Evening arrived slowly.
The sky glowed with a pale orange light that carried no warmth. A faint wind drifted across the fields, bringing with it the scent of damp soil mixed with splintered wood. I stood in the middle of what could no longer be called farmland. The shadow of the setting sun stretched long across the ground, tracing the deep claw marks carved into the earth.
The fence had collapsed. The livestock pens were torn apart. Nothing about the battlefield tried to hide what had happened here.
My chest felt hollow.
Not from fear. Not from relief. Just exhaustion.
Rosa sat near the house, wrapped in a thick cloth. The fading light caught in her tangled hair as Johan knelt beside her, carefully cleaning a small cut on her arm. She wasn't crying. She simply stared at the ground in silence, far too quiet for someone her age.
Sylva leaned against the cracked wall of the house. Her face was pale and her breathing still uneven. She was awake, but she hadn't spoken much since we returned from the forest.
I walked toward the remains of the livestock pen.
The two thugs were tied there, ropes binding their wrists and ankles tightly. Mud and dried blood stained their faces.
Suddenly, one of them shouted, his voice tearing through the quiet evening.
"THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!"
I turned slowly.
Heat surged through my chest.
"Huh?" I stepped closer. "Our fault?!"
My fist clenched, and for a moment I almost hit him.
A hand pressed firmly against my chest.
"Enough, Vein."
Sylva stood in front of me. She swayed slightly, but she remained steady enough to block my path.
"Whatever you do now," she said softly, "won't change what already happened."
I exhaled sharply and stepped back.
Not long after, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed along the dirt road. The village guards had finally arrived. Several of them carried spears and swords, and a horse-drawn cart followed behind them.
Elna stepped forward and began explaining everything: the monster attack, Rosa's kidnapping, and the involvement of the two men tied before us.
The guards listened with grim expressions.
The two thugs slowly lowered their heads.
One of them muttered under his breath, his voice nearly swallowed by the wind.
"…My brother…"
"…What about my sister…?"
The other man spat angrily onto the ground.
"Bastards," he growled as he glared at Sylva and me. "If it weren't for you—"
"Quiet," Sylva cut him off coldly.
She stepped closer.
"What are you hiding?"
The man looked up sharply.
"What are you talking about?!" he shouted. "You want to interrogate us now?! You already caught us, got it?! We're not hiding anything!"
"You're lying," Sylva replied calmly.
The man laughed harshly.
"I SAID THERE'S NOTHING!"
Sylva didn't blink.
"If that's true," she said evenly, "then why are you crying?"
The man froze.
Only then did he seem to notice the tears running down his own face.
But before he could say anything else, the guards pulled both men to their feet and shoved them onto the cart. Chains were locked, ropes tightened, and the cart began to move slowly down the road, leaving the ruined farm behind in the dying light.
I stood there watching their backs grow smaller.
The sun continued to sink.
Shadows stretched longer across the broken earth.
The worst had passed. The monster was gone. The kidnapping had ended. The fight had been survived.
But as evening swallowed the field, I realized something.
The crisis was over.
Yet this sunset carried no peace with it.
Only the quiet weight of what came after.
—
Night settled slowly over the ruined farm.
Inside the house, a small oil lamp burned on the table. Its light was dim but enough to push the darkness away from the corners of the room. Cold night air slipped through the cracks in the broken walls, making the flame tremble gently.
Rosa lay on a thin mattress with the blanket pulled up to her chest. Her eyes were open as she stared at the wooden ceiling, where long fractures ran across the beams.
I sat at the edge of her bed.
"Not sleepy?" I asked quietly.
Rosa shook her head.
"If I fall asleep…" she said hesitantly, "…will the nightmare come back?"
My chest tightened.
I gave her a small smile.
"If it does," I said softly, "I'll be there to end it. Then I'll wake you up."
She studied my face for a moment.
"Really?"
"Yeah," I answered without hesitation. "Really."
She nodded faintly.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket, and slowly her breathing became steadier. Not long after, her eyes finally closed.
The sleep was shallow.
But it was sleep.
I stood carefully and stepped out of the room.
Outside, Johan sat on a wooden bench near the table. His hands moved steadily as he repaired a torn rope. Under the oil lamp's glow, he looked older than he had that morning.
"She asleep?" he asked without looking up.
"Yeah," I replied.
He nodded.
We sat in silence for a while as the night filled the empty spaces between us. The sound of insects drifted through the air, the wind brushed against the broken walls, and the old wood creaked now and then.
"Thank you," Johan said suddenly.
I turned toward him.
"For what?"
"For staying."
His voice was simple and calm.
"A lot of people would leave after a day like this."
I scratched the back of my neck.
"I thought about leaving," I admitted. "But… I don't really know where I'd go."
Johan chuckled quietly.
"That's enough," he said. "Sometimes all you need is a reason to wake up tomorrow."
I looked around the house.
At the cracked table.
At the damaged walls.
At a home that would take weeks to repair.
"Tomorrow's going to be hard," I said.
"Yeah," Johan replied. "But it won't be the first day we're tired."
I smiled faintly.
Outside, the moon hung low in the sky. Its pale light touched the shattered fields—the same place that had nearly taken everything from us today.
And yet… it was still standing.
I took a slow breath.
Today didn't fix anything.
But at least we managed to close it without losing anyone.
And for tonight—
that was enough.
—
Several days passed after the farm had nearly vanished.
There was no celebration and no real sense of relief. Instead, the days were filled with the steady rhythm of hammers striking wood, boards being dragged across the dirt, and the heavy breathing of people too tired to speak much.
Sylva, Johan, and I repaired what could still be repaired.
The broken fence was raised again. It wasn't straight, and it certainly wasn't neat, but it stood. The collapsed livestock pen was rebuilt from salvaged planks, though some sections had to remain open because there simply wasn't enough wood left to finish everything properly.
My hands were covered in blisters. Every time I gripped the hammer, my skin burned.
Sylva worked slower than usual. Every so often she stopped, drew in a long breath, and then continued as if refusing to admit how exhausted she was.
"You should rest," Johan said one afternoon.
Sylva shook her head.
"If I stop," she answered quietly, "I start thinking about things I don't want to think about."
Johan didn't push further.
I understood.
We all did.
Elna didn't come to help with the repairs. Instead, she reopened her stall at the market. She said that if she abandoned the only place in the village that was still intact, then nothing would truly remain.
We let her.
By sunset each day, we stopped working. Not because the repairs were finished, but because our bodies simply refused to continue.
One evening, Johan stood in the middle of the field and looked around slowly.
His back seemed more bent than before.
"It's not restored," he said quietly. "But it's alive again."
I followed his gaze.
The farm was no longer in ruins. It wasn't beautiful, and it didn't look the way it once had, but it was enough to hold tomorrow.
And somehow, my chest felt a little lighter.
The sun slowly sank behind the hills. The shadow of the newly raised fence stretched across the soil while the evening wind swept over the uneven field, carrying the scent of damp wood and earth that hadn't fully dried yet.
I lowered the hammer from my hand.
My fingers trembled.
Not from the cold.
From exhaustion.
Sylva stood beside me, staring silently across the field. Her face was paler than usual, but her eyes remained sharp, as if her thoughts were already somewhere beyond this place.
"There's something unfinished," she said at last.
I turned to her.
"You mean the farm?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"No."
Sylva looked toward the village, toward the narrow road that disappeared behind the trees.
"If this ends here," she continued, "the same thing can happen again."
I fell silent.
"You want to visit the prison," I said.
It wasn't really a question.
"Yes."
I nodded.
We said goodbye to Johan before leaving. He looked at us for a moment and then gave a slow nod, as if he already understood where we were going and why.
The road through the village felt different that evening. It wasn't rushed, but it wasn't light either. The buildings dimmed as night approached, and oil lamps flickered to life behind windows one by one.
The village was still alive.
Yet it felt as though the people inside it were far away.
The village prison stood at the end of the road.
Small.
Old.
Quiet.
Its stone walls were damp, and the air around it felt colder than the rest of the village, as if too many unspoken things had settled there over the years.
We stopped in front of the iron door.
I drew in a slow breath.
"If they're hiding something," I said quietly, "I want to know."
Sylva didn't look at me.
"And if what we find isn't hatred," she replied, "but desperation… we need to be ready for that too."
The iron door opened with a heavy groan.
And with that sound—
we stepped inside.
Toward answers we might not want to hear.
—
The village prison was silent.
An oil lamp hung low from the ceiling, its dim light stretching the shadows of the iron bars across the damp stone floor. The scent of rust and wet earth mixed in the air, making the room feel heavier than it should.
The two thugs sat behind the bars.
The larger one kept his head lowered, his shoulders sagging as if something inside him had already collapsed.
The other stared blankly at the wall, his jaw clenched tightly.
We stopped in front of the cell.
The larger thug slowly lifted his head.
"…Why are you here?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
Sylva didn't answer immediately.
"You mentioned your sister," she said quietly. "At the farm."
The man froze.
His eyes blinked rapidly before he looked down again.
"…She's still alive?" Sylva asked.
"She is," he replied.
"But not for long… if nothing's done."
He shut his eyes tightly and gripped his knees.
"…We didn't have a choice," he said at last.
"No money. No medicine. And… no one willing to help."
The other man snorted angrily.
"You don't need to talk!" he barked. "They won't care!"
"That's enough," he growled. "You already caught us. What more do you want?"
Sylva looked at both of them carefully.
"We're not here to take you anywhere," she said calmly.
"Just tell us where the house is."
The larger man looked stunned.
"…You're going there?"
"I want to see it with my own eyes," Sylva replied.
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then, in a quiet voice, he gave the directions.
A narrow path at the edge of the village.
A collapsing house that looked like it could fall apart at any moment.
The guard locked the bars again, and we turned to leave the prison.
Our steps through the village felt heavier than before.
Oil lamps glowed behind windows, but the streets were empty.
Night settled slowly, bringing with it a cold that cut deeper than the wind.
The house stood at the end of the road.
Small.
Crooked.
Almost hollow.
I pushed the door open.
Stale air greeted us.
Inside there was almost nothing.
A thin mattress.
A small table with nothing on it.
And on the mattress—
a child.
At first glance, she looked small.
Too small.
But it wasn't her height.
It was the way her body seemed to shrink into itself.
Her arms were thin—not the thinness of a single sick day, but the thinness of months. Her skin clung to bone as if there was nothing left beneath it.
Her wrists were narrow enough that I felt like I could wrap my fingers around them completely. Her collarbones protruded sharply beneath her pale skin.
Each breath lifted her ribs in clear lines.
One by one.
Countable.
Her stomach didn't rise fully when she inhaled.
It trembled.
As if her body wasn't sure it had the strength to keep going.
Her cheeks were hollow.
Her lips were dry and cracked.
There was no color in her face.
No feverish flush.
No sign of sudden illness.
Only a long, quiet fading.
Her hair, which had probably once been soft, lay flat and lifeless against the pillow.
She clutched an old doll with one missing eye.
Even the way she slept looked fragile.
Not peaceful.
Not relaxed.
But suspended.
As if her body rested only because it no longer had the energy to do anything else.
On the floor beside the mattress sat a wooden bowl with dried scraps stuck to the bottom.
On the table was a cup of water.
Untouched.
I stood there, unable to move.
This wasn't the face of someone who had suddenly fallen ill.
This was the face of someone who had been left behind for a long time.
Sylva knelt beside the mattress and raised her hand.
A faint glow of magic appeared.
Then faded.
She exhaled slowly.
"…This is too advanced," she whispered.
"Not a wound.
Not a simple illness."
I clenched my fist.
Our farm had been destroyed.
Our house damaged.
But in this cramped room, I saw something far worse.
Something older.
Something quieter.
Something crueler.
I looked at the child.
And for the first time—
I didn't know who had truly lost first.
Our farm had fallen in a single day.
But this child—
slowly,
patiently,
had been broken by time itself.
And time…
had no chains to put it in.