The first light of morning filtered through the gaps in the collapsed roofs, dust motes dancing lazily in the golden rays. Ethan stretched, careful not to make too much noise. The night had been quiet, save for the occasional rustle of creatures moving through the overgrown streets. His stomach grumbled, reminding him he would need to fish again soon, but for now, he wanted to explore.
The abandoned village felt different in daylight. Shadows retreated, revealing broken structures in sharper detail: splintered doors, collapsed walls, and the intricate growth of Venetian vines wrapping around every surface. Every step had to be deliberate. Loose stones, hidden roots, and patches of moss could betray a misstep and draw unwanted attention.
Inside one of the sturdier buildings, Ethan's eyes caught something unusual. A shelf, mostly broken, still held remnants of books. Dust coated their covers, and their pages were yellowed and brittle. Some were thicker than he had ever seen, others bound in strange leather etched with symbols he couldn't comprehend.
He knelt beside them, brushing off years of dirt. Opening one carefully, he flipped through pages filled with unfamiliar script, symbols that didn't resemble any language he knew. There were sketches too—diagrams of strange creatures, intricate patterns, and lines that seemed to hum faintly with energy, almost imperceptible to his senses.
Ethan frowned. Magic? he thought. He had read fantasy novels back home, but he knew better than to trust fiction as reality. Still, there was a pulse here, an energy in the air that made his skin prickle. These books weren't stories—they were records, guides, maybe even instructions. Yet without understanding the language or the symbols, they were useless for now.
He closed the book carefully and stacked the others. Even if he couldn't read them, they might prove useful later. Perhaps someone—or something—could teach him the language, or he might figure it out himself over time. For now, they were a mystery, a hint that this world was far more complex than he had imagined.
Moving further into the building, Ethan's eyes caught another glint among the debris. Pushing aside rotted cloth and fallen timber, he discovered a leather satchel, worn but sturdy. Its straps were intact, the leather thick and flexible, reinforced at the seams. Compared to his makeshift grocery bag, this was a revelation. It could hold more supplies, distribute weight better, and survive rough conditions far longer.
He slung the leather bag over his shoulder, testing its comfort. The weight balanced naturally, and he adjusted the straps so it rested securely across his back. A small sense of relief settled over him. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt a fraction more prepared, less vulnerable.
Ethan packed his limited supplies into the new bag: his water bottle, a few granola bars, the notepad and pen, and his lighter. The reinforced grocery bag could stay behind for now, tucked into a corner as a backup. He tested the weight and movement again, imagining the long days ahead, the miles he would have to cover, and the unknown creatures that could cross his path.
The building offered more than just books and a bag. Broken furniture could be repurposed, vines could reinforce rope or shelter, and the structure itself provided a vantage point over the surrounding village. From a small window opening, he observed the river in the distance, the forest beyond, and the shadows shifting in the alleyways. He could feel the pulse of life here—alien, magical, but alive.
Ethan considered the old books once more. Though he could not read them, he traced one of the diagrams with his finger. A small spark of curiosity ignited in his mind: what if these symbols were a key? What if learning them could give him power or insight into this world? He pushed the thought aside for now, reminding himself of the immediate need: survival, observation, and careful planning. The knowledge would come in time—he had to live long enough to acquire it.
After securing his belongings in the leather bag, he moved through the village, inspecting the structures more thoroughly. The abandoned streets offered no immediate danger, but subtle signs suggested recent activity: footprints of small creatures, broken branches indicating movement, and distant echoes of rustling leaves. Even in abandonment, the village was not empty.
By midday, he decided to return to the river. He needed water, and he would fish before continuing his exploration. The leather bag shifted comfortably on his back, allowing him to move faster and with more confidence. He felt lighter despite the weight—it was the sense of preparedness, the knowledge that he could carry more supplies and protect them more effectively.
As he walked, he reflected on the village's secrets. Books that could not yet be understood, a bag that enhanced his survival, and signs of life hidden within overgrown ruins. Each discovery was a step toward understanding the rules of this world, each small victory a reassurance that he could adapt.
By the time he reached the river, the water shimmered under the bright sun. He knelt at the edge, refilling his bottle from a side pool, cautious of algae and debris. He held makeshift spear out of wood in his had, patient as the fish-like creatures darted around, waiting for the right moment. Today, survival was still about observation, patience, and careful calculation—but with the new leather bag, he felt better equipped for the challenges ahead.
The abandoned village, mysterious and overgrown, had offered him not just shelter, but tools, hints of knowledge, and a tangible sense of preparation. It was a foothold—a place to regain strength and plan his next moves in a world that had already tested him in ways he could never have imagined.