happened, something always felt like it might. That edge. That tension. You don't lose it overnight, even if the war's over. But maybe, maybe you can learn to live with it. Just let it ride beside you, quieter each day, until it's something else entirely.
"...quieter each day," I whispered, like I was trying to believe it.
I stood up again.
The sun was high now. Morning had passed.
I walked back toward my house. The path hadn't changed. But I think I had, just a little.
The door creaked open. I stepped inside.
I unstrapped my boots, worn brown leather, still damp from morning dew, and left them by the door.
No meal. No wash. Just the bed.
I dropped face-first into the sheets, stomach down, head buried in the pillow. The scent of old wood and sun-dried linen filled my nose.
"I'm tired," I murmured, voice muffled.
It didn't make sense. I hadn't done anything too demanding. Just carried logs. Stacked wood. Walked.
I turned my face slightly against the pillow.
"Why am I tired? I'm not even using my brain like I used to. Not like when I was commanding. That was real work."
I closed my eyes.
This, this wasn't fatigue in the limbs. Not really. My body could keep going. My breath was fine. Muscles steady. It was something else.
Something slower. Deeper. A heaviness that didn't sit in my shoulders, or my back, but somewhere behind the ribs.
Maybe it wasn't my body that was tired.
Or even my mind.
"My heart?"
"Hello? Walden?"
A voice. Muffled. Familiar. Then a knock.
I groaned into the pillow. Still face-down on the bed, still warm from sun and sweat and wood dust.
Another knock.
"Anyone home? Walden? Are you there?"
I pushed myself up with a grunt, boots still off, shirt half-stuck to my back. I shuffled to the front room and opened the door.
There she was. Standing in the afternoon sun, a small cloth bag held up like an offering. Flour on her cheek. Bright smile that didn't quite match the wild look in her eyes.
"Oh, you're even bigger and taller up close?! Hello!! Do you want some bread?!"
Rena.
That was her name, right?
"Rena?"
"Yes! You got that right!" she beamed. "Do you want some bread?!"
I blinked. "Uh."
"Do you want some bread?!"
Why was she saying it like that? Like it was urgent? Like the world might end if I didn't say yes? Bread in the afternoon? Did I look hungry? Was this a prank?
"Bread?! Bread?! BREAD?!" she insisted, shoving the soft bag almost into my face.
I leaned back a little. She smelled like flour and smoke and something faintly herbal. Probably the bakery.
I didn't know what to do. Was this poisoned? Or cursed? Was she trying to kill me through kindness?
"Uhm, no thanks. I'll pass," I said slowly, and began closing the door.
Her hand shot out and caught it. She wasn't strong, but determined.
"Please!" she cried. "Taste my bread! I worked so hard to perfect it! Not just in how it looks but how it tastes!"
I stared at her. This was starting to feel less like an ambush and more like a plea.
"You don't have anyone else to give it to?"
She didn't answer right away.
"I spent a long time learning how to bake properly," she said, quieter this time. "Years, actually. I kept messing it up. Too dry. Too hard. Not enough rise. But I finally made one I'm proud of."
Her hands trembled slightly as she held the bag forward again. Not shaking from fear. Just nerves.
"Please. Just tell me how it tastes."
I hesitated. That kind of hesitation you get when someone asks you something small but it clearly means something big to them.
I'd spent two decades holding steel. Hearing screams. Giving orders. Ending lives. Now someone wanted me to eat bread. That's all. And somehow that felt harder.
I sighed.
"Alright," I muttered. "Just one piece."
Her eyes lit up. She practically bounced on her heels as she opened the bag.
Inside was a round loaf, golden brown with a rustic crust. She tore off a piece and handed it to me.
I took it. Warm. Soft. Slightly uneven. I bit into it. A pause. Chewed. Swallowed.
"It's good."
"You're not lying?!"
"I don't lie about food."
She gasped like I'd handed her a crown.
"I knew it! The salt-to-honey ratio worked!"
I raised an eyebrow. "The what?"
"Never mind!" she grinned. "Thanks! Bye now!"
She spun on her heel, humming as she walked off down the path, nearly skipping, nearly tripping.
I stared after her for a long moment. Then looked at the bread still in my hand. Still warm. Still whole.
"What the hell just happened?"
I stepped back inside and shut the door behind me. But now it smelled like bread. And, I admit, that wasn't so bad.
Before I could turn around, another voice cut in.
"Yo! Miss me?"
I froze.
What now?
I opened the door again. There he was, Jeren. Standing casually, both hands on his hips like he'd just finished winning something.
Then his eyes landed on the bread in my hand.
"Wait, is that? Is that Rena's work?"
"Uh, yes?"
He burst into laughter.
"Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! What the hell? Ha ha ha!"
I stood still, blank-faced. What exactly was so funny? The bread? Me holding it? Rena?
"She's probably taken a liking to you now, huh? That's so odd! Ha ha ha!"
I kept staring at him. Was I supposed to laugh along? Or was this one of those village jokes I wasn't clued into?
"What's so funny?" I asked flatly. "Taken a liking? What are you even talking about?"
He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and caught his breath. "She doesn't even talk to anyone. Let alone ask someone to taste her bread. And to think, Ha ha! To think she not only talked to you, but brought bread to your door?! That's insane!"
I raised an eyebrow. Still confused. "You're saying she's quiet?"
"No, idiot," Jeren said, shaking his head, still smiling. Then he grew a little more serious. "It's not that she's quiet. It's that, well, she's strange. The way she talks, the way she moves. People just don't get her. You probably noticed."
I said nothing.
"She tried, you know," Jeren added. "Tried giving bread to almost everyone who lived here. They all turned her down. Not because it was bad. It was probably decent. But the way she talks, that frantic, high-pitched thing? The way she stares? It freaks people out. Me included, if I'm honest."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Even I avoid her sometimes. Don't look her in the eye. But sometimes I still say hi. Or mess with her a little. So she doesn't feel too alone."
I looked down at the bread again. Still warm. Still whole. Her bread. Her work. Her effort. Her time.
Jeren kept chuckling under his breath.
I didn't like it.
"Stop that."
His laughter faded. "Huh?"
"Stop laughing like that. You said it yourself, she's strange. But she's trying. And if no one ever gave her the time of day, then I'm not sure the joke's on her."
Jeren frowned, puzzled.
"She knocked on my door with shaking hands," I said quietly. "That wasn't someone who was just being weird. That was someone who wanted to be seen."
He didn't say anything.
"Maybe she talks like that because no one listens otherwise. Maybe that's the only way she knows how. And if all she wanted was for someone to taste what she made, and she chose me. then maybe the least I can do is not laugh at her for it."
Jeren stared.
"You good?" he asked, half-serious, half-worried. "You're sounding kinda, uh, emotional there."
I blinked.
Yeah.
So was I.
I turned away, looked at the bread again, then up at the sky.
"I don't know," I said, honestly. "I've never talked like that before."
Jeren was silent for a moment.
Neither of us really knew what to say next.
Then, in a voice a little lower, a little more like himself, not the joker, not the village clown, he said, "Sorry."
It wasn't dramatic. No drawn-out sigh. No hand on my shoulder or sweeping change of tone. Just that one word, spoken like it wasn't easy for him to say but he knew he had to.
"I wasn't trying to be cruel," he added, glancing to the side. "I mean, I laugh a lot. It's kind of what I do. But I forget sometimes that not everything's a joke to everyone."
He scratched his cheek, a faint smudge of dirt on his hand.
"I think I just got used to thinking people like Rena were weird for the sake of being weird. That's on me. And maybe I was making light of it because, hell, I don't know. It's easier."
He let out a breath and looked at me.
"But thanks for calling me out. Really. I don't think anyone's done that in a while."
I didn't know what to say to that.
So I just stood there, awkwardly holding the bread.
This, whatever this was, I hadn't prepared for it. Not the bread. Not Rena. Not Jeren suddenly apologizing like an actual adult. Not this weight in my chest. Like I'd just signed up for something I didn't understand.
My first day here, and already, I was being pulled into things I didn't expect. I was still figuring out where the well was. Still memorizing the way back to the house.
And now this.
I glanced away, somewhere at the trees, the road, anything.
I felt something tighten under my ribs.
Not panic. Just that low thrum of being overwhelmed. Of not knowing the rules of this place, this life. Of realizing maybe I didn't know myself as well as I thought I did.
"Hm?" Jeren murmured.
He was watching me.
"You look anxious. What's wrong?"
"No—" I stammered, then cleared my throat. "Nothing. I'm fine. Perfectly fine. I'm okay."
I didn't say it well. It didn't sound believable even to me. But Jeren didn't push.
He just studied me for a second, eyes calm. Then gave a short nod, slow and knowing.
"Right," he said. "It's your first day, huh?"
I didn't answer. He already knew.
"You were in the war, weren't you?" he said, not asking like he wanted details, just like he remembered something important.
I glanced at him. His face wasn't mocking now. Just open. Honest. Like someone who knew what that meant. Someone who had lived in the same dirt.
"I remember what it was like when my father got back from the war," he said. "He probably felt liek you too, like the whole world was too soft. Too quiet. Like he had to break it just to make sense of it."
I said nothing.
"You're not anxious," he went on. "You're just new to being still."
That caught me.
New to being still.
He gave a half-shrug, smiled faintly. "It'll pass. Maybe not fast, but it will."
Then he tapped the bread in my hand gently with two fingers. "Start with this. Eat. Let your stomach remind you you're human. That helped my father."
Jeren joked. "And well, that will help me with my commission as well."
He turned to leave, then looked over his shoulder.
"And if it's awful bread, just lie. She deserves at least one honest lie."
He gave a small wave and walked off.
I stood at the door a while longer, then looked down at the bread in my hands.
Warm. Soft. Imperfect.
Just like everything else in this place.
Just like me.
"Hey, I heard. You have an occupation now?! Already? In your first day? That's so unbelievable," Jeren said, grinning, still standing there by the door.
I looked at him.
"Yeah, yeah. I heard it from old man Harvin. Kinder than old man Bram, that one. You somehow managed to be under a kinder and manageable boss. You did a great job picking a boss to work for and get paid for."
I didn't know what to say. Still don't.
"So, you amazed all of his workers to death, well, not literally but metaphorically. They probably didn't expect it. Or at least, well, they expected it just by your size. And on top of that, you'll start tomorrow already as a lumberjack? That will probably get your clock running again. Cutting wood, getting paid, and knowing that you're doing hard work."
He paused.
"Still not into talking, huh?"
I looked away.
He leaned against the wall beside the doorframe, arms crossed. His voice dropped just slightly, lost a bit of the playfulness.
"You know, I used to think people like you were just quiet because they thought they were better than the rest of us. Big guy, scars, dark past, that whole thing."
I glanced at him.
"But I think I get it now. Maybe you're not quiet because you're holding back from the world. Maybe you're just tired of pretending like it all makes sense."
That made me look down at the floorboards.
He went on. "You ever feel like the moment you start talking, you'll give something away you can't take back? Like your silence is the last thing that's still yours?"
I blinked.
That hit harder than I expected.
I breathed in slow. Thought carefully. Then spoke.
"I used to think the hardest thing about war was the fighting. The noise. The dying. But it's not. It's the after."
Jeren stayed silent.
I kept going. My voice was steady now, low.
"It's waking up and not hearing orders. Not being needed. Having no role to play. No threat to meet. No reason to be on edge, but still being on edge anyway. And then realizing everyone around you is just trying to live. Trying to smile, to talk, to make bread."
I held up the one in my hand.
"And somehow, that's more terrifying than marching into death."
Jeren didn't laugh. He didn't nod. He just stood there.
Then finally, he said, almost whispering, "Yeah."
I looked at him.
"That's why I'm here. That's why I said yes to the job. Not for the coin. Not even for the purpose. But because swinging an axe at something that won't scream, won't bleed, won't beg... sounds like the right place to begin again."
Jeren didn't move for a while.
Then, softly, "You're not alone, Walden."
I looked at him, a little surprised at the use of my name. First time he said it that way.
Then I gave a small nod.
"Oh yeah," I said as I chewed the crust. "Why are you here anyway? Don't you have a job to do with old Bram?"
Jeren shrugged, leaning back as he walked beside me.
"Well, yeah. I have a job with him. But it's already finished. So now I'm on my free time, doing my commission. Checking up on you not because I wanted to get paid, but because I care."
I glanced at him, half an eyebrow raised.
He grinned. "If I didn't care, I wouldn't even bother visiting. And I'd still get paid by Lord Jaheim, by the way. He's too busy to check if I'm actually doing my work."
Carefree to the world. Just carefree.
I took another bite. It was soft now. The inside was better than the crust.
"Now that you've mentioned it," I muttered between bites, "your father. He was a warrior?"
Jeren's expression shifted. A breath caught somewhere in his chest. Then he muttered, "Hmm."
"Before I answer that, wanna go for a walk?" he said. "Sunbath while we talk?"
Sunbath? This afternoon? Still, I nodded.
"Sure."
We started walking. I took another bite. Half of it was gone.
Jeren looked up at the sky.
"Not just a regular warrior. He was a soldier. Proper one. Served a kingdom almost his whole life. Protected what he was told to protect. Kingdom crest on his back. Sword in hand. Orders in his ears. He lived and died by that rhythm."
I listened. Let the silent moments breathe.
"He died maybe six, no, seven years ago now. Got caught in a cross-border raid near a city. He was supposed to retire that year."
He chuckled softly, bitterly.
"Sucks, right? Life's full of that kind of humor. The day you think you're free is the same day you don't make it back."
Death, huh. I wondered how he felt. To lose someone who held his world together. But he didn't open up all at once. He took his time. One truth at a time. Honest. Careful.
"But don't worry about it," he added, a little too quickly. "That was a long time ago. I've been alone since. Ma passed three years ago. Sickness."
I turned my head slightly. He wasn't looking at me. He stared forward, voice low.
"So yeah. That's probably why I use humor. To hide things. To keep myself together. I mean, feeling strong, right? Even if I'm not. Smile, make jokes, make people laugh. It's easier than saying you're scared."
I said nothing. The wind brushed the path. A few leaves scattered underfoot.
He laughed quietly to himself. "I don't even know why I'm being this open to you. Maybe it's cause I see my father in you."
That caught me off guard.
"You've got that same look in your eyes," he went on. "Like you've already seen the end of the road and walked back from it."
I swallowed. My mouth had gone dry.
"You have more experience in life than me. You've probably suffered more in a month than I have in my entire life. You've fought. You've lost, not just people, but parts of yourself too."
I finished the bread. The people we passed didn't glance our way. They were too busy with their own hours, their own burdens.
But I saw Jeren. And in him, something raw.
He looked older than before.
Maybe it was the way he held his shoulders. Maybe it was how his voice shook slightly when he finally said.
"I hated him, you know."
I looked at him again.
"My father. I hated him while he was alive. Hated that he was gone so often. Hated that when he came home, he was still distant. Always tired. Always quiet. I didn't understand why he never smiled much. Why he stared at the floor even when nothing was there."
He rubbed his thumb against his palm.
"So I ignored him. Gave him the cold shoulder. Barely said a word when he came home, because I thought, I don't know. That he didn't care. That he chose the sword over me."
We reached a bend in the path. A tall tree stood crooked beside a ditch. We stopped. He exhaled.
"Now I realize he was trying. He just didn't know how to live without the fight. He didn't know how to be someone else."
He looked at me. This time directly.
"And now that I'm older, I get it. I understand. And it's killing me."
He sat down on the stone near the path. Didn't look at anything in particular.
"I regret it every day," he said, quieter now. "Not saying anything. Not sitting beside him at the table. Not even asking him how his day was. I was just a kid. But I was a selfish one. And he... he died not even knowing I cared."
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was full.
Of things not said. Of fathers lost. Of sons still carrying weight they didn't earn, but still bore.
I didn't know what to say.
And somehow, that felt like the right answer.
"It's crazy," Jeren said, voice cracked at the edges. "I've learned more about my father just by looking at you. Talking to you."
He exhaled hard through his nose, like trying to push something back in.
"I understand now. Why he struggled to raise me right. Why he always looked tired, distant, worn down. It wasn't that he didn't care. He was struggling to lift himself up, let alone carry someone else."
He laughed. It wasn't a funny laugh. It was one that trembled at the end.
"He was trying to save me, and I thought he was failing. But now I realize, he was trying to save himself too."
I still didn't say anything.
Didn't know how to. But the silence let the weight fall where it needed to.
Then, from somewhere, a thought lunged through the quiet in my head.
I said it without thinking. The words came like a hammer.
"Maybe he died with shame."
Jeren blinked. His smile faded.
"Maybe," I continued, "your father died with a bitter taste in his mouth. Regret. Anger. That he couldn't make you understand in time. That the last thing you remembered about him was silence. Maybe that killed him more than the sword did."
Jeren looked away. I saw the tear roll down the side of his left cheek.
Cruel words. Cruel truth. But I wasn't done.
"But," I said quietly, "maybe he also died proud. Because in his final breath, he knew you'd outlive him. And that's enough for a man like that."
Jeren didn't speak. The wind touched his face, dried the trail of his tear but didn't hide it.
I stared at him. Saw that pain for what it was. Raw, ancient, familiar.
Maybe that was the same pain I saw in the fathers I killed.
Those eyes. That terror. That final realization that they wouldn't get to see their sons grow up. That they'd disappear without a goodbye. No chance to fix what was broken. No morning to say "I'm sorry."
Those were the eyes that haunted me.
Maybe Jeren's father had the same ones.
And maybe I was no different. Just older. Still breathing. Still here.
Jeren wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and stood, clearing his throat, trying to stitch himself back together.
"Y'know," he said, glancing at me with a half-grin, "I think I used to live my life half and half. Half understanding people, half assuming I already did."
He chuckled dryly. "It's easier that way. Safer. Just pick a side, play it out, pretend you're the only one who's probably hurting."
He looked out at the trees ahead, then back down at the dirt under his boots.
"But that's not how life works, is it? People aren't stories you can skip to the end of. Everyone's got a whole mess of reasons for why they are the way they are. Even the quiet ones. Especially the quiet ones."
He laughed again, softer now.
"I guess I gotta stop thinking I'm the center of every story. I need to learn to read the other pages too. Not just mine."
He shrugged, hands stuffed into his pockets.
"Don't worry, though. I'll still make jokes. I just might finally learn when to shut up and listen first."
That smile was still there, but gentler. Like something had changed behind it.
He took a breath. "Anyway, good luck with your first day of work tomorrow," he said again, a little firmer now. "You'll be surprised to see what's waiting for you."
After a pause, I asked, "Huh? Surprised? About what?"
Jeren turned, walking backward now, hands behind his head. "I won't tell you. At least now, you have something to look forward to."
He grinned like a kid. Then turned forward again. Kept walking.
And I was left standing there, by the crooked tree and the ditch, holding the last crumbs of someone else's kindness in my hand.