Ryen had never intended to stay.
But five months had passed, and he was still here.
Tona wasn't a grand village, nor was it hidden in some secret valley where only the worthy could tread. It was simple. The kind of place where life was steady, not easy, but enough. The wells dried up now and then, forcing the villagers to trek downhill for water, but no one complained. The fields stretched wide, and the scent of earth carried in the wind.
No one pried, no one asked questions.
And so, he stayed.
At first, he kept to himself. He worked because there was work to be done. Repaired fences, carried sacks of grain, fixed old tools. The villagers accepted his help without fuss. They didn't demand conversation, nor did they force him into their daily lives.
Eventually, the work became familiar. Then, it became his own.
His hands, used to precision and calculation, learned the weight of soil. What started as absentminded tending turned into a small garden behind his home. His harvests were never the largest, but they thrived. Healthier than they should have been.
Someone noticed.
A boy, no older than ten, started appearing near the garden. He never spoke, never asked questions. Just sat on a rock, watching.
Ryen ignored him at first. But the boy returned. Every day. Silent. Wide-eyed.
One afternoon, as Ryen checked the leaves of his plants, the boy finally spoke.
"How do you know when they need water?"
Ryen glanced at him. The boy's name was Orin. Small, messy-haired, always barefoot.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he knelt and pressed his fingers into the soil. Then, he lifted his hand.
The dirt crumbled, dry between his fingers.
Orin watched closely.
"It tells you," Ryen finally said.
Orin frowned. "Plants can talk?"
Ryen smirked—just barely. "Not in words."
The next day, Orin brought a tiny clay pot with a sprout in it. He didn't ask Ryen for help. Just sat nearby and copied him.
Ryen said nothing.
But the next morning, when he checked his garden, he found a second clay pot next to his own plants.
Orin had left it there.
He didn't take it back.
The harvest festival arrived at the end of the season.
Ryen had no intention of attending.
He preferred his garden, away from the noise. But the festival had other plans.
"You've been here five months," a voice said behind him.
Ryen turned. Rorik, the village wiseman, stood at the edge of his garden. An old man with sharp eyes that saw far too much.
Ryen said nothing.
Rorik stepped forward, lowering himself onto a stump with a sigh. "You work hard. You keep to yourself. But you're still here." He gestured toward the lights of the festival. "This village isn't perfect. We lose things. We struggle. The wells dry, and we carry water. But we endure."
He turned to Ryen. "The man who built this village believed in that. Not in wealth, not in power. Just in having enough."
Silence stretched between them.
"You understand that, don't you?"
Ryen exhaled.
Yes. He did.
Rorik stood. "Come," he said. "You're one of us now."
Ryen hesitated.
Then, for some reason, he followed.
He regretted it immediately.
The moment they stepped into the festival, chaos erupted.
"HE'S HERE!"
The entire village turned. Dozens of heads whipped toward him so fast that at least one person might have gotten whiplash.
A wooden cup slipped from someone's hand. A child gasped so hard they started coughing. An old man dropped his walking stick.
Then, as if the world had just been turned upside down, everything exploded into noise.
"RYEN CAME TO THE FESTIVAL!"
"Is this a dream?"
"Lena, pinch me."
"Harder."
"Ow, not that hard—"
Lena, the woman who worked in the fields, lunged toward him like a hunter finally catching her prey. "You actually came!"
Ryen took a step back. "I can leave."
Maro, the village's loudest man, cut him off. "Absolutely not. You dare show your face here after avoiding us for five months, and now you want to leave?"
A chair was dragged over.
"Sit," Maro ordered.
Ryen hesitated.
A second chair was dragged over.
Lena crossed her arms. "That's right. Two chairs. You don't sit, we'll bring out a third."
A third chair appeared.
Ryen gave them a long look before finally sitting. The crowd erupted into cheers.
"HE SAT DOWN!"
"Best day ever!"
"Someone get the wine!"
Before Ryen could react, a cup was shoved into his hands. Food appeared on the table. Someone clapped him on the back so hard he nearly choked.
Darin, the boy who always trailed after him, ran up with wide eyes. "Are you gonna dance?"
"No."
"You have to dance!"
"No."
"You HAVE TO dance!"
Maro grinned. "Don't worry, boy, we'll ease you into it."
That was a lie.
An hour later, Ryen found himself in the middle of a circle.
A very loud circle.
"Ryen, dance!"
"Ryen, dance!"
"Ryen, DANCE!"
Lena smirked. "You fight it, but we win."
A drumbeat started. Someone began clapping. The entire village was watching.
Ryen exhaled. Fine.
He moved his foot.
That was all he did.
The entire village lost their minds.
"HE'S DANCING!"
"THIS IS A HISTORIC MOMENT!"
An old man started crying. Someone fainted. A dog barked wildly.
Lena threw her hands in the air. "WE HAVE WON!"
Darin clutched his chest. "I… I can't believe it…"
Maro was weeping. "I never thought I'd live to see this day."
Ryen scowled. "It's one step."
"IT'S A MIRACLE!"
And then—someone tripped.
A nearby villager, too busy celebrating, lost his balance and crashed into the food table. A chain reaction followed. Plates went flying. A bucket of water flipped over. Someone dodged and accidentally knocked over a barrel of grain.
Pure, beautiful disaster.
The villagers stood in stunned silence, taking in the absolute mess.
Then—Lena cackled.
Maro threw his hands in the air. "Now this is a festival!"
Someone grabbed Ryen's arm and pulled him into a dance. He barely had time to react before he was spun into the chaos. Laughter surrounded him. Cups clinked. Food was passed around freely.
Somewhere in the night, someone made a joke.
And before Ryen could stop himself, he laughed.
Not a smirk. Not a chuckle.
A real, open laugh.
Silence.
The festival came to a screeching halt.
Lena stared, mouth open. Darin looked like he'd seen a ghost. Maro dropped his cup.
Then—
"HE LAUGHED!"
Screaming. Absolute screaming.
People cheered. Someone tripped over a chair. A woman declared she could die happy now. Darin's soul left his body.
Lena grabbed his face. "DO IT AGAIN."
Ryen shoved her away. "No."
"DO IT AGAIN!"
Maro was wheezing. "We witnessed it! A laugh! A real one!"
A group of elders started praying. Someone attempted to carve the moment into a wooden plaque. A dog howled at the moon.
Ryen had spent years moving from place to place. Never settling. Never belonging.
But tonight, as the festival raged on and the village celebrated him, he let it happen.
And for the first time in his life—
It was enough.