Months continued to blur together.
Shad rose with the sun now. The early light that poured in through the gaps in the roof still fascinated him, as if the sun always greeted him like a close friend.
He started each morning before Jess awoke, stepping outside to chop wood or fetch water from the river. The cold splash against his skin reminded him he was alive—not on a battlefield, not hunted, not feared.
From time to time, he even caught himself smiling. At first, it was reserved, cautious. But now, it was soft and natural.
One time, Jess caught Shad doing something in his own peculiar way—like trying to sweep the floor with the wrong end of the broom or awkwardly mashing herbs into what he assumed was "some kind of poultice." She couldn't remember the last time she had smiled so much in a single day.
"You're learning," she'd giggle, correcting him gently.
"Even if you look like you were raised by wolves." He gave her a crooked smirk once, but said nothing—a kind of smile he would've never made before.
He never told her about the strange thoughts, the dreams that were actually memories. Nor was there any need to.
The dreams were painful, but every morning was peaceful. When he opened his eyes, all he saw was the wooden ceiling and Jess sleeping nearby on her own bedroll. She used to sleep on the floor while he slept in her bed.
But once he caught a peek inside the other houses, he realized what he had done wrong. So, he made an effort to build a new bed—larger, sturdier—so Jess could sleep more comfortably.
Then, one day, Jess handed him a dull dagger.
"For whittling," she said. "Thought it might suit you better than an axe. You look like the quiet, knife-carving type."
He didn't know what that meant, but he took it anyway.
At first, he just scratched at twigs. Then, eventually, he carved the shape of a bird. A clumsy one. Its wings were uneven, its beak too long.
But Jess took it anyway.
"It's beautiful. You might have a talent for sculpting," she said, giggling as she set it on the windowsill.
The next day, he made a fox. The day after, a tiny horse. She lined them up in the corner of the hut like trophies.
"A forest of animals," she called it. "Guardians of peace."
Shad only nodded.
Soon, a year had unknowingly passed. Shad had grown nearly two feet taller, from 5'8" to 6 feet. Jess had grown as well, but only by a few inches.
Then one night, sitting beside the fire, Shad asked quietly, "Jess Lilia... why do you live alone?"
She hesitated, poking the embers with a stick.
"I once lived in a city, a place way bigger than the village. But my parents died when I was little," she said softly. "The village folk took me in when I was traveling… I just liked being a little apart. It's quieter. No one bothers you. You're free to be who you want."
Shad didn't answer. He wasn't even asking seriously.
And honestly, who cared? Even he had no idea who he still was—or whose body he had taken. Was it even that important? To him, not anymore.
But her words struck him more than she knew.
Later that night, while she slept, Shad stepped outside.
The sky was clear, the stars glittering like ice in a velvet sea. He stared at them for a long time.
"I could stay here," he whispered, not knowing who he was saying it to.
"I could… live like this. Just like her."
Another month passed.
The fields began to grow, and with them, Shad's patience. He rose earlier than ever, tending to the sprouting crops like a man obsessed—checking soil, chasing off insects, building sturdy fences with sharpened stakes.
Jess smiled at his diligence, but the villagers started keeping their distance. They admired the beauty of the growing field… and it did seem like his was the most radiant. But the man who tended it was difficult.
It wasn't just his lack of interaction with others or his curt replies when greeted.
One afternoon, the village chief's five-year-old son wandered too close, pointing at a strange vine curling through the fence. The moment he reached out to touch it—
Shad was there.
Faster than the child could blink.
"Don't," he said, his voice low and cold.
His eyes—usually golden and calm—flashed crimson for just a moment. Just long enough to scare the boy into tears.
Later, Jess dragged him to the boy's house to apologize. Shad was reluctant, but eventually offered a stiff bow. The family accepted, though uneasily.
"He's just… protective," Jess explained, covering for him.
It became a running joke in the village:
"Don't touch Shad's corn."
But deep down, everyone knew it wasn't just overprotectiveness. Something dangerous was sleeping inside him.
"They won't take your corn and rice, okay? Especially a child," Jess said one evening.
"You don't know that. And if that were true, there wouldn't be quarrels between them about who owns what and who took what. Humans are all the same. It's in their nature to take advantage of others."
Jess sighed. She had known Shad long enough to understand he wasn't ordinary.
"So you think I'm the same?" Jess asked with a soft smile.
Just glancing at her, Shad replied flatly, "You are a human, indeed. You might be the same. But you try to be good, at least. That's what matters. And I know you. Them? Not really."
Jess could never get used to how cold he could be sometimes, but over time, she just laughed.
Sighing, she hit him lightly on the arm. "If that's your standard, then maybe you can talk to them too. You'll see there are good people in this world."
"I don't want to."
"You! Right, you keep saying humans this, humans that. Aren't you also a human? Don't tell me you're secretly a monster or something. Hahaha."
Shad just smiled—soft, gentle, even proud.
"I am different," he said.
Meanwhile, later that night, a man with hard, dragging footsteps and dangling iron chains around his neck and limbs came barefoot—thin, ragged, desperate.
Shaking his pursuers away, he stumbled down the cliff. And seeing the light of the village…
He ran, blood dripping from his head.