Bonus Chapter
The routine settled faster than I expected.
By the third morning, my body already knew what to do before my thoughts caught up. I didn't hesitate at the edge of the clearing anymore. I went straight to work—sorting, carrying, watching. Porlyusica didn't give instructions unless I messed up, and when I did, her corrections were short and sharp.
"Wrong stem."
"Too much pressure."
"Not that one."
I adjusted immediately every time.
My hands still slipped now and then. I still misjudged weight or snapped a root I shouldn't have. But fewer than before. The faint vibration beneath my skin responded on its own now, smoothing tension out of my muscles, keeping my grip steady when fatigue crept in. I wasn't pushing it. I couldn't afford to.
She noticed.
Not with praise. Never that.
But she stopped repeating the same warnings.
At one point, she handed me a bundle without looking. I caught it cleanly, balanced the weight, and stored it properly. No comment followed. That silence meant more than words.
The village stayed on my mind the entire time.
Every cough I'd heard that morning echoed faintly in my head. Miko struggling to stand. Taro forcing a smile while leaning on a wall. Dad lying still, breathing shallow but steady. I worked faster—not rushed, just efficient—because every minute here mattered somewhere else.
Porlyusica moved to a new patch of plants, rarer ones. More fragile.
"This area," she said, finally looking at me, "you don't touch unless I tell you to."
I nodded. No argument. No questions.
I stayed close, watching angles, memorizing leaf shapes, soil color, how deep her fingers went before she pulled. This wasn't something Garron had taught me. This was different. Precise. Controlled.
At one point, she paused.
"You live nearby," she said.
"Yes."
"You know the forest."
"Enough."
She studied me for a second longer than usual. Still distant. Still guarded. But not dismissive.
"Then watch properly," she said. "And don't guess."
I followed that order exactly.
By midday, my arms burned and my legs ached, but my posture stayed solid. The vibration within me kept my movements clean, my balance firm. Not stronger—just steadier. Enough to keep going without falling apart.
When we finished, she packed her own satchel and turned away without ceremony.
"Same time tomorrow," she said.
Not a question.
I answered with a short nod.
On the walk back, I didn't slow down. The village came into view, heavy with quiet tension. People rested where they could. Doors stayed closed longer. The illness hadn't eased—but it hadn't exploded either. That mattered.
I went straight to Dad.
My hands moved carefully over his shoulders and back, letting the subtle vibration flow through him. His breathing eased just a fraction. Not a cure. Not even close. But enough to help him rest.
That night, I didn't overthink anything.
No big plans. No grand ideas.
Just this:
Tomorrow, I would go back.
I would keep helping.
And I would keep moving forward—step by step—until something finally changed.
Meassure Distance
The next days blurred together.
Not because nothing changed—but because the changes were quiet.
Porlyusica stopped correcting me immediately. Sometimes she let me finish first. Let me see the mistake on my own. When I adjusted without being told, she didn't comment. She just moved on.
That was new.
One morning, she handed me a plant I hadn't seen before. Thin stem. Pale underside. Fragile.
"Hold," she said.
I took it carefully, adjusted my grip when I felt the vibration in my hands grow uneven. Too much tension would ruin it. I steadied myself, slowed my breathing, let the warmth beneath my skin settle.
She watched the entire time.
Not my hands.
My posture.
"…Acceptable," she said after a moment, and turned back to her work.
That single word stayed with me longer than it should have.
Later, she pointed to a slope near the treeline.
"There," she said. "Three plants. Same type. Don't pull them yet. Just mark."
I hesitated for half a second. Then nodded and moved.
This was the first time she sent me out alone.
The ground was uneven. The soil thinner. I almost misidentified the first plant—caught myself just in time. The second was easy. The third took longer. I checked leaf veins, root angle, even the way the surrounding moss grew.
When I returned, she inspected the markings silently.
"…You didn't rush," she said.
Not praise. Just fact.
I felt something shift slightly inside me—not excitement, not pride. Relief. Like I hadn't wasted her time.
On the way back, she spoke again, unexpectedly.
"You don't talk much."
"I don't need to," I replied.
She glanced at me from the corner of her eye. "Most children do."
"I'm busy."
That earned a quiet huff. Not quite a scoff. Not quite a laugh.
When we reached the edge of the clearing, she stopped.
"You're not useless," she said. "That's rare."
I accepted that the way she meant it.
Back in the village, the atmosphere was heavier.
Miko couldn't get out of bed anymore. Taro barely spoke. Adults moved slowly, conserving energy without saying why. I helped where I could—water, lifting, supporting—then went straight to Dad.
His condition was stable. Not better. But not worse.
That mattered.
That night, as I lay awake, I realized something important.
Porlyusica still didn't trust me.
But she relied on me.
And for someone like her, that was closer than trust ever came.
Tomorrow, she would give me more responsibility.
Not because she cared.
But because I hadn't failed.
And that was enough.
Names
The morning was already warm when we reached the clearing.
Porlyusica moved ahead of me this time, not waiting to see if I followed. She knew I would. That, more than anything else, told me something had changed.
She stopped near a patch of low-growing herbs, their leaves darker than the rest, edges slightly curled.
"Not these," she said. "The ones beside them."
I looked again. At first glance, they were nearly identical. But then I noticed it—the stem angle, the way the leaves overlapped instead of spreading.
I nodded and knelt down.
"Don't cut," she added. "Twist. Slow."
I did exactly that. Careful. Controlled. The vibration in my hands stayed low, steady, reinforcing my grip without tearing the root. When the plant came free cleanly, I set it aside without looking up.
She watched. Longer than usual.
"…You learn fast," she said.
I shrugged slightly. "I pay attention."
She exhaled through her nose. Not annoyed. Just acknowledging it.
We worked in silence for a while after that. No corrections. No orders beyond brief directions. I started anticipating them—positioning myself where she would need me, handing over bundles before she asked.
At some point, she spoke without warning.
"What's your name?"
I froze for half a heartbeat. Not because I didn't expect the question—but because it meant something had shifted.
"Arashi," I answered. "From Date Village."
She repeated it once. "Arashi."
Not testing it. Just confirming.
Then, after a pause that felt deliberate, she added, "Porlyusica."
I looked up at her.
So it was true.
She didn't react to my expression. Didn't ask what I knew or what I thought. She just continued sorting plants, as if giving her name was nothing more than practical information.
Still, hearing it out loud grounded everything.
"Understood," I said simply.
That seemed to satisfy her.
Later, as we packed what we'd gathered, I made a mistake. A small one. I reached for the wrong bundle, nearly mixing two similar roots.
"Stop," she said sharply.
I did. Immediately.
She stepped closer, corrected the placement with quick, precise movements.
"That root ferments faster," she said. "If you mix them, both are ruined."
"I won't do it again."
"You won't," she agreed, without hesitation.
That was new too.
By the time we finished, my arms were tired, my focus stretched thin—but I hadn't slowed down. The quiet reinforcement in my body helped keep my movements clean, my posture steady.
Porlyusica noticed.
"You don't compensate with strength," she said. "You stabilize first."
"I have to," I replied. "If I don't, I drop things."
She gave a short nod. "Then keep doing that."
When we parted, she didn't dismiss me.
"Tomorrow," she said. "Same time."
"I'll be here."
"I know."
Back in the village, the situation hadn't improved—but it hadn't collapsed either. That mattered. I helped where I could, then stayed with Dad longer than usual, easing his breathing, supporting his back.
As night fell, I replayed the day in my head.
She knew my name.
I knew hers.
Not trust. Not kindness.
But acknowledgment.
And in a situation like this, that was the first real step forward.
Tomorrow, she wouldn't just see me as help.
She would see me as consistent.
And I intended to stay that way.