Chapter 3
I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of stone grinding against stone.
It was distant—deep, like the earth shifting its weight rather than breaking. The kind of sound you feel more than hear.
I stayed still for a while, listening.
Then it stopped.
By morning, everything looked the same.
I went outside to check my crops, half-expecting snapped stems or uprooted soil, but they were untouched. Leaves bright. Soil damp. Whatever had moved beneath Pelican Town hadn’t bothered the surface.
I watered them anyway.
Routine helped. It always had.
By the time I checked the mailbox, the feeling had dulled—pushed somewhere behind muscle memory and small tasks.
Inside was a single letter.
Eric—
This is embarrassing... I lost my lucky purple shorts. I’m telling you because I think I can trust you.
If you find them, bring them back to me DISCREETLY.
I’ll pay well.
—
Mayor Lewis
Purple shorts?
I read it again. Then a third time, slower.
Discreetly.
My grip tightened slightly on the paper.
Lewis didn’t strike me as the kind of man who misplaced things. Not important things. Not the way my grandfather used to describe him—steady, composed, always thinking two steps ahead. The kind of person who held a town together just by being consistent.
This didn’t fit.
I stared at the letter a little longer than I needed to, like it might explain itself if I gave it time.
It didn’t.
Instead, something else surfaced.
Spring.
The Saloon.
Pam laughing too loudly—
Marnie going quiet—
That look on her face when Lewis’s name came up.
And then Shane stepping in, cutting it off before it could turn into something worse.
At the time, I’d brushed it off. People have history. Small towns always do.
But this…
Discreetly.
I exhaled slowly.
“What exactly are you hiding?” I muttered, more to the paper than to anyone else.
My grandfather used to talk about Lewis like they were inseparable. Stories about long nights planning festivals, arguments about crops and taxes that somehow ended in laughter. He spoke about him with… respect. Trust.
But thinking back on it now—
He never mentioned Marnie.
Not once.
I frowned, folding the letter carefully, like it might fall apart if I didn’t.
That wasn’t like him.
My grandfather talked about everything. The war. The mistakes. The things he regretted.
So why not her?
Unless it wasn’t his story to tell.
Or worse—
Unless it was a story he chose not to.
The thought sat heavier than it should have.
I shoved the letter into my bag, a little more forcefully than necessary.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Not dealing with that right now.”
The Help Wanted board could wait.
People could wait.
The mines didn’t ask questions.
The mines felt easier.
Level 65 was familiar. Predictable.
Stone. Dust. The same low hum of something ancient settling into itself.
After everything that morning—the letter, the questions I didn’t want to ask—predictable felt… necessary.
Level 66 wasn’t.
I saw it half-buried near a broken crate—a book that hadn’t been there before. Dark cover. No title.
A Monster Compendium.
I picked it up, brushing off the dust. The pages were intact. Too intact. No wear, no fading—like it had been waiting.
I flipped it open.
Slimes. Bats. Stone golems.
Nothing new. Nothing I hadn’t already fought.
Each entry was clinical. Clean diagrams. Short descriptions. Weak points noted without flourish. No fear. No story. Just function.
Like a report.
I turned the page.
And paused.
The drawings changed.
The lines were rougher. Less certain.
Shadow People.
Not like the others. Not physical in the same way. The text beneath them didn’t describe behavior—only presence. Movement without pattern. Observation without interaction.
I frowned.
“That’s… not how anything works,” I muttered.
Another page.
A taller figure. Bipedal. Elongated limbs. No defined face—just a suggestion of one, like something half-remembered.
No weaknesses listed.
No habitat.
Just a single line:
“Do not assume absence.”
Something about that sat wrong.
I turned the page again, slower this time.
And then I saw it.
Short. Stocky. Metal helm. Bronze cap. A red cloak draped over its shoulders. The proportions were different from the others—solid, grounded. Real.
My grip tightened.
“…The Dwarf?” I whispered.
The name came too easily.
Like I’d already known it.
I leaned in, trying to read the text beneath—
The page blurred.
No—that wasn’t right.
It
shifted.
The ink seemed to pull inward, lines collapsing into themselves, as if the page was being rewritten faster than I could see.
“What—”
The book snapped shut in my hands.
And then it was gone.
No weight. No sound. Just—
Nothing.
I stood there, staring at empty air.
For a moment, I thought I’d dropped it. I looked down.
Stone. Dust. Nothing else.
A pulse ran through me—sharp, sudden.
Strength.
Not like before. Not the steady kind I’d gotten used to. This was different. It surged, then settled somewhere deeper, like something had been… added.
Or unlocked.
I exhaled slowly.
“…Damn,” I muttered. “I should’ve checked that with Gunther.”
The words felt hollow as soon as I said them.
Somehow, I knew it wouldn’t have mattered.
A Frozen Tear lay nearby.
I picked it up, letting the cold ground me. Solid. Real. Something that didn’t disappear when I looked at it too closely.
Level 67 had veins of Topaz and Aquamarine.
Clean breaks. Clean strikes.
Work I didn’t have to think about.
Level 68 held a gray vest in an old chest. I swapped out my overalls and pulled it on.
It fit better than it should have.
I adjusted the collar slightly, catching my reflection in the dull metal of my pickaxe.
I looked… different.
More put together.
More like someone who belonged down here.
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
Level 69 was rich with Iron Ore.
Level 70 rewarded me with a Master Slingshot.
I turned it over in my hands, testing the weight. Balanced. Precise.
Useful.
Later.
The deeper I went, the quieter everything became.
Not just the mines.
Me.
The questions from the morning—the letter, Lewis, my grandfather—they didn’t disappear.
They just… stopped mattering.
Down here, things made sense.
Rocks were rocks.
Monsters attacked because that’s what they did.
You fought. You won or you didn’t.
And either way, the rules stayed the same.
No one pretended.
No one hid behind words like
discreetly.
I exhaled, steady.
People were harder.
People hid things.
Down here, nothing pretended to be something it wasn’t.
The mines were almost…
Peaceful.
I headed back up toward town as the sky began to dim. The air felt heavier than it should have, like the day hadn’t fully decided to end.
On the path near the Saloon, I ran into Demetrius.
“Good evening, Eric,” he said. His eyes flicked—not to my face, but to my backpack. “You look like you went deep today.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
A pause.
Not long. Just enough to feel deliberate.
“Did you happen to find any scrolls?” he asked.
My grip tightened slightly on the strap.
“Er… no.”
“Ah.” He inclined his head.
No reaction. No disappointment. Just… acknowledgment.
Like he was marking something off.
Then—
“Anything else unusual?” he added.
I hesitated.
“…Like what?”
Demetrius studied me for a moment. Not suspicious. Not curious.
Evaluating.
“Books, perhaps,” he said lightly. “They turn up, occasionally. Where they shouldn’t.”
My stomach dropped.
“I—what?”
He didn’t react to that. If anything, his tone smoothed out further.
“There’s an old volume,” he continued. “Circulated during the late Ferngill period. Misleadingly labeled as a bestiary.”
I said nothing.
Didn’t trust myself to.
“It wasn’t intended for general use,” he went on. “More of an internal document. Observational. Incomplete.” A small pause. “Dangerous, depending on how it’s interpreted.”
The word
dangerous didn’t sound like a warning.
It sounded like a classification.
I swallowed.
“You’re talking about the Monster Compendium,” I said.
Demetrius didn’t confirm it.
He didn’t need to.
“The Kingdom attempted to suppress it,” he said instead. “Unsuccessfully.”
My pulse picked up.
“Why?” I asked.
That got the faintest shift out of him. Not emotion—just interest.
“Because it was copied,” he replied. “Not widely. Not cleanly. But enough.” His gaze drifted briefly toward the mountains. “One dissenter is all it takes, if they understand distribution.”
The way he said it—
Like it wasn’t history.
Like it was a principle.
“They show up in circulation from time to time,” he continued. “Merchants. Ruins. Mines.” Another pause. “Usually incomplete.”
I felt cold.
The pages. The way they changed. The way it vanished.
“You’ve seen one,” he said.
Not a question.
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t deny it either.
Demetrius exhaled softly through his nose.
“Then you understand,” he said.
“I don’t,” I shot back, a little too quickly. “It disappeared. I didn’t even get to finish reading it.”
That made him go still.
Not surprised.
Focused.
“Of course it did,” he said quietly.
Something about that made my chest tighten.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
He looked at me again—really looked this time.
Not like a neighbor.
Not like a scientist.
Like I was part of something he was mapping out.
“It means,” he said, “that it wasn’t done with you.”
Silence.
I felt it again—that same unease from earlier.
Like I was already involved in something I didn’t agree to.
Demetrius stepped back slightly.
“Don’t let it discourage you,” he added, almost casually. “Access to information is rarely linear.”
That wasn’t reassuring.
Not even close.
“There’s a great deal this town doesn’t understand about its own history,” he continued. “No reason for you to inherit that limitation.”
I shivered.
He said it like a compliment.
It didn’t feel like one.
“See you around, Eric.”
He walked past me, unhurried.
No tension. No second glance.
Like the conversation had gone exactly how he expected.
I stood there for a moment, the weight of it settling in slowly.
He hadn’t explained anything.
But somehow, I felt like I understood more than I wanted to.
The Wizard crossed my mind briefly.
If anyone would know about something like this…
I pushed the thought aside.
One problem at a time.
I headed toward the Saloon, the lights ahead feeling dimmer than they should have.
Hoping—quietly—that whatever waited inside was simpler than everything I’d just heard.
I passed the Help Wanted board I’d skipped that morning.
Help Wanted
Bream needed for a dessert.
—Sebastian
135g on delivery.
Bream… for dessert?
I stared at it for a second, then shook my head.
Some things in this town just weren’t worth figuring out.
The calendar beside it caught my eye.
Jas’s birthday. Tomorrow.
I had a daffodil back at the farm. That would do.
Simple. Easy.
I pushed the thought aside and stepped into the Saloon.
Pam, Shane, Gus, Emily, Clint, and Marnie were already there. The usual crowd. The usual noise.
“Ah, hello, Eric!” Marnie called, bright as always.
“Hey,” I said, taking a seat beside her.
“It’s nice of you to stop by,” she said. “Feels a little livelier these days. How’s Summer treating you so far?”
I glanced down at the counter, thinking.
“It’s… fine,” I said. “Just a lot going on.”
“That sounds about right,” Marnie replied with a soft laugh. “The Luau, the Moonlight Jellies… and Willy won’t stop talking about that Trout Derby.”
I nodded.
There was a pause.
A small one. Easy to miss.
The kind where a different question could’ve slipped in.
Lewis.
My grandfather.
I could’ve asked.
Instead—
“The Trout Derby,” I said. “You heard about those fishing sisters?”
Marnie looked up, a little surprised at the shift.
“Oh—yes, actually,” she said. “I’ve only heard about them, though. Supposedly they’re not much older than Jas.” She smiled faintly. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said.
Another pause.
I leaned back slightly, keeping my tone light.
“You ever think about getting into fishing?”
Marnie let out a quiet breath, her smile softening into something more tired.
“I wish I could,” she said. “But the farm takes up most of my time. Animals don’t really wait for you to feel like taking a break.” She glanced down at her drink. “When you’re looking after a place—and kids—it doesn’t leave much room for anything else.”
I nodded.
From across the room, I caught Shane looking away, his jaw tightening just a bit.
He didn’t say anything.
But he’d heard it.
Then Pam wandered over.
“Ah! Marnie!” she slurred. “Didn’t see you there. How’s life treatin’ you?”
Marnie’s shoulders dipped slightly.
“Fine,” she said.
Pam didn’t seem to notice.
“You headin’ to that Trout Derby?” she went on. “I would, but I never get the time anymore.”
Marnie raised an eyebrow.
“Really?” she said. “I’d think you’d have more time than most.”
Pam scowled immediately.
“Oh, come on. Taking care of my daughter’s hard work! And going to Joja every day? Exhausting! I can’t just leave Gus here on his own!”
Gus froze mid-wipe.
Slowly, he set the glass down.
“Pam,” he said flatly, not looking at her, “the Saloon will survive without you.”
She waved him off.
“Yeah, yeah.”
That’s when Shane stood up.
“Pam,” he said, voice sharp, “you’re one of the last people who should be talking about ‘hard work.’”
She turned on him instantly.
“Oh yeah? And who asked—”
“You yell at Claire over soda shortages,” Shane cut in, not raising his voice, just tightening it. “Loud enough that I have to step in so you don’t get kicked out.”
The room shifted.
Not louder.
Just… tighter.
Pam bristled.
“I can do whatever I want! I—”
She stopped mid-sentence.
Then doubled over, coughing hard before retching onto the floor.
Again.
No one reacted.
No one moved.
They just… waited.
Like this was routine.
Like it always ended the same way.
Shane dragged a hand down his face.
“Dear Yoba…” he muttered. “That’s the fifth time this year…”
“I’ll take care of it,” Clint said quietly, already reaching for the mop. “Don’t worry.”
Shane turned to Marnie.
“Aunt Marnie,” he said, calmer now, “we should head home. Jas is at Jodi’s, right? We can pick her up.”
Marnie nodded immediately, already standing.
As they passed, Shane hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then he gave me a small wave.
Not much.
But not nothing either.
I blinked, a little caught off guard.
“…Yeah,” I said under my breath.
“Well,” I added, standing, “I should probably head out too.”
“Eric,” Emily said softly, stepping closer, “want to walk me home?”
I looked at her, then nodded.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d like that.”
We stepped out into the night together.
The air had cooled just enough to feel intentional, like the day knew when to let go. The Saloon’s noise dulled behind us, replaced by crickets and the soft rhythm of our footsteps on packed earth.
It struck me then how fast Spring had passed.
Not quickly—just… completely.
“When I first got here,” I said, breaking the silence, “you were basically a stranger.”
Emily glanced at me, smiling.
“And now?”
I thought about it for a moment.
“Now you’re one of the closest friends I have.”
She slowed, just slightly.
“Really?” she asked, like the word surprised her.
“Yeah,” I said. “And the weird part is… it just happened. No effort. No worrying about saying the wrong thing. No trying to prove I was worth keeping around.”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“I spent most of my life doing that. Making sure I didn’t give people a reason to leave.”
Emily didn’t interrupt. She just listened.
“With you,” I continued, “it’s like… I don’t have to do anything. You just… are. And somehow that’s enough.”
She let out a soft laugh, quieter than usual—but warmer.
“That makes me really happy to hear,” she said. “I think… I’ve been feeling that too. Things feel a little less heavy lately.”
We walked a few more steps in silence.
“I’ve noticed Shane’s been acting better,” I said. “Since… you know.”
Emily nodded, thoughtful.
“I’ve noticed,” she said. “But change is fragile. Sometimes people want to be better before they know how.”
“That sounds about right.”
We passed by Marnie’s place, the barn dark and still for the night.
I slowed without meaning to.
“Marnie feels… tired,” I said. “Not physically. Just… like she’s carrying something she doesn’t get to put down.”
Emily followed my gaze.
“She carries more than most people see,” she said softly.
I hesitated.
There it was again—that question. The one I didn’t ask back in the Saloon.
About Lewis. About her. About my grandfather.
I exhaled.
“I almost asked her something tonight,” I admitted.
Emily glanced at me. “What stopped you?”
“I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.”
That earned a small, knowing look.
“What was the question?”
I took a second longer than I needed.
“…What really happened,” I said. “Between her and Lewis. And… where my grandfather fits into all of it.”
Emily didn’t respond right away.
“I grew up hearing grandpa’s stories about Lewis,” I continued. “About how he held this place together when things got bad. How he trusted him. Relied on him.”
My voice lowered.
“But he never spoke about Marnie.”
The silence stretched—not uncomfortable, just… deliberate.
“And now Lewis is asking me to find his ‘purple shorts’ and keep it discreet,” I added, a little sharper than I meant to. “And Marnie can’t even hear his name without—”
I cut myself off.
Emily didn’t push.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It just feels like I walked into something that already happened once.”
She tilted her head slightly.
“History doesn’t always repeat,” she said. “But people do.”
I let that sit.
We started walking again.
“You know how Clint’s always at the Saloon?” I asked her. “The way he looks at you?”
Emily sighed, but not in frustration.
“I know.”
“It reminded me of something,” I continued. “Marlon. The way he looks at Marnie.”
Emily’s expression softened.
“Some feelings don’t get to become anything,” she said gently. “They just… exist. Quietly. For a long time.”
“That sounds kind of miserable.”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “But not always. There’s something honest about it too.”
I frowned slightly. “Honest?”
She smiled, but there was something a little distant in it.
“Not everything is meant to be resolved,” she said. “Some things are just meant to be understood.”
We reached her house soon after.
She turned to me, eyes bright in the dim light.
“Thanks for walking me home,” she said. “Tonight meant a lot.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “It did.”
She hesitated—like she almost wanted to say something else—then just smiled and went inside.
I stood there for a moment longer than I needed to.
Then I turned back toward the farm.
Emily’s words lingered, quiet and persistent.
History doesn’t always repeat. But people do.
By the time I reached the road, I wasn’t sure which part worried me more.
The road back to the farm felt longer than usual.
Not because of the distance—because of the silence.
The valley had settled into itself. No voices. No music. Just wind through the trees and the faint rustle of leaves shifting against one another.
I passed the Community Center without stopping.
For a second, I thought about going in. Checking the boiler room. Making progress.
But I didn’t.
Emily’s words kept circling instead.
People repeat.
I thought about Lewis.
About Marnie.
About my grandfather—everything I knew, and everything I didn’t.
How much of his story was real?
How much of it was… edited?
The farm came into view, dim against the horizon.
It didn’t feel like an inheritance in that moment.
It felt like a continuation.
I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
