The village had a name—*Veldrin*—but to me, it was simply **the world**.
I did not speak. Not yet. Words were clumsy things, bound by human limitations. Instead, I **watched**.
### **The Weakness of Bodies**
The villagers were soft. Breakable.
- Old Man Herin's hands shook as he carved wood, his knuckles swollen with years. Yet every morning, he sat outside his hut, shaping toys for the children.
- Lissa, the baker's daughter, coughed through winter, her lungs rattling. Still, she hauled sacks of flour twice her weight.
- My father returned from the fields each night with blisters, his shoulders red under the sun. But he always smiled when he lifted me onto his lap.
I did not understand.
In my past life, inefficiency was corrected. Weakness was purged.
Here, they **persisted**.
---
### **The Rituals of Survival**
I learned the rhythm of the village:
1. **Dawn:** The women gathered at the well, their chatter sharp as knives. They traded gossip like currency, their laughter carrying farther than the sound of the bucket hitting water.
2. **Noon:** The men rested under the oak, passing a wineskin. Their stories grew taller with each sip—tales of wolves the size of horses, of storms that could flatten mountains.
3. **Dusk:** The children chased fireflies, their bare feet slapping against packed earth. They fell, scraped their knees, and got up again.
I sat in the dirt, tracing patterns no one else could see.
**[Calculation: Village population—87. Average lifespan—52.3 years. Threat assessment: High mortality from disease, famine, predators.]**
Yet they lived.
Day after day.
---
### **The First Lesson**
One evening, a storm rolled in. The wind screamed through the thatch roofs, and rain turned the paths to rivers.
My father bolted the shutters. My mother lit the hearth.
And then—
A scream.
Old Man Herin's roof had collapsed.
The villagers ran **toward** the danger, not away. They dug through the wreckage with bare hands, their backs bent under the rain.
No one hesitated.
No one calculated the odds.
When they pulled Herin out, coughing but alive, the cheer they let out was louder than the thunder.
I clutched my mother's skirts, my fingers numb.
**[Conclusion: Illogical behavior. Risk/reward ratio unfavorable. And yet…]**
That night, as the village feasted in celebration, I stared into the fire and wondered:
Was this weakness?
Or was this **strength**?