Chapter 3
Jay woke to the faint light of dawn seeping through the cracks in the hut’s patched walls. A breath of cold morning air crept in, brushing her skin with a chill sharp enough to confirm what she'd already accepted.
Not a dream. Not a coma. Not a hallucination. Just cold, hunger, and the weight of responsibility settling in her chest like a stone.
She exhaled, watching her breath mist faintly in the chill, then pushed the woolen blanket off her legs. The hut was still dark, quiet. The children were curled up beside her, small bodies buried under the covers, warm and still breathing.
Good.
Jay yawned and stretched, muscles sore and stiff. Her first task was clear—heat the room. She padded to the hearth, where cold ashes sat gray and lifeless. She was glad the memories of this task were vivid; her fingers worked diligently with the flint and steel. Sparks caught slowly, then fire bloomed with a smoky cough. The warmth crawled out in waves, just enough to chase the bite from the air.
Next came water for a quick rinse—and another memory. One this Jay’s mother had performed often for her children. She filled the dented pot, placed it over the flame, and waited for it to boil. While it warmed, she pulled out a few wild herbs from one of the jars not glaringly empty—nothing fancy, just bitter leaves with a minty bite—and set them in a wooden bowl.
Steam curled up as the water poured over the leaves.
Herbal tea. Rough and earthy, but something to fill the belly.
Jay set out two shallow basins by the fire, letting them warm. Then she turned back to the sleeping children and knelt beside them.
“Spence, Anna,” she murmured. “Up now. Warm water’s ready—wash up first, then tea.”
Spencer stirred first, blinking blearily, then Anna followed, rubbing her eyes with small fists. Jay helped them up and guided them to wash. They moved slowly, groggy and cold, but her gentle tone seemed to help.
Once clean, she handed each of them a warm mug. They sipped quietly, fingers wrapped tightly around the wood, the heat soaking into their palms. There wasn’t much else to offer this early, but the routine—small as it was—seemed to bring a fragile kind of peace.
“You guys stay inside. I won’t be long. I’m just going to check on the traps.”
The two children were too tired to protest. They nodded, sleep still clinging to their eyes.
With the twins settled near the hearth, Jay stepped outside. The sun stood just over the trees now, its light slicing through the mist like golden blades. She followed the narrow, man-made path into the woods, heart pounding with cautious hope.
The first five traps were empty. One had been triggered and snapped closed on nothing.
But then—success
In two of the traps, Jay found game.
The first creature was unlike anything she’d ever seen. It resembled a bird, but its feathers shimmered faintly, like oil on water. It had four eyes—two on each side of its head—and curved talons like tiny sickles. Its beak was serrated. The skin beneath its wings was a pale, translucent blue. Jay stared, caught between awe and horror.
The second creature was more familiar—a rodent of some kind, fat and soft-furred, with long ears and twitching whiskers. Normal. Safe.
Jay bundled the game in her coat and returned to the hut.
Just outside the door, she knelt beside two bowls—one empty, the other filled with water she’d warmed by the fire. Her father’s knife in hand, its edge serviceable but dulling fast. She took a steadying breath and looked down at the strange bird-like creature, its feathers catching the morning light.
She had no idea what she was doing.
She’d never cleaned a bird—let alone something with four eyes and translucent wing-skin. But there was no one else to do it, and meat was meat.
Her hands trembled as she picked up the knife.
First, she plucked. The iridescent feathers came away in uneven tufts, some pulling skin with them. They didn’t come free like she had hoped.
When the carcass was bare enough, she turned it over, feeling along the chest with cold fingers. She didn’t know where to begin, exactly—she guessed beneath the breastbone. The first incision was shallow, tentative. She cut again, deeper, trying not to flinch at the faint warmth that seeped from the opened skin.
The smell hit her next. Not overpowering, but strange—something between raw poultry and wet moss, tinged with copper. Her stomach clenched, but she gritted her teeth and kept going.
With slow, messy strokes, she opened the bird’s cavity, trying to mimic what she thought the process entailed. Organs slipped slick against her fingers, and more than once, she nicked something she shouldn’t have, spilling bitter-smelling fluid that made her gag.
She moved carefully, pressing aside the mess with the tip of her blade, until the knife caught on something solid.
Thunk.
Jay froze.
Carefully, she widened the cut around it, expecting bone—but what she found made her breath hitch.
Embedded near the heart, partially cradled in gristle and sinew, was a smooth, pale object. At first, she thought it might be a stone the creature had swallowed, like birds sometimes did. But no—it was too deliberately placed, nestled within the body like it belonged there.
She reached in with two fingers and pried it loose.
A milky-white crystal, no larger than a thumbnail, gleamed faintly in the morning light.
Jay held it up, her fingers slick with blood. It was cool to the touch, and faintly luminous, like it held moonlight inside.
The words drifted through her mind from books and games and webtoons she used to binge back on Earth. She had no idea what this world called it—but she was sure of one thing:
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
It wasn’t natural.
Her heartbeat quickened, eyes flicking from the crystal to the gutted carcass, then back again. Whatever this thing was, it was valuable. Or dangerous. Maybe both.
She set it aside gently on a flat rock and resumed her work, slower now, more thoughtful. She kept the claws and several intact feathers, just in case. She still had the rodent to clean, and a meal to make.
But her mind kept drifting back to the stone.
Once finished, Jay grinned in triumph.
The bird and the small rodent were both gutted—clumsily, maybe, but done. And now, they had meat. It looked like a lot, spread out before her, but in truth it was only enough for a few hearty meals—not enough to bother preserving.
Spencer and Anna, who had found the gutting process scary, now hovered nearby. Two sets of wide blue eyes peeked at her from just beyond the doorway, their gazes fixed on the meat, lips parted in silent anticipation. Jay smiled at the sight.
She pointed to the two buckets by the wall. “Go rinse those out and bring back water to cook in.”
At her command, the twins sprang into action, grabbing the buckets and racing down the short slope toward the trickling stream not far from the hut.
“Will Sister cook meat?” she heard one of them ask.
“Yes!” the other replied eagerly.
Jay chuckled to herself, wiping her hands clean on a cloth as she prepared the pot. She added the meat—mostly the bird, saving the rodent for another time—along with both of the remaining eggs, crushed berries, and foraged greens. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was hearty.
As the stew sizzled, a rich, sweet-savory aroma began to fill the hut, wafting through the air like something sacred. The scent wrapped around Jay like a warm blanket—comfort laced with accomplishment.
Soon, the twins returned, breathless and flushed, practically vibrating with excitement. They swarmed around her, sniffing the air and asking if she needed more of anything. Jay couldn’t help but laugh—they looked like two hungry cats circling a kitchen.
Carefully, she added more water to the browned bird meat and herbs, recreating the same wild stew from the day before—only this time, richer, with extra eggs and bird meat added to the mix.
She swore she could hear their stomachs rumbling like fierce little bears.
She sighed, stirring the pot. The meal would’ve gone up several notches. But this was what they had—and it was more than they’d had in a long time.
And honestly, like the twins, she couldn’t wait to dig in.
When the stew was ready, Jay served generous portions into three bowls. They ate like starved wolves, too focused on the flavors to speak. The warmth of the meat, the richness of the broth—it filled them in a way no meal had in weeks
When they finished, Jay leaned over the pot and smiled.
There were still leftovers.
With full bellies and the comforting haze of warmth lingering in the hut, Jay leaned back against the wall and watched the twins as they played quietly with each other near the fire. For a while, she simply observed—two kids who had, for a moment, forgotten to be afraid.
But she hadn’t forgotten.
She still needed answers. She needed to understand this world—
place in it, the rules, the threats, and the histories left behind in this borrowed body.
She ruffled Spencer’s hair gently. “C’mon. Let’s get dressed. We’re heading out.”
Jay led the twins down the path toward the village, not far from their crooked little home that stood by one of the mountain entrances. The breeze stirred the trees, and the birdsong was steady—if anything, this world had a kind of beauty Earth seemed to have lost in the rise of technology.
She wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking for by venturing to the village—familiarity, maybe. Something to jog the memories the old Jay had lived through. And oddly enough, walking around seemed to help. Faces and places came to her in bits and pieces.
Her younger siblings didn’t question why they were wandering. They trailed behind her like little ducklings, their bare feet stirring up dust between scattered homes. The morning sun was high and golden. Their laughter echoed down dirt lanes as they played some game with rules only they knew.
Jay watched in silence as they passed a few old neighbors—a small group of villagers moving with quiet purpose. Most wore simple woolen shirts and coarse trousers, faded with use and patched in places. Onw man wroe a cape slung over one shoulder, dyed in dull browns. Tools dangled from belts—knives, hatchets, small saws. One man balanced a thick-handled axe over his shoulder, the edge nicked and dulled with time.
She didn’t need to ask where they were going.
Out for firewood, probably. Maybe timber.
Miss Dupet
By the well, Old Man FrankJaimy
Jay blinked. The names slipped into place without effort.
Miss Dupet. Frank. Jaimy.
She didn’t know how she knew them—but she did. Or... the other Jay had.
The familiarity felt shallow, like reading names off a list. No memories, no conversations. Just faces, gestures, and vague impressions.
She felt like an imposter wearing someone else’s memories.
Quietly, she kept walking.
The village of Norrhollow
Inside, the village was alive with the steady rhythm of survival. Homes were clustered in tight-knit circles—each group clearly belonging to an extended family.
Jay took it all in, quietly absorbing the unfamiliar familiarity of it all. The layout felt foreign, but the memories that weren’t hers whispered details as if she’d lived here all her life.
Each cluster was structured around kin: a patriarch’s hut stood at the center, with smaller homes surrounding it—one for each son, their wives, and their children. At the heart of each ring stood a shared open-air hearth, where families gathered to cook meals, trade stories, or huddle close during harsh winters. It was a lifestyle built on closeness—and on knowing exactly where you belonged.
Her gaze lingered on one particular cluster: the Hudssons
From the memories drifting through this borrowed body, Jay knew this had once been her family’s place—her father’s lineage. But those memories weren’t just vague or cold. They were sharp. Harsh. Full of bruises and empty stomachs.
This wasn’t a family that had simply grown distant—it was one that had turned its back with purpose.
The old Jay had gone hungry here. She had scrubbed their floors, carried their firewood, tended their animals, and received nothing but scorn in return. There were memories of being slapped for speaking out of turn, berated for crying, and beaten when work wasn’t done fast enough. And Aunt Wang
Jay now understood: this wasn’t unease she felt. It was fear, rooted in something real.
Her father, Geno
He had bright blond hair and green eyes—a clear contrast to his elder brothers’ dark hair, tanned skin, and deep-set brown eyes.
Maybe he hadn’t shared the same father. Maybe he was a living reminder of something no one wanted to talk about.
It had taken one of the twins nearly dying from a cold for Geno to finally listen to his wife and leave.
Only then had he seen the truth for what it was.
He had taken his wife and children and moved them to the edge of the wilderness, to a rotting hut at the foot of the mountain—because even that had offered more peace than his own kin.
But now he was gone. And she was dead.
Jay didn’t need to wonder about reconciling with the Hudssons. From the fragments of memory and the raw instinct twisting in her gut, she knew better than to seek kindness there. Whatever bonds might’ve existed were long severed—if they had ever existed at all.
She turned away and let her eyes take in the rest of the village.
Around her, the village was vibrant with activity. The air was thick with the scent of freshly turned soil, animal musk, and smoke curling from cookfires. From the hearths came richer aromas—spiced meat, stewed lentils, flatbread puffing over heated stones.
Strange chickens with horns on their heads darted across courtyards, kicking up dust. Two-headed goats bleated lazily from shaded pens. Children shrieked and laughed, barefoot, weaving between adults who moved with the practiced flow of shared labor.
Metal tools clinked. Wooden buckets sloshed. Voices hummed with gossip, chores, and the low thrum of life simply continuing.
