As he looked at the carts, men began stepping out one by one. Among them, a skinny man with a pickaxe ran toward him. When he reached him, he pulled him into a hug.
"Are you alright, Kael?" he asked, worry etched into his face.
It was his father.
The two went inside their small hut as the sun began to set. His father laid out some food, and as they sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, Kael began asking questions.
"Father, where did you go?" he asked between bites.
His father blinked, then chuckled softly. "Are you joking, son?"
"No," Kael replied flatly.
The smile faded. His father brushed a hand over Kael's bruised forehead, his eyes full of concern.
"Yesterday… you passed out in the heat. Dennis and I carried you back to the hut. Don't you remember?" His voice wavered, a mix of worry and warning.
He lowered his voice, glancing toward the door as though someone might be listening.
"Listen, son. Don't say things like that to others. If the overseers hear you, they'll brand you useless. For people like us—lower class—they can beat us, even drag us away. Do you understand?"
Overseers? Lower class? Kael kept his expression neutral, but his thoughts churned.
A sharp knock rattled the door.
*Knock-knock*
"Who's there?!" his father called.
"It's me, Dennis. They posted the new work schedule—you'll want to see it."
His father stepped outside, leaving Kael alone. He sat in silence, jaw tight.
"So this is the life you gave me, Norsh? Weak, powerless," he muttered.
A few minutes later, his father returned, his face brighter.
"Tomorrow we've got a day off!" his father exclaimed. "The overseers are giving the workers a break for the festival in the middle-class district. We'll have time to rest… and maybe you'll remember more of the world beyond the walls."
"Oh. That sounds nice," Kael replied, voice neutral, almost cold.
His father said earnestly, "Rest well tonight. Tomorrow before noon, we'll visit the middle-class district. Maybe seeing a bit more of the world will help you remember."
That night, Kael lay on a makeshift bed—his pillow just a bag stuffed with clothes, his blanket a thin sheet that barely held off the chill. The room smelled of earth and sweat.
Two wooden windows creaked in the wind, and in the corner sat clay pots with cups stacked neatly on top. Tools lay by the door, clothes scattered across the floor.
He stared at the wooden ceiling, bitterness clawing at his chest.
"What a pitiful life i got," he muttered.
Kael closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion of the day settle into his bones. But sleep didn't come easily. Flickers of a world he once knew—bright lights, towering buildings, silent weapons—haunted his mind, memories of a life that wasn't this one.
This isn't my life, he thought bitterly. It's just a shadow of what I was… what I can't be anymore.
A soft creak from the hut's door pulled him from his thoughts. His father had already fallen asleep, snoring lightly on the opposite side of the room. The flickering dim light from a single oil lamp cast shadows across the walls, turning familiar objects—clay pots, scattered clothes, the rough wooden beams—into silent sentinels.
Kael sat up, rubbing his forehead. "Tomorrow," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else, "I'll see what's out there. Maybe… maybe something will jog my memory."
He stood slowly, careful not to disturb his sleeping father, and peeked out the window at the moon rising above the mud huts.
For the first time that night, a spark of resolve ignited in his chest. Kael clenched his fists. I may be weak here, powerless, forgotten—but that's temporary. One day, I'll rise again.
He lay back down, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The bitter taste of reality lingered—but now it carried a hint of determination.
…..
*Cock-a-doodle-doo*
The next morning, a sharp call of a rooster cut through the air, rousing the village from its sleep. Kael stirred and noticed his father wasn't there. Curious, he got up and opened the wooden door.
*Chop-chop!*
Outside, men were chopping wood in the early morning light. Among them, Kael spotted his father carrying a stack of logs, moving with practiced ease.
"Oh… you're awake, son! Wait a few minutes—I'm almost finished," his father called, breathing heavily.
A few minutes later, his father returned home and handed Kael a small, thin branch of wood.
"What is this, Father?" Kael asked, puzzled.
"It's for brushing your teeth… son. Watch me first," his father said, his expression neutral. He chewed one end of the stick until the fibers frayed, then rubbed it against his teeth in a careful, practiced motion.
Kael hesitated. He had never imagined people using sticks like this—back in his previous life, a high-tech automatic tooth-cleaning device did all the work. Tentatively, he mimicked his father, the rough wood scraping awkwardly against his teeth. The taste was bitter and earthy, nothing like the minty paste he remembered.
As Kael finished, he noticed the villagers beginning their morning routines. Steam curled from a few earthen stoves outside nearby huts, and people stirred pots or carried firewood. In its rough rhythm, the morning brought the village together.
"Father… what is that?" Kael asked, his voice tinged with confusion.
His father chuckled, a grin spreading across his tired face. "That's our breakfast, son. A community meal."
Kael was surprised to see such unity among the villagers. He glanced around and noticed two more earthen stoves, where elderly women stirred clay pots with wooden sticks, their laughter mixing with the rising aroma of soup.
In his old world, such open unity usually hid knives in the dark. Here, though, the villagers' warmth carried no pretense. That honesty felt strange… and dangerous in its own way.
"Come, son," his father said warmly. "Let's wash up at the well and eat. We'll need to be ready early for the trip to the middle-class district."
"Yes, Father," Kael replied flatly.
He tossed the chewed stick aside and followed. Within minutes, they reached the well facing east. The rising sun painted the horizon gold as they splashed cold water over their faces and scrubbed the night's heaviness away.
When they returned, steaming bowls of soup were handed out—one for each person. Kael took his portion. For the villagers, this simple meal was enough to start the day.
Kael tugged the straps of his worn leather shoulder bag over his green tunic, adjusting the frayed hem of his beige half-pants. The leather shoes were sturdy but scuffed. It wasn't much, but it would have to do in the middle-class district.
"Are you ready son…" his father said with an excited expression.
"Yes… father!" He replied.
Kael's father walked along the dirt path, his thin frame draped in a faded lapis tunic, patched in places and cinched with a fraying leather belt. Muted blue trousers cut at the calves revealed worn woolen stockings tucked into scuffed boots. His hands, rough and stained from decades of labor, swung loosely at his sides—a fifty-year-old man shaped by years of honest toil.
The dirt path stretched ahead, lined with rows of mud-brick huts. Their walls were cracked and sunbaked, patched with fresh clay where the old mud had crumbled. Roofs sagged under years of heat and rain, and narrow doorways opened directly onto the path.
Smoke and steam curled from earthen stoves set outside the huts, carrying the rich scent of simmering food through the alleys. Villagers stirred clay pots, checking soups and porridges as the morning sun painted the walls gold.
The air was thick with dust, ash, and the scent of cooking wood—heavy, earthy, and unmistakably alive.
"Within a few minutes, we'll reach the middle-class district," his father said. Kael's eyes flicked ahead to streets wider and cleaner.
A knot of anticipation tightened in his chest as the cobblestone path sloped upward. Beyond the rise, something waited—something unlike the world he had known.