A month passed.
Every day felt the same long hours under the sun, the same mud, the same ache in their bones. Hunger came and went like the tide, leaving their hands trembling by noon. But something had changed. The rain had stopped. The ground had started to dry. And the old man was still there and like he said, miraculously he did get stronger after recovering from his fever.....and more talkative.
Alot more talkative.
He worked beside the boy almost every day. Talked too much, if anyone asked. Though most of the time, he was really talking to himself. The boy rarely said anything back.
At first, the old man's words were only about work.
"Keep your back straight. You'll last longer that way."
"Don't dig too deep on one side; it'll collapse on you."
"Don't lean for too long, you'll get lazy arms."
The boy just listened. His hand hitting the earth again and again, like clockwork.
Later, the old man started saying other things. Things that didn't matter here but helped him remember that there were places outside this hellish pit.
"When I was your age," the old man said one afternoon, wiping sweat from his wrinkled face, "I used to hate working the fields. My father would yell if I slacked off, and I'd swear I'd never touch dirt again."
The boy didn't answer. He didn't even look up.
The old man chuckled to himself. "Funny, huh? Life always finds a way to shove irony down your throat."
For the first time, the boy paused just for a second. It wasn't much, but the old man noticed.
That was enough to keep him talking.
---
Days blended into each other. The air was thick with dust; every breath felt like swallowing grit. When the sun dipped low, the guards' shadows stretched long across the camp, and everyone knew what came next chains, rations, and silence.
At night, the old man would start scratching lines in the dirt.
Seeing the boys gaze, he whispered "See this?" He said while tracing a shape with a stick. "That's 'A'. The start of every word that matters. Apple, air... alive."
The boy's eyes followed. They were sharp, crimson, and tired but alive.
"Go on," the old man said, nudging the stick to him. "Try it. You won't break it."
The boy hesitated, then drew a shaky 'A'. The line came out crooked.
The old man smiled. "Not bad. Better than my first try."
The boy blinked slowly, maybe surprised by the praise.
The old man leaned closer. "I used to teach kids your age, you know. Back when my hair was still black and I didn't wheeze every other step."
He coughed, laughed softly, and kept drawing letters.
Sometimes the guards shouted for them to be quiet. The old man would wait, then continue in whispers.
"You need to know these things," he'd murmur. "Even here. Someday you'll leave this place. When you do, you'll need more than your hands."
The boy didn't believe him. But he listened.
---
That afternoon, dinner came well if you could call it that. A chunk of dried monster hide, blackened and stiff as stone.
They sat across from each other on the cold ground, staring at it like it might come alive and bite back.
"Hah," the old man sighed, poking at it with a stick. "Not exactly fine dining, huh?"
The boy didn't answer. He tried biting once, then stopped, jaw aching.
The old man puffed out his cheeks. "Ah, don't worry, kid. It might be a secret to the guards, but this old man's got a secret weapon."
He reached into his ragged shirt, rummaging to find the silver knife he found. "Hehe... my trusty little helper..."
A pause. His smile faltered. He checked again. Then again.
"Oh no," he muttered. "Don't tell me I lost it…"
The boy looked up, silent as always.
The old man laughed awkwardly. "Ah well. Guess we'll improvise. Nothing a good rock can't fix!"
He grabbed a rock, slammed it against the hide. It bounced. Again. Nothing.
The boy watched, head tilted slightly. Then he reached for a sharper rock, angled it, and began slicing with short, precise motions. Bit by bit, the hide tore apart.
The old man blinked, impressed. "Well I'll be damned... look at you. Didn't even flinch. I've been bashing at this thing like an idiot."
The boy tore a piece, handed it over.
The old man grinned. "Thanks, partner."
They ate in silence. The meat was like chewing bark, but the old man still smiled through every painful bite. "Mm. Delicious," he said dramatically. "Truly the feast of kings."
The boy almost smiled...almost. His lips twitched before he looked down again.
The old man caught it, though. And that tiny crack in the boy's silence was enough to warm him through the night.
---
The next morning, the old man's back gave out halfway through work. He fell to his knees, gasping, hand pressed to his spine.
A guard barked something from a distance, but the boy stepped forward without a word, and kept digging covering both their spots.
The old man groaned. "You'll get yourself whipped, kid..."
The boy didn't stop.
For the first time, the old man was quiet for a long while. Then, softly, he said, "Thank you."
When the guards passed by later, they didn't notice. Or maybe they didn't care.
---
That night, the old man started teaching again.
"This one's 'C,'" he said, drawing carefully. "Like... cold. Or... cage." He chuckled. "Fitting, huh?"
The boy traced the shape beside his. His was smaller, almost neat.
"You've got a steady hand," the old man said. "You'll make a good writer one day."
The boy looked at him like he'd said something ridiculous.
The old man shrugged. "Hey, someone's gotta record this miserable place someday. Might as well be you."
Then suddenly it rained again, just for a few minutes. Cold drops fell through the cracks in the roof, hitting the dirt like tiny explosions.
The old man looked up and let one drop hit his tongue. "Ahh... rainwater. Almost tastes like freedom, doesn't it?"
The boy copied him, tasting it too. It was muddy, but he didn't flinch.
The old man grinned. "See? You're learning the finer things in life."
the boy only stared at him quietly.
The old man laughed until he coughed. "Exactly!"
For a moment, even the chains felt lighter.
The guards didn't notice the change between them. Or maybe they did, and didn't care. To them, the old man was just an old fool who talked too much, and the boy was just another set of hands.
But something small was building in that silence.
A flicker of warmth in a place made for breaking.
As nigth fell, the old man started humming. A quiet tune, broken and off-key, but it filled the darkness.
The boy looked curiously.
The old man noticed and smiled "A song my mother used to sing. About the stars. You ever seen the stars clear?"
The boy shook his head.
"They're beautiful," the old man said softly. "Like little fires scattered across the dark. Reminds you that there's still light somewhere."
The boy looked up through the roof's cracks. The sky was mostly smoke and cloud but a single star flickered faintly.
He didn't say anything, but for the first time, he didn't feel completely alone.
later, when the old man had fallen asleep, the boy picked up the stick and akwardly traced a crooked letter into the dirt beside him.
'D.'