The village looked even worse up close.
Huts leaned crookedly as if a single gust of wind would topple them. Roofs were patched with leaves and mud that leaked during the slightest rain. Chickens darted between cracks in wooden fences that were more hole than wood.
Adrian Kane, once a man who sketched skyscrapers, now stood at the edge of a settlement that could barely survive a storm.
He couldn't help but mutter, "These aren't houses. These are… glorified piles of sticks."
A few villagers noticed him and froze. Their eyes widened at his strange clothes—boots of polished leather, a shirt without patches, and his tall frame that carried confidence even in confusion. A boy tugged at his mother's sleeve, whispering something about a wanderer.
Then, the village chief emerged. An old man with a cane, his back bent like the roofs around him. He squinted at Adrian before raising a trembling voice.
"Stranger… what brings you here? You carry no sword, no pack. Lost, are you?"
Adrian hesitated. Telling them the truth—that he had died and woken under two suns—was madness. He forced a polite smile. "I'm… new here. Just passing by. But I noticed…" He gestured at the huts. "Your homes aren't very sturdy."
Murmurs rippled through the small crowd. Some scoffed, some grew suspicious.
The chief frowned. "They've stood for many seasons. What's it to you?"