CHAPTER 15 - THE WEIGHT LEFT BEHIND
Morning in Greyhollow arrived without urgency.
The mist still hung low among the trees, slipping between wooden houses and stone fences as it always had. The air smelled of damp earth and old leaves.
Zio sat in the doorway longer than necessary.
The house behind him felt unchanged, and that was the problem.
There was no rough cough from inside. No deliberate clatter of tools dragged across the floor just to announce their presence. No short muttering from Trod when morning came too early for aging bones.
He stood and stepped inside.
There were no tears. No cries.
Only a breath that felt far too heavy for his narrow chest.
The burial was held that afternoon.
Greyhollow knew no grand ceremonies. There was no priest and no memorized prayers. People came with what they had. Coarse bread. Warm soup. Wildflowers gathered from the forest's edge.
They stood in a quiet circle.
Everyone had known Trod. He spoke little and avoided crowds, but he was always there when needed. He rebuilt houses after the war. He taught orphaned children how to start fires without burning their hands. He never asked questions that made others uncomfortable.
Zio stood beside the grave, shovel in hand.
He lowered the first soil himself.
Each scoop felt heavier than it should have.
When it was done, people left one by one. Some patted his shoulder. Some bowed their heads. No one tried to speak what could not be fixed with words.
As the sun tilted westward, Zio remained before the simple marker.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
The wind stirred the leaves above, but nothing answered.
The days that followed moved slowly.
His body remembered what to do. Years of habit did not disappear with grief. But his thoughts arrived later than his movements.
But the house was empty in a way that could not be repaired.
He cooked too much food and stared at the pot in silence. He fixed a bench that was not broken. He sat where Trod used to sit, then stood again because it felt wrong.
Night arrived faster than before.
Zio spent more time outside, by the forest, the narrow stream, the old paths they once walked together. Greyhollow remained unchanged, yet he felt slightly out of place, as if he no longer stood fully inside it.
One afternoon, he found Trod's hammer near the small workshop.
He lifted it.
Heavy. Balanced. Familiar.
Zio set it back down with care.
Zyon appeared on the seventh night.
There was no light and no sound.
He was simply there.
Standing at the edge of the campfire's glow, his form slightly blurred, as if the world had not fully agreed to keep him.
"You are still moving," Zyon said. "That is all."
Zio did not look back. "I am alive."
"That is not what I meant."
The fire crackled softly.
"What should I do now?" Zio asked.
Zyon was silent long enough that Zio almost believed there would be no answer.
"Not leaving," Zyon said. "And not staying."
Zio frowned. "That does not help."
"No," Zyon replied. "But it is honest."
He stepped closer. His feet did not touch the ground. He left no trace.
"What you feel is not weakness," Zyon continued. "It is an empty space. Empty spaces always demand to be filled. Either by choice, or by escape."
And most people choose escape.
Zio stared into the fire. "I do not want to run."
"Good," Zyon said. "Then do not. But do not freeze here either."
The wind moved through the trees.
"It is not time yet," Zyon added, his voice lower. "There are things you must understand before you walk too far."
Zio nodded, even though he did not fully understand.
Greyhollow began to feel smaller.
Not because the village had changed, but because Zio had begun to see its limits. The same paths. The same faces. The same stories repeated by the fire.
He did not hate the place.
But something inside him kept moving, like a step held back for too long.
One morning, he helped a merchant fix a broken cart wheel at the edge of the village. The man came from the south, carrying cloth, salt, and news.
"The roads are busy again," the merchant said. "Guilds are active. Small contracts everywhere. People need hands."
Zio only nodded, but the word guild lingered longer than it should have.
That night, he cleaned his dagger with unusual care.
A few days later, a village child ran to his house.
"There is a small monster near the western river," the boy said, breathless.
Zio was already moving.
The creature was low mana and poorly trained. More pest than threat.
Zio did not use excessive force.
The first strike landed late.
The correction came from his body, not his decision.
One clean strike followed.
Enough.
He studied the body briefly, then pushed it away from the village path.
When he returned, people looked at him with relief.
That was all.
He felt no pride.
Only relief.
And relief unsettled him more than fear would have.
That night, Zyon stood closer than before.
"You are beginning to hear the world beyond this place," he said.
Zio nodded. "I do not want to leave because I am running from memories."
"Then make sure you do not leave because you are cornered," Zyon replied.
Zio looked at the stars. They were sharp and clear.
"When that day comes," Zyon continued, "you will not leave as a child who was abandoned. You will leave as someone who carries weight, and knows how to bear it."
The fire burned low.
Zio did not ask when.
He already knew.
The next day, he began to organize the house.
Not to leave. Not yet.
He stored Trod's tools carefully. Repaired the leaking roof. Cleaned the workshop no one else touched.
Greyhollow was still his home.
But the space Trod once occupied no longer resisted change.
Zio did not pack.
He did not decide anything.
He only noticed that standing still was beginning to cost more than moving.
END OF CHAPTER 15