The Madman's Guide to Miracles

I picked up the two wooden buckets and headed back outside.

The afternoon air carried the scent of damp earth and wood smoke. People glanced at me as I passed. Some recognized the buckets and paid me no mind. Others recognized me, the stranger from outside the gates, their eyes lingering for a moment before they returned to their work.

I followed the sound of splashing water until a stone well came into view, a few villagers already gathered around it. I joined the short line without saying anything. The old wooden crank turned with a long groan as a woman hauled up a bucket, filled her pails, and stepped aside.

My turn.

I set Eliza’s buckets down, reached for the handle, and lowered a bucket into the darkness below. The rope was rough against my palms. I turned the crank, listening to the gears complain with every rotation, and the bucket emerged, dripping steadily. I poured the water into one of Eliza’s buckets, then lowered it again. By the time I’d filled the second one, my arms were already starting to feel the weight.

"...Heavy."

I hooked the handles with both hands and lifted. The water splashed over the rims, soaking the ground beneath my feet. I didn’t say anything else and turned around to head back toward Eliza’s house. Halfway there, I paused, because the buckets felt heavier than they appeared, water sloshing against the wooden sides with each step. I shifted my grip and kept going.

By the time I reached Eliza’s porch, my forearms were beginning to ache. I nudged the door lightly with my foot.

"Ma’am," I called. "I’ve got the water."

The door opened a moment later.

"There you are," Eliza said, stepping aside.

I carried the buckets in and set them down beside a large clay barrel. She let out a relieved sigh. "That saves me a trip."

I rolled my shoulders, working out the stiffness in my arms. "...Anything else?"

I meant it as a joke. Obviously she didn’t take it as one.

Eliza hesitated, looking around the room before her gaze settled on a neat stack of firewood by the stove. "Actually... I’m almost out of wood. I hate to ask, but could you split a little more?"

...Are you serious right now.

I glanced at the pile. There were only a handful of logs left, which, sure, technically meant she wasn’t lying, but come on. I’d been in this village for a grand total of two hours and I was already somebody’s personal handyman.

"...Sure," I said, because apparently that’s just who I was now.

Eliza smiled apologetically. "Thank you. The axe’s outside, by the chopping block."

I gave a small nod and stepped back out. The axe was leaning against a stump just as she’d said. I picked it up. It was heavier than it looked.

"...Right."

I dragged a fresh log onto the block, adjusted my grip, and raised the axe over my shoulder. She is putting me to goddamn work, and somehow I’m the one saying thank you for the privilege.

I let it fall.

The blade bit into the log and stopped. I stared at it for a second before planting a foot on the wood and tugging. It didn’t budge.

"...Seriously?" Man, I’m tired.

With a grunt, I pulled harder, and the axe finally loosened, almost causing me to stumble backward. I glanced at the log, which had a shallow crack.

"...This might take a while."

I reset the log, tightened my grip, and swung again. A little deeper this time. Then again, and again. Wood chips scattered across the ground. By the sixth swing, I noticed my breathing had become noticeably heavier.

Whoever said chopping wood was relaxing had clearly never done it.

I raised the axe once more, and the log finally split cleanly down the middle.

"...There we go."

I stacked the split logs next to the others, then reached for another, then another, the rhythm flowing effortlessly after some time. Sweat dripped down my forehead despite the cool breeze. When I finally put the axe down, the small pile had almost doubled in size. I wiped my brow with my sleeve and let out a deep breath.

"That should last her for a bit."

And if she asks for anything else, I swear to god.

I leaned the axe against the stump, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and headed back inside.

"Come in," Eliza called.

I stepped through the doorway. She looked past me toward the window. "You did all that?"

"There wasn’t much left."

She let out a quiet laugh. "Goodness... you’re stronger than you look."

A brief silence settled between us.

"You don’t have anywhere to stay, do you?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"I thought so." She lowered her gaze for a moment, a trace of sadness crossing her face before she quickly hid it. "...There’s an empty room here." Her eyes drifted toward the hallway. "It’s been unused for a while." She looked back at me. "If you don’t mind a small bed... you can stay here."

I hesitated. "Are you sure?"

She smiled faintly. Oh, now I get a room. Real generous, considering she’d hauled me straight from "hi, nice to meet you" to water duty to full-on lumberjack before it occurred to her I might need somewhere to sleep. I supposed that counted as kindness around here.

"You’ve spent the whole afternoon helping me. I think you’ve earned a roof over your head." She glanced toward the quiet room once more before adding softly, "Besides, the house has felt a little too empty lately."

I stepped inside, pulled out a chair, and sat down. The room was quiet except for the occasional pop from the stove. I glanced around before looking back at Eliza. She lowered herself into the chair across from me, letting out a small sigh as she adjusted her posture.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

"How long have you all been trapped here?" I finally asked.

Eliza rubbed her thumb over the edge of the table. "...A few months." She looked toward the window. "It started with people disappearing whenever they went outside the gates."

"And what happened to them?"

Her expression dimmed. "They adapted to the harsh reality around them... and eventually succumbed to it."

"I guess that answers my question."

She gave a weak nod. "Some clung to the hope of reaching another town, while others left to look for their loved ones."

Silence settled between us. After a moment, I asked, "How are you all managing to get by still?"

"We’ve got fields inside the walls, a well, and whatever the hunters manage to bring back during the day."

"And do you people really think that’s going to last? Humanity has always depended on civilization."

"It has to be."

I nodded slowly. "Has anyone figured out what those things actually are?"

Eliza shook her head. "No. People only ever see them while they’re running away." She trailed off, her lips pressing into a thin line before she forced herself to continue. "The ones who don’t..." She lowered her gaze. "Well, you already know."

I quietly looked at the floor. "I see." That was enough of an answer. It told me everything I needed to know.

My eyes wandered around the room before settling on a small framed photograph resting atop a cabinet. A man stood beside Eliza with an arm around her shoulders. They both wore genuine smiles.

"Your husband?" I asked, nodding toward it.

Eliza followed my gaze. "...Yeah." Her fingers brushed against the frame before falling away. She lowered her head.

I looked at the photograph for another moment. "What happened to him?"

A faint, bitter smile appeared on her face. "...You really don’t know when to stop before upsetting a woman, do you?" She let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the corner of her eye. After a brief pause, she continued. "He volunteered."

"Volunteered?"

"To go beyond the gates." Her voice trembled. "He wanted to search for people... maybe find another settlement... maybe find a way out."

So he left. I had already guessed where this was going.

"...I see." My gaze remained on the photograph. "...Then your husband was selfish."

Her chair shot backward. "WHAT?!" She glared at me, disbelief written across her face. "My husband was the opposite of selfish! He was selfless!"

Right on cue.

I raised a hand. "Sit down."

She didn’t move.

"Just listen."

"He had no choice—"

"He did." The words left my mouth before she could finish.

Silence.

I looked her in the eye. "He had a pregnant wife. He had a child who hadn’t even taken its first breath."

Call me cynical. Call me heartless. I don’t care. I’ve never understood people like that. People loved calling them heroes. I didn’t. Maybe it was because I’d seen too many children grow up without parents. Maybe it was because I knew exactly what it felt like to be left behind. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t admire it.

I looked back at Eliza. "Once you choose to become someone’s husband, and when you decide to become a father, you don’t get to put those responsibilities aside whenever something more important comes along."

She bit her lip. "He wanted to help people..."

"And who was supposed to stay here with you?" I asked quietly.

Her lips parted. She opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat. Her lips trembled before she slowly lowered her gaze, unable to answer.

I lowered my eyes. "Helping people isn’t wrong. But someone else could’ve gone. You..." I glanced at her stomach. "...only had one husband."

The room fell silent. The only sound left was the fire quietly crackling in the stove.

"He... h-hhe... kgh..." Her voice broke apart into ragged sobs. She clutched at her clothes with trembling hands, tears streaming uncontrollably down her face.

"H-He... kgh... he was a good person..." She struggled to catch her breath, every word coming out muffled between sobs. "H-He always... snff... always helped me when I was feeling down..."

She covered her mouth, but it did nothing to stop the cries escaping through her fingers.

"Uwaaah...! H-He was... hic... he was just too selfless..." Her shoulders shook violently. "H-He never... snff... never thought about himself..."

She squeezed her eyes shut, her voice cracking completely. In that moment, she looked less like an adult and more like a child overwhelmed by grief, stripped of every ounce of composure as sorrow consumed her completely.

"H-He only wanted... kgh... to get medicine... f-for the people who got sick... th-that’s all...!"

What? Medicine for the people who’re sick? A bad feeling settled in my stomach. That’s a red flag. A huge one. In a place like this, people didn’t suddenly get sick for no reason, and they definitely didn’t risk leaving the safety of the gates just to look for medicine unless things had already gone horribly wrong. Please don’t tell me this village has another problem on top of whatever’s outside.

She gradually calmed down before turning to face me, her eyes still swollen and red. "A-Alright..." She sniffled, lowering her head. "I’m sorry. I... I might’ve been too harsh. I’m sorry for shouting at you."

"It’s fine." I gave a small wave of my hand. "I wasn’t exactly considerate either. I’m an outsider. I don’t know your circumstances."

Eliza wiped the last of her tears from her cheeks before offering me a faint, apologetic smile. "...You’ve had a long day." She slowly pushed herself to her feet, one hand resting against her stomach. "Come on. I’ll show you your room."

She led me down the narrow hallway to a small wooden door at the end. The room beyond was modest. A single bed stood against the wall, its neatly folded blanket untouched. A wooden dresser sat beneath the window, and a small shelf held only a few worn books. Everything was clean.

Eliza lingered in the doorway, her fingers tightening slightly against the frame. "...This used to be my husband’s room." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I... couldn’t bring myself to change anything. I only clean it every now and then."

"I see," I muttered, scanning the room.

She lingered in the doorway for a moment before quietly turning away. "Get some rest." With that, she closed the door behind her.

I let my eyes wander across the shelf. Most of the books were exactly what I’d expected. Old farming records. Weather journals. A handbook on preserving meat through winter. Then one stood out. It was thinner than the others, wrapped in cracked brown leather with no title on the spine. The only marking was a pair of branching antlers pressed into the cover.

I pulled it free. The pages had yellowed with age. The first page contained only a single verse.

May He Who Watches Beyond the Trees grant us another dawn.

I frowned and turned the page. There were no stories, only passages, short and deliberate, almost like scripture.

When the final bell falls silent, close your doors, lower your eyes, and do not answer the forest, no matter whose voice calls your name.

I flipped another page.

The Old Father hears every promise, but remembers every broken one.

Another.

Offer thanks before asking for mercy.

Another.

Those who walk beyond His gaze belong to the night.

I read another line, then another. Somewhere along the way, I realized I’d stopped paying attention to the room around me. It wasn’t because the prayers were beautiful. They weren’t. They were... wrong. Every sentence left behind a feeling I couldn’t explain, like something was quietly settling inside my head. I caught myself rereading lines without meaning to, my eyes drifting back over the same words as if I’d forgotten I’d already read them.

A chill ran down my back. I closed the book a little harder than I meant to.

"...What the hell was that?"

My fingers lingered on the cover. It seemed almost foolish to admit, even to myself, but it almost seemed like the book longed to be read. Invited.

A book of prayers dedicated to something I’d never heard of. In another life, I would’ve called it local superstition. Now... I wasn’t sure I believed in superstition anymore.

So this is what they believe in around here.

I slipped the book back onto the shelf and let out a quiet sigh. The bed creaked beneath my weight as I lay down, the thin mattress far rougher than anything I was used to. It wasn’t comfortable, but after everything that had happened today, I doubted I’d care for long.

The room felt old without being primitive. The furniture was well made, the walls sturdy, yet everything carried an unmistakable eastern style with a faint gothic touch woven into it. It didn’t feel like home.

It didn’t feel like Earth.

I stared at the wooden ceiling for a while, listening to the wind brushing against the shutters outside. Before I knew it, the exhaustion caught up with me. My eyelids grew heavy. Then everything faded into darkness.

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