Os woke to the usual sound—his sister Verma arguing with his older brother, Vinsen. He swung his legs out of bed and headed for the door, bumping into a stack of old utensils on the way.
Outside, the small yard held the outdoor latrine. Verma had driven four wooden stakes into the ground around it, tied them together with a sturdy rope, and hung the cloths that Os and Vinsen used to cover the doorway—a makeshift curtain for modesty.
Os went in without a second thought. When he finished, a noise reached his ears—a scuffle, close by. He hurried out and saw four men forcing their way toward the house.
He vaulted the low wall and charged them. Before they could react, he struck the first man cleanly in the neck. He grabbed another by the wrist, flipped him over, and slammed him into the ground—then—
Os blinked and looked around.
"Damn… again. Not real," he muttered, disappointed, as he prepared to leave the latrine.
Daydreaming had always been Os's curse. He could vanish into his imagination for hours, living other lives—stronger, braver versions of himself. He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand.
"Stop it, you idiot. The day hasn't even started."
After washing, he went to the nearby bucket to clean his hands. Verma approached and tossed him a fishing rod and a pail.
"Os, after you finish bathing, go fish. Maybe we won't starve today," she said.
He looked at her, exhausted, and replied in a bored, defeated tone.
"Huh? Me? Fishing again?"
"That fool already went looking for work… or at least that's what he told me. There's no one else," she said.
Os didn't argue. He took the rod and pail and headed toward the plain. It took him half an hour to reach the river. He leaned forward as he walked, moving slowly along the bank, careful to stay hidden.
The plain was known for the fresh stream that ran through it—women washed clothes there and fetched water—but Os aimed for the source.
At the top, he found a waterfall pouring down from a high ledge, powerful enough to hide a cave behind its curtain of water. Algae and old ropes clung to the cave's rim.
He stepped inside, placed his things on a ledge, and crawled through a narrow opening where water streamed from the floor. The passage sloped deeper, and hollows in the ceiling beneath the waterfall formed something like a natural shower.
Os stripped and stood under the icy cascade. He scrubbed his dark-brown hair with his palms. There was no soap—five sind for a single bar was a fortune for a family that earned ten sind a week and spent nearly all of it on food.
His thoughts drifted again. He remained under the water for nearly half an hour, a foolish smile creeping across his face.
His foot slipped.
He crashed onto his back, the shock snapping him awake. He checked himself quickly—treatment for a head injury could cost two tinds, forty sind. A sum he didn't have.
Relieved he was unharmed, he washed his old clothes and placed them where he usually dried them. He took another bundle he had cleaned earlier, dressed, grabbed the pail and rod, and headed toward the lake.
On the way back, voices rustled from the trees. Moving closer, he spotted someone lying flat on his stomach, watching the women through an old pair of binoculars.
"Vern?" Os called out, shocked. "What are you doing here?"
"Shh—get down before someone notices," Vern hissed.
Os crouched beside him, waiting.
"I'm looking for Lorisa," Vern whispered. "I heard she washes with the women here."
Os stared at him in disgust.
"Vern, this is insane. If anyone catches you, they'll kill you."
"So?" Vern shrugged. "You going to tell?"
"Of course not. But I won't be seen with you. You'll drag me into trouble."
Os crawled backward. Vern tried to stop him, but Os left the plain—and Vern to his sickness.
He reached the Three-Colored Lake, named for the three kinds of fish said to live within it: gold, blue, and red. He sat on a large rock, baited his hook, and cast the line.
Less than three minutes passed before the line jerked violently. He grabbed it and fought with everything he had.
"Heavier than usual… must be worth ten sind at least," he muttered.
He wrapped the line around a tree for leverage. After a brutal struggle, he hauled in an enormous fish—its color unlike any he'd seen before. He laughed and danced on the rock like a madman—then—
"Os? Os? Os!!"
"Huh? What is it, Vern?"
"Already done fishing?"
Os froze. The fish was gone. He was still sitting on the rock, his rod untouched.
"I… I didn't even start," he said, dazed.
He returned home with only five small, ordinary fish—nothing filling, nothing valuable, but at least real.
He left the pail by the door where his mother and sister were talking.
"Only five?" his mother asked.
"Luck wasn't with me today, Verma," he said, opening the water jar to drink.
His mother took the fish, handed him the empty pail, and told him to return to the stream. The water had run out.
"It was full when I slept. How did it empty?" she asked.
"We drank and cooked," his mother replied, nudging the pail. "What else?"
Os said nothing. He calmly walked back to the plain, filling the jar more than four times—nearly an hour of work.
When the jar was full, Verma approached him, uneasy.
"Well? What's on your mind?" he asked.
"Um… brother… you know I'm going south of the village tomorrow with my friends. Just to walk around town."
"Yes, I know."
"So… try to stay away from the road. I don't want to run into you."
Os blinked.
"What's wrong with meeting me?"
"They don't know you're my brother. They think you're… strange. They're afraid of you. Of everything about you."
Os forced a crooked smile.
"Then I'll watch where I walk. Wouldn't want to disturb them. Maybe I'll stop visiting the tribe altogether and live in the woods."
He walked away. Verma tried to call him back, but the words died in her throat.
Os followed the forest path and sat on a stone, pressing his arm over his eyes as tears slipped free.
"What's wrong with me? Why am I like this? Why do I look like trash?"
"Don't be stupid. Don't cry. You've endured worse. Stop. Stop. Sto—"
Cold water crashed over him.
"Where am I…?" he muttered.
He was back in the cave, naked beneath the waterfall.
"Am I still here?" he gasped. "Another dream?"
He cursed himself and his wandering mind.
"Why am I like this? What's wrong with me? Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!"
"I'm trying to bathe here," a voice said. "Can you shut up for a few seconds?"
"Huh? Who's there? I—I can't move."
"You swear a lot. Ever notice?"
Os reached for his clothes.
"My body—why is it moving on its own?!"
Something yanked him down. He hit the ground hard, gasping. When he looked up, he saw a man wearing his clothes.
"That's mine!" Os shouted, lunging forward.
His hand passed straight through the man.
The figure turned.
It was his own face.
"A demon?!" Os cried.
"A demon?" the man scoffed. "That's your face, idiot. Don't blame me for being ugly."
The stranger picked up the pail and rod and walked away.
"Wait! Stop!"
"You missed fishing yesterday too," the man said. "We don't have time."
"Yesterday? Who are you?"
"You. Obviously."
"I can't touch you! What are you?!"
"I don't have a name. Call me Emry. That's what you used to call me in your head."
"My head?!"
Emry sighed.
"We're the same person. I'm just the version you built—stronger, smarter, willing to act."
"This is madness!"
"Believe what you want. I'm here now. You're not in control anymore."
Emry stepped outside and paused at the familiar path.
"We're late. Is there a shortcut?"
Os stared.
"…Yes. But how do you know?"
"Shortcut," Emry repeated.
Os groaned and pointed.
"It cuts through the washing stream. The women use it. We can't go there."
Emry studied the path.
"No choice."
"They'll kill us!"
"Stop whining."
He pulled a stick from the ground, revealing a sharpened metal tip.
"I made something small. Just in case."