Michael woke with the kind of groggy disorientation that came from poor sleep in an unfamiliar bed. For a few precious seconds, he thought he was back home. The quilt smelled faintly of smoke and herbs, the rafters above him strange but familiar in their symmetry. He shifted under the covers, half-dreaming, half-clinging to the idea that the world outside would be his own.
And then it returned.
The village. The fire. The broth. The voices of Lucan and Camilla. Skyrim.
He lay still, staring at the rafters until his eyes ached, willing himself to process it again. He had not woken back on the bus. He had not dreamed it. He was here. Still here.
His ribs protested as he rolled to sit upright. Bruised, but not unbearable. The ache was sharpest when he took a deep breath, so he kept his breathing shallow. He swung his legs to the floor, pulling his backpack close.
Time to take stock.
The backpack was damp at the corners, dirt smeared into the fabric. But everything inside was intact. He spread the contents carefully across the quilt, each item a piece of his old life laid bare under the morning light.
Plastic water bottle, half full. The cheap kind from a corner store, scuffed from the fall.Granola bars, a full packet of berry-flavored ones. Eight bars. He resisted the urge to eat one immediately.Painkillers, a blister pack of paracetamol. Twelve tablets left. He hadn't thought much of them before — now they were precious.Two battery packs, one ordinary, one with a solar panel. He traced the panel with his finger, silently praying the weak Skyrim sun would be enough.Two extra pairs of boxers, folded neatly, absurd in their normality here.Computer bag, nested inside the backpack, containing his laptop and accessories — charger, mouse, headset. Heavy. Useless without power, but his fingers lingered on it. Proof of home.Glass food container, once holding his lunch. Empty now, scrubbed roughly clean last night.Leatherman multi-tool, sturdy and sharp, the most useful thing he owned now.Wallet, holding ID, cards, and about 1000 Swedish kronor in mixed bills. He shuffled through them, the bright paper looking alien in this wooden room. Worthless here, except maybe as kindling.And finally, his phone. He turned it on. The battery, recharged from the banks, sat at 89%. No signal, no service. But the time ticked on.
He stared at the glowing screen longer than he should have. It was a piece of another universe resting in his palm, fragile and finite.
When he went downstairs, Camilla was already up, apron tied, sweeping the shop floor. She looked up as he entered, her sharp gaze softening slightly.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning," Michael replied, his Swedish accent heavy on the English vowels.
Lucan was propped on a chair near the hearth, his ankle bandaged and leg stretched. He grinned broadly when he saw Michael. "There's our hero! Did you sleep well?"
Michael managed a smile. "As well as I could."
Lucan chuckled, but Camilla eyed the bundle in Michael's arms — the phone. Curiosity lit her features. "What is that?" she asked.
Michael hesitated. Then, slowly, he held it up. "A… tool. Where I come from."
They both leaned in. He pressed the button. The screen flared to life, startling them both. Camilla gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Lucan swore under his breath.
Michael swiped, opened the camera, and pointed it at them. "Look." He tapped the shutter. The sound made them jump. Then he turned the screen, showing their faces staring back at themselves.
Camilla's eyes widened. She reached out but stopped short of touching it. "By the Nine…"
Lucan leaned forward, fascinated. "It's… a painting. No, clearer. A mirror that remembers. How?"
Michael shrugged. "It just works. Where I'm from, everyone has one."
Their amazement was almost childlike. Lucan laughed in disbelief. "If you sold that, you could buy half of Skyrim!"
Michael shook his head quickly. "No. The power doesn't last. It will die eventually."
Camilla tilted her head, suspicion tempered by awe. "Even so… it's wondrous."
Michael smiled faintly and powered it down, sliding it back into his pocket. He didn't want to waste more battery. "Better to save it."
Lucan leaned back, still grinning. "Michael, you're full of surprises."
The rest of the morning was spent in work. Lucan's ankle kept him seated, so Michael offered to help.
Despite his rib ache, he followed Camilla's directions to the chopping block outside. The air was sharp with frost, the river rushing nearby. He picked up the axe, heavy in his hands, and lined a log on the block.
The first swing jarred his bruised ribs, pain spiking through his chest. He hissed, teeth clenched. But the log split cleanly.
Again.
And again.
By the fifth log, his muscles trembled. By the tenth, sweat dampened his hoodie despite the cold air. Camilla passed by, watching silently. Finally she said, "Not bad. For a stranger."
Michael grinned weakly. "We heat our homes in Sweden too."
She raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar word but let it pass.
Later, he carried buckets from the river, water sloshing cold on his hands. He scrubbed his empty glass food container clean and filled his water bottle, tightening the cap carefully. Small victories, but they steadied him.
Inside, Lucan called out as Michael set the buckets by the hearth. "Already part of the household, eh? Careful, Camilla, or he'll replace me before I'm healed."
Camilla rolled her eyes. "If he does the work, I won't complain."
Michael laughed softly. For a moment, the world felt… normal.
By midday, his ribs ached and his hands blistered, but he felt something new stirring beneath the fear. Routine. Work. A rhythm to hold onto.
The truth still pressed heavy on him — that he was trapped in a universe he had once only played, that dragons and Daedra were real, that his life would never be the same. But as he chopped wood and fetched water, as Camilla muttered about inventory and Lucan dreamed aloud of caravans and profit, he realized something important.
For now, he was alive.
And that was enough.