The town was called Brindle Cross, according to the wooden sign that leaned like an old man listening to gossip. Malik practiced saying it aloud, testing whether his tongue belonged here.
The market square smelled of bread, horses, and optimism. People wore clothes that looked sewn by grandmothers with strong opinions: sturdy fabrics, bright threads, pockets everywhere. No one stared at him more than usual, which was comforting. Apparently, new strangers were not uncommon.
He was examining a stall of blue apples—blue, actually blue—when a voice collided with him.
"You're new. I can tell because you're looking at those apples like they owe you money."
Malik turned to meet a girl about his age, maybe younger, with hair tied in a knot that had escaped all authority. She carried a basket already full of the rebellious fruit.
"I was just admiring the… blueness," he said.
"First rule of Brindle Cross," she announced, "never admire produce. It makes them arrogant." She stuck out a hand. "Lira. Professional explainer of obvious things."
"Malik. Professional at being confused."
Lira laughed as if she had been waiting all morning for that sentence. She dragged him through the market, naming everything—cobblers who argued with shoes, a fountain that sometimes told lies, a baker who sang to his dough so it would rise feeling loved.
Malik felt himself loosening, like a knot discovering it didn't need to be tight anymore.
"So where are you from?" Lira asked casually.
"Far away," he said, which was both true and useless.
"Everyone says that. Even people from the next village." She studied him with bright, curious eyes. "You don't feel far away, though. You feel… newly unwrapped."
He almost told her about the truck, the message, the goddess with her very specific career advice. Instead he asked, "Is there a place someone can stay while they figure out what world they're in?"
"My aunt runs a boarding house," Lira said. "She charges in coins or interesting stories. You look expensive either way."
By evening Malik had a small room smelling of lavender and old wood, and a friend who talked enough for three. Lira taught him how to greet neighbors, which berries were polite, and which alley cats were secretly philosophers.
For the first time since the truck, he slept without dreaming of tires.