Nights here are long.

  To avoid suspicion or questions, I try not to move around after dark and keep quiet.

  Only occasionally do I get up—to watch the moons, which truly are astonishing.

  They’re roughly the same size, but their light feels different. One appears slightly redder than the other.

  I wonder what causes that.

  Finally, when the first rays of sun appear, I begin preparing for the day ahead.

  I check my condition: Are all my bones in place? Has any parasite crawled inside me? Does anything smell like rot?

  Satisfied that everything’s as it should be, I head downstairs.

  I finished tending Granny Brin’s field yesterday, so I’m not sure what I’ll do today.

  But knowing her, I doubt I’ll be left idle.

  As I descended the stairs, I met the girl from yesterday’s adventurer group.

  “Her name’s Bery, I think,” I recalled.

  I stopped and gestured for her to pass.

  — “Thank you,” she said in a sleepy voice.

  Without her hat, I could see two braids coiled on her head like ram’s horns.

  “And what even are rams?!”

  The thought struck me so hard I froze in place—completely still—for half an hour.

  Stolen story; please report.

  I only snapped out of it when a pair of yellow eyes locked onto me from around the corner.

  — “Slacking off?”

  I shook my head firmly and made my whole posture say: I’m ready to work.

  A flicker of approval—and something like satisfaction—passed through her gaze.

  — “You finished my field yesterday, but we don’t keep freeloaders here. So I’ve got work for you on the neighboring plots. No rush this time—take your time, do it when you do it.”

  Her tone held no question. The decision had already been made.

  Clearly, my habit of laboring from dawn till dusk had drawn unwanted attention.

  I’ll need to tone it down.

  — “The plot’s just to the left of mine. Old Dro usually putters around there. You’ll find him. Porridge’s on the table, and I packed you a lunch—can’t have you baking all day in the sun.”

  She handed me a small basket.

  Finding the old man was easy: shirtless, scowling, with long, drooping mustaches, he was slowly digging up one of the overgrown shrubs dotting the area.

  I greeted him with a nod and surveyed the plot I’d be working.

  It was about the same size as Brin’s—but looked slightly neater in places.

  — “I can handle the big weeds myself, slowly enough… but there’s too many little ones. Can’t keep up. Old age isn’t kind. My hand’s been aching ever since that wound I got when I was young. Back then, we were clearing forest…”

  His voice was monotone, and the story just… kept going. And going.

  Hours passed like that.

  I pulled and trimmed the noxious weeds while, into ears I don’t have, poured a tale spanning sixty-five years of life: his village adventures, risky escapades with friends, and his seven wives—whom, somehow, he outlived.

  By sunset, I said goodbye to Dro and headed back to the tavern.

  As I left, I noticed a faint smile playing beneath his long mustaches—and the grey fog in his eyes had lifted.