Coffee, I thought, finishing my business by a small scrub near the worksite.
I tied the last knot on the chopped wood bundle, slinging the leather straps over my shoulder. The weight settled as I set off from the woods, my steps steady and focused. The mantra echoed in my mind: Focus on the routine. Nothing else. Nothing more.
I closed my eyes briefly, letting the sounds of the forest sharpen around me. The orchestra of nature played on: birds singing and flapping through the trees, squirrels foraging for nuts and scampering up and down branches, dragonflies darting toward a pond, and frogs hopping lazily on lily pads, eyeing their next meal.
Slowly, the sounds faded as I emerged from the last clutches of moss and greenery. Ahead lay the town, just beyond the southern edge of the woods, where a dirt road awaited—dirty enough to soil boots and stir coughs for the sensitive-nosed.
A weathered sign greeted me: "Dry Peak Town South Gate." I was home.
This place felt ancient and forgotten, perched between forest and desert—a threshold between reality and a magic-tinged refuge. Few found it by choice; it revealed itself only to those detached from society's iron grasp. Some whispered a wizard conjured it, a sanctuary "for the people, by the people."
When I first found Dry Peak, it was a ghost town—rotting and abandoned, with only a saloon, manor, and post office standing. Slowly, folks like me, Chilly, Sheriff Arin, and Mayor Blackwood breathed life back into it, building homes and businesses to meet our needs. We were founders, though no one celebrated it. We had roles, and we kept them quiet.
The post office has had its mysterious allure when looking at it, we use it to send letters to the outside of town, and it's run by the Tomson couple, who we taught how to use the machine.
On the porch, shaded in shadow, sat an old man with a long gray beard and small, round glasses, engrossed in a letter. He looked up, smiled, and waved. I waved back, signing:[Afternoon, Mister Kimin. Day of the letter?]
He replied with a familiar sign:[Bloody Monday. Headache day. A pint might fix it. When are you coming by?]
I grinned and signed back:[Not until there's a gap in my routine.]
He sighed, signing again:[So never.]
He returned to his letter. I felt a pang in my chest watching him—humans were so emotional. Tomorrow, I'd surprise him with some wild tea from the woods, a small kindness from a founding member, even if his daughter despised me.
Mr. Kimin was the father-in-law of Mr Tomson's wife, a bitter woman in her late thirties who bore a strong dislike for me—or anyone like me. Joke's on her—I'm not like them. Her husband was kind and caring, though, and I respected that.
Further down, two men worked on a house's interior—Hoover and Holmes, the so-called Twins, miners who bore identical faces and brows glistening with sweat. We rarely spoke beyond nods and passing waves. They were busy men.
The mayor, Blackwood, lived nearby, wealthy but mostly absent, leaving his secretary or wife to run his office. Erica Reia was a woman of many talents and trouble. She often disrupted my shop to stare at me or Sean, though mostly Sean. It irritated me.
I reached my shop, proud of the wooden building I'd built with my own hands. Through the window, I saw no sign of Sean. He should've been behind the counter, managing inventory or studying blueprints.
Closing my eyes, I calmed myself. The routine had to stay intact. But she had come, and with her, the disruption. My intuition told me where Sean was.
I set the bundle of wood on the porch, marched to the storeroom, and found the door tied shut with a handkerchief. I knocked.
No answer—only muffled whispers.
My voice was tired but firm: "Sean, this isn't a brothel or some corner for infidelity, Mrs. Erica."
I pulled the door open to see one figure atop a shelf, the other stripping off clothes. Sean wore blue overalls like myself; Erica's revealing form was mostly hidden by him. Clothes littered the floor, and embarrassment washed over me—thoughts of Feldway's teasing smile and her own "gifts" made it worse.
Before they could speak, I said, "Catch your breath. Get dressed. Meet me at the counter. Sean, get to work."
I turned and walked off, picking up the wood bundle and heading to my planking machine.
Gloves on, I inspected the machine. The crystal fillings sufficed for two planks; the belt needed replacing—something Sean often forgot. Should I tell Mrs. Erica to focus on her own business and stop ruining his passion for woodwork? The tube was clean; thankfully, no leftover debris.
I flicked the switch, and the machine roared to life. Pulling a glowing crystal stick from the shelf, I fed it into the machine's slot. Sparks lit the tube as I pushed the log forward.
The doorbell chimed. Sean entered, dragging Erica behind him. Sean immediately sank onto a visitor's stool; Erica winked at me, sending a shiver down my spine. I switched off the machine, peeled off my gloves, and took a seat behind the counter.
They sat before me—an open secret, an affair in plain sight.
I pointed toward the motel visible through the window: "There's a bed there for your... activities. The storeroom isn't a brothel closet for late-night escapades—or the clothes you leave behind."
Sean rolled his eyes; Erica waved her hand dismissively. I scoffed: "This is your last warning. I'm one step from telling the sheriff, who'll notify your husband, Mrs. Erica."
She chuckled, amusement dripping from her words: "Formal now, Sweet Giant?"
I hated that nickname. She clung to stereotypes about my kind—descendants of giants.
Breathing deep, I gestured to the storeroom, then at Sea: "Sean, fetch the blueprints for the mayor's order and the tools I need."
He nodded silently, eyes still locked on Erica, who shifted, looking at me with a dangerous smile.
"So, Sweet Giant, alone at last. What did you want to discuss?" she purred.
I folded my arms: "This thing of yours will get you caught. I won't waste arrows—or resources—on a broken stage play again."
She laughed: "Adultery, huh? He's my age, right?"
"He's eighteen," I replied sharply. "I need him focused, not distracted by your games."
"This is your final warning. I saved you—gave you a home, a job, a husband. If you do this for pleasure, I'll be forced to tell your husband or the law."
I stood and pointed to the door. Sean rang the bell, entering with the blueprints and tools, tension thick as I towered over Erica. His hands clenched. I gave a mocking bow to her—respect was due. She was a lady, after all.
I turned to Sean, my gaze cold: "Take Mrs. Erica to the manor. Inform the mayor that the order will be completed within two days. Payment is due at 9:45 sharp, from his servant Camello or Mrs. Erica."
They left. I sighed, rubbing my temples. The routine must hold.
I lit the machine and returned to work.
***
Outside the shop, walking through town. Sean and Erica walked silently, but tensely, when they felt chills run down their spines.
They saw a man with a golden star nod hello at them.
Once out of earshot, Sean exhaled:
"Damn, I was this close." He held two fingers near. "Almost told Mister Enoch to fuck off. But your trembling—and that glare—stopped me."
Erica teased: "Fear is justified when it's aimed at the Sweet Giant. Try harder." She pinched his cheeks, which made Sean look at her, confused.
Sean laughed nervously: "Only my mother pinches my cheek like that."
Her smile faded. Fury crept in: "Am I that old little Sean?"
Sean quickly changed the subject:
"Should we find somewhere else? That monster's shop—I mean, my boss's."
She shook off her thoughts:
"Come to my office on Wednesday. Stop calling him a monster just because you don't understand him."
Sean looked up thoughtfully:
"I'll stop when he explains why he lives like some creature playing a role to fit in and hide. Sometimes his actions make me wonder what he is. 'Monster' is just my label for the unknown."
Her voice softened:
"I've known him for three years. You've worked with him for five years. Why haven't you asked who he is?"
Sean chuckled bitterly:
"Think I haven't tried? He keeps his cards close. Teaches silently but shares nothing from his world or past. His silence can be enough when he teaches, but he feels detached and oblivious to some things. That feels normal, but I never ask about them or mention them to mom or anyone."
Sean saw Enoch as disciplined and strong, but frightening—a monster locked in an act to play. He'd once heard Enoch mutter, The routine is still intact, but never pressed for more.
Erica snapped him from his thoughts: "We're here."
She pointed to the looming Blackwood manor that loomed with its shadow cast on both him and Erica.
Sean's thoughts darkened: Like us—powerful, beautiful, but too scary to explore.
He knew the cost if the manor's master discovered their secret.