It was late in the afternoon, long past the height of midday, when at last they reached the place that marked the end of their long journey. The sun had begun its descent, low in the heavens, spilling its warmth across the land in a light that no longer burned but lingered—soft, stretched thin, its golden hue already touched with amber. In its slanted glow, the dust that hung in the air seemed to drift more slowly, each mote lazily turning in the fading day.
The road from Pewter had been a quiet one. The city's clamour—the shouts of markets, the clang of workshops, the chatter of voices—had gradually ebbed away until there was nothing left of it but memory. Their steps were now accompanied only by the rhythm of boots pressing into the earth and the faint rustle of brittle grass bending in the soft wind. The silence felt neither oppressive nor empty, but steady, like a companion walking beside them.
At last, as they crested the slope of a long ridge, the valley unfurled before them. Ash drew in a breath at the sight.
Nestled against the river's edge stood a structure that at once seemed humble and yet carried a quiet dignity: a small hydroelectric plant, framed in timber and marked by age. Its wood was weather-worn, bleached silver where the sun had stripped it bare, its frame leaning ever so slightly as though bowed by time. Yet it endured, steadfast, even as the world around it had changed.
Below it stretched a riverbed—empty now, utterly dry. Once a living channel of water, it was reduced to a barren mosaic of cracked clay and pale stone. Jagged rocks jutted through the desolation like the ribs of some ancient leviathan long dead and long forgotten. Between them clung the withered remnants of reeds, their brittle stalks tilting and swaying in the stagnant air, whispering faintly though there was little wind to move them.
Dominating the view was the waterwheel, its broad paddles suspended against the wall of the plant. Time had gnawed at the edges of the wood, splintering and bleaching them, but the iron hub and spokes remained proud, dark, and strong, refusing to yield to rust. Heavy, tar-black cables snaked away from the axle into the building, vanishing into the unseen dynamo within. It seemed to Ash that the wheel had not surrendered its will entirely—that it waited, patient but defiant, ready to turn once more if only the river would return and rouse it from its long slumber.
"So, what is this location?"
Flint stopped at the edge of the barren channel and let his gaze linger on the valley before them, his eyes tracing the outline of the weathered structure that stood against the river's edge. His voice, when it came, was measured, almost reverent.
"This," he said at last, "was once a hydroelectric plant—the heartbeat of this entire valley."
He let the words settle into the air before he went on.
"When the river ran strong, you could hear it from the ridges on stormy nights—the steady creak of the paddles as they turned, the low hum of the dynamo working tirelessly. Long before the cities drew their power from vast grids, it was places like this that kept the land alive. The river drove that wheel, and the wheel drove the dynamo. Every farm, every workshop, every home between here and the foothills drew its strength from this current."
Ash shifted forward, his curiosity stirred, while Pikachu adjusted its perch on his shoulder to see more clearly. Eevee crept ahead toward the bed of the river, sniffing at the cracked ground, placing each step carefully between the stones as though treading on fragile bones.
"Then what happened?" Ash asked softly. "Why did it stop?"
Flint's eyes remained on the waterwheel, unblinking. "Time," he said simply. "Priorities shifted. Upstream, the river was dammed for other purposes. The flow dwindled, and when the wheel began to slow, no one bothered to mend it. Eventually… it stopped. And when it stopped, so did this valley's heart."
They made their way down toward the plant. With each step closer, the building loomed larger, though it was unpretentious—no more than two modest rooms, its roof patched with mismatched boards, sagging faintly at the centre. Above the door, a sign hung askew, its letters faded but still legible:
Kanto Hydroelectric Station – Auxiliary Grid 3.
Inside, the air changed. It was cool, tinged faintly with the metallic breath of rust and the stale, oily tang of machinery left too long unused. The light filtering through cracks in the walls painted the floorboards in narrow stripes of gold, thin and uneven, like bars across the room.
The dynamo stood at the centre—a squat, sturdy cylinder of iron and copper. Its sheen had dulled, but its shape held, whole and waiting. Against one wall, coils of wire sat in ordered rows, their insulation cracked and weary yet not undone. In the corner, a workbench lay cluttered with tools, abandoned mid-task as though the worker had meant to return at any moment and never had.
Flint stepped into the shadowed room and placed his hand upon the dynamo's cool iron skin. His voice echoed faintly in the hollow space. "Quiet now," he murmured. "No one comes here anymore. The ground outside is treacherous, and the wind cuts through the walls like knives. Too cold. Too lonely. But it's a good place to train—no eyes watching, no distractions."
Ash stood still, letting the atmosphere sink into him. The quiet here was not the silence of emptiness, but of density. It pressed around him, thick and layered, like unseen history. It felt like a blanket—warm and strangely comforting—but also heavy, almost suffocating in its weight. Pikachu leapt softly to the floor, ears flicking at the groan of a beam shifting above. Eevee nosed at a roll of wire, pawing it once before retreating to Ash's side, eyes seeking reassurance.
Ash exhaled. "It feels right," he said at last. "This is the place."
Flint nodded once. "Then it's yours. Train here. If the wind rises, anchor yourself—it can strike suddenly and hard at the wheel."
At the threshold, he paused, resting his fingers lightly against the doorframe. The old wood creaked a tired reply. Then he stepped out into the waning light, his form stretching long in the amber glow before slowly dissolving into the horizon.
Ash found himself alone with his Pokémon, rooted at the heart of the room, the quiet wheel just beyond the wall. The silence wrapped around him again, heavy and warm, as though the valley itself were holding its breath, waiting.
----------------------------------------------
Ash stood in the center of the room, the quiet wheel just beyond the wall. Outside, the amber light deepened toward copper, and the shadows in the valley stretched long and cool.
'Before you leave', Roshi's voice murmured in his head, calm but insistent. 'See if the dynamo still works.'
Ash's gaze shifted toward the wall where the thick, tar-black cables disappeared outside. "The river's gone," he murmured. "It won't turn."
'Not by water', Roshi said. 'By you. There's a walking rig above the axle; use it.'
Ash stepped outside, Pikachu hopping down to follow, with Eevee trotting at his heel. The waterwheel loomed beside the building, its paddles motionless in the dry air. Above the hub, bolted into a sturdy wooden frame, was a broad horizontal handle connected to a set of pedals on a narrow platform. This mechanism let a person walk in place, pushing the handle forward in a slow circle to turn the wheel by muscle alone.
The wood was worn smooth where hands had gripped it, the grain darkened by years of use. Ash climbed onto the platform, feeling it shift slightly under his weight. He set his hands on the handle and his boots on the pedals.
At first, the wheel resisted. It was a stubborn weight that had been still for too long. Then, with a groan and a shudder, it began to move. The paddles dipped and rose in slow arcs, the iron hub turning with a steady rhythm. The cables trembled faintly as the motion fed into the dynamo inside.
From within the plant came a low hum, tentative at first, then fuller. It sounded like the machine remembering its purpose.
Roshi's voice came again. Now, check the output.
Ash slowed the wheel just enough to keep it turning, then called to Pikachu. "Stand by the terminals inside."
Pikachu darted into the plant, with Eevee following. Ash kept walking in a circle, feeling the strain in his legs and the pull in his shoulders. A moment later, from inside, there was a sharp, bright "Pika!" — not in alarm, but in surprise.
Ash stepped off the rig and went inside. Pikachu's cheeks were faintly glowing, with tiny sparks dancing at the tips. The little Pokémon gave a satisfied nod, confirming what Roshi had already said.
'It works', Roshi murmured. 'Not much, but enough. This place isn't dead.'
Ash smiled faintly. "Good to know."
They stepped back outside. The sun was almost gone now, with the first blue shadows pooling in the dry riverbed. Ash climbed down the bank, with Pikachu and Eevee following. The cracked clay crunched underfoot, and the jagged rocks cast long, sharp shadows. Between them, brittle reeds whispered in the faint breeze.
He walked a short way along the channel, noting where the boulders clustered, where the ground dipped, and where the wheel's paddles would once have caught the current. It was easy to imagine the sound of rushing water here — the roar and churn filling the valley, the wheel turning steadily.
But now, there was only the soft scuff of his boots and the occasional click of stone against stone.
The first stars began to appear when Ash climbed back up the bank. The lights of Pewter glimmered faintly in the distance.
"Alright," he murmured. "Let's head back."
Pikachu leapt to his shoulder, and Eevee fell into step beside him. The plant stood behind them, the wheel still and silent again, but no longer lifeless.
---------------------------------------------
The last light faded as Ash climbed out of the dry riverbed. The air had cooled, carrying the faint scent of dust and brittle reeds. Behind him, the plant stood in silhouette. The waterwheel was still and dark again, its paddles mere shapes against the deepening sky.
He adjusted his bag and started toward Pewter. Pikachu settled on his shoulder while Eevee padded close at his heel. The first lamps in the city flickered to life in the distance, their glow faint against the indigo horizon.
For a while, the only sounds were the crunch of gravel underfoot and the soft rhythm of his breathing. The quiet felt steady and almost soothing until his thoughts drifted to a place he didn't want them to go.
The hospital.
The sharp smell of antiseptic.
The harsh lights.
Her face in that last moment before he had turned away.
His chest tightened. He forced his eyes to the path ahead, counting his steps and focusing on the steady weight of Pikachu against his shoulder.
'You're still carrying it', Roshi's voice came, quiet but certain.
Ash didn't reply.
'You can't just shut it out forever.'
"I said not now," Ash muttered, his tone sharper than he meant. Pikachu and Eevee were giving him weird looks now.
Roshi was silent for a moment, then tried again, softer. 'You're not wrong to feel it. But you're wrong to think ignoring it will make it go away.'
Ash tightened his grip on the bag strap. "I'm fine," he said, though the words felt heavy in his mouth.
'You're not', Roshi replied, but there was no judgment in it, only a calm certainty.
Ash shook his head and forced his gaze upward to the first stars appearing above the ridge. He was only ten, but his shoulders bore a stubborn set. It was the kind that belonged to someone who had already decided he would carry his own weight, no matter how heavy it felt.
The rest of the walk passed in silence. The Pokémon Center's warm light spilled onto the street as they approached, a small island of brightness in the cool night. Ash pushed the door open, letting the familiar scent of polished floors and clean linen wash over him.
Whatever tomorrow brought, he'd face it then. Tonight, he just needed rest.