Daigen Hollow — Arrival
The path into Daigen Hollow was veined with stone slabs, some cracked and tilted like old teeth. Moss grew thick between the grooves, and the air smelled faintly of wet iron and woodsmoke. The village itself looked like it had grown tired of existing but hadn't found the time to die.
Yet, life stirred here.
People haggled at the open-air market, their voices raw and unfiltered. Children ran past with hand-carved kites, and the old sat on porches, eyes sunken but watchful. For the first time, Ren heard them all.
Clearly.
> "Bread's two lengths for a pair." "Watch the crows. They nest by the chimney again." "You new? You don't walk like one of us."
He understood them. Every word. And they understood him.
That was a strange kind of victory.
---
A Bed Among Books
They stayed at an old boarding house run by a woman with arms like tree branches and hair tied with bones. She gave them a room with a low bed and a window with cracked shutters.
Zarno peeked out the window and gasped. "I can see the whole market!"
She turned to Ren and whispered like it was a secret, "We're higher than the pigeons."
Ren smirked. "Don't let it go to your head."
She crawled onto the bed and started bouncing. "Boing. Boing. Bo—" CRACK.
"…Don't tell the landlady," she whispered,
Ren walked the village with his notebook and his pen in hand. It vibrated softly—not constantly, but intermittently. At first near the old well. Then again while passing a tailor shop. A third time while speaking with a soft-eyed widow who made salt-butter tea.
He stopped mid-sentence.
Each time, the pen shuddered in his grip, subtle like a warning only he could feel. But when he opened the notebook to write, the vibration ceased. The page looked blank. The pen refused to bleed.
> It didn't react to lies. It didn't react to danger. It reacted to something else.
While Ren questioned a stonemason about the history of Daigen Hollow, Zarno wandered into the fruit stall next door.
He heard a thud.
Followed by a small voice: "I didn't mean to knock it over…"
Ren turned just in time to see apples rolling in every direction and Zarno holding an empty basket like a war criminal caught red-handed.
The merchant scowled. "Little stormspawn!"
Ren stepped in, apologized, and paid. Zarno looked downcast all the way home.
Later, she handed him a squished apple.
"It's the least ruined one."
Ren bit it. "Delicious."
Zarno grinned again.
That evening, Ren returned to the old well—the first place the pen had reacted.
An old man sat beside it, feeding scraps to a dog with a missing ear.
Ren sat beside him. "Anything strange ever happen here?"
The man glanced at him. "Depends what you mean by strange."
"My pen-."
The old man stared.
"…You're a writer?"
Ren hesitated. "Something like that."
The man nodded slowly, then looked at the well. "That thing's been dry for years. But people still hear crying from it sometimes. Used to think it was the wind. Now?"
He didn't finish the sentence.
The pen trembled again.
Night Talk
Back in their room, Zarno curled up in a blanket cocoon. Her voice emerged from the folds.
"You look like a serious noodle."
Ren looked up. "What?"
"You're always thinking. Always frowning. Like someone told you fun is illegal."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's not true."
"Name three fun things you did today."
"…Talked to a dog. Ate fruit. Watched you cause trouble ."
Zarno giggled, kicking the blanket. "That counts."
Then, more softly: "Are we going to stay here?"
Ren looked out the cracked window. The village breathed like an old animal—slow, pained, but alive.
"For now," he said. "Long enough to learn something."
Zarno closed her eyes. "I like when you say things that sound big."
He turned off the lantern.
The pen lay on the desk beside him. Silent now. But not at rest.