Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 94: The Village Still Remembers

Chapter 94: The Village Still Remembers

The door creaked shut behind them—no fanfare, no fuss.

Just three figures stepping into the day, shoulders nearly touching, the silence between them thick with the unspoken.

The morning sun had begun its climb, casting a soft, amber light across the soil. Dew clung to the wild grass, sparkling like tiny secrets.

The distant hum of birdsong filled the space between their footfalls.

Artur pushed the cart with quiet efficiency, its wheels bumping lightly over uneven ground.

Billy walked beside him, gaze flicking once to Mark, who trailed a half-step behind.

There was no need for small talk—not yet. Not when the air still held the weight of memories too fresh to name.

Tools clinked against the wooden side as Artur and Billy got to work.

Billy bent low to secure a row of seedlings, fingers moving with gentle purpose, brushing the rich earth.

Artur knelt at the fence post, driving a nail with practiced rhythm, the echo sharp in the open space.

Mark hovered nearby, arms crossed, squinting at the open land like it held answers he’d long stopped asking.

After a moment, he crouched, picking up a small trowel, running his fingers along its worn handle. "You know," he said, voice lighter than the heaviness in his posture, "this place feels smaller than I remember."

Artur didn’t glance up. "You were a kid back then."

Mark gave a small nod, then turned the trowel over like it might reveal something if he looked hard enough.

"I guess. But... I don’t know. It feels slower too. Quieter. Like the village never bothered catching up."

Billy brushed his hands against his pants, squinting toward the tree line. "That’s not always a bad thing."

Mark tilted his head, studying him. "No. It’s not."

Silence stretched again, this time not uncomfortable—just unfamiliar.

"I think I’ll walk around for a bit," Mark said, straightening. "It’s been years. I want to see how much has changed."

Artur paused mid-swing, wiping sweat from his brow. "You sure?"

Mark nodded with a soft, half-smile. "I won’t get lost. I used to run these paths barefoot, remember? Scraped knees and wild dares."

Artur chuckled. "Yeah. You used to swear you could outrun the wind."

Mark’s grin flickered, faint but real. "I believed it too."

He glanced at Artur then, as if waiting for something. Approval, maybe. A word. But Artur just handed Billy a fresh sack of soil and turned back to the post.

"If you get tired," Billy said gently, "the big tree by the stream still has the best shade."

Mark looked toward the field’s edge, following the curve of memory in the dirt. "Still standing?"

Billy nodded. "Still stubborn."

Mark’s smile widened as he began to walk backward. "Good to know. Don’t work too hard without me."

"We’ll try," Artur muttered, eyes down, jaw set.

Billy watched Mark’s retreating figure for a moment longer than necessary. His steps were lighter now—but not quite free.

There was something in the way his shoulders curved inward, like he was carrying ghosts he hadn’t introduced them to yet.

He turned back to his work, fingers curling into soil. Beside Artur—where the world still made sense.

Where the silence was shared, and steady hands were enough to fill the space between hearts still learning how to speak.

Billy spoke first, voice soft. "Do you think he’s really okay?"

Artur didn’t answer right away. He drove the final nail into the post and stood still, hammer resting against his thigh. "I think... he’s remembering a version of himself that doesn’t fit anymore."

Billy nodded slowly, the rhythm of the soil against his palm comforting. "Yeah. I know that feeling."

They worked side by side after that, hands moving in sync, the kind of quiet that didn’t demand to be filled.

Just the two of them, steady in the dirt and sunlight, while old ghosts wandered the edges of the field.

And even as Mark disappeared behind the tall grass and trees, neither of them looked back.

Mark’s shoes crunched softly over the narrow path as he moved past the outer field.

The sun was higher now, casting a quiet warmth over the homes nestled close to one another.

He walked slowly, hands tucked in his pockets, glancing left and right like someone returning to a half-forgotten dream.

The bakery was still there—but the old wooden sign had been replaced with painted metal.

The woman sweeping the front steps was unfamiliar, younger. She gave him a curious glance, and he nodded politely, moving on.

Down the bend, the corner shop where he and Artur used to sneak in for soft drinks was now painted in cheerful green. The boy behind the counter inside looked barely sixteen.

Mark paused in front of it.

"I used to sit right there," he murmured to himself, looking at the stone ledge by the window. "And Artur always took the last orange soda."

A group of kids ran past behind him, laughing, barefoot. Their noise echoed down the lane as he continued forward.

He stopped when he reached the small, abandoned well—the one near the school wall.

The old rope was gone, and wildflowers had crept up around the base. He crouched, brushed his fingers against the stones, and sighed.

"So much is different... but somehow, it’s all still here."

He stood again and looked down the long road stretching between two rows of houses.

A memory flickered—Artur chasing him down that very path, both of them breathless from laughter.

Mark smiled faintly, then shook his head.

He shifted his weight, toes scuffing the dirt.

"Can’t believe you just left and never came back." he said under his breath.

He turned and wandered deeper into the village, unsure exactly where he was going—just letting the road pull him forward, step by step.

Mark stopped by one of the open stalls tucked beside a quiet alley. The stall owner, a wiry old man with a weathered apron, was stacking jars of honey and dried herbs.

"How much for the fig jam?" Mark asked, pointing.

"Thirty-five," the man replied, barely looking up.

Mark picked up the jar, squinting at the faded label. "Is this made locally?"

"Picked and stirred right here. You city people still suspicious?"

Mark chuckled. "Just cautious. Last time I bought something like this in the city, it tasted like floor cleaner."

The man snorted. "That’s ’cause city folks don’t let things ripen. Always rushing."

Mark smiled and set down a few coins. "You might be right."

He lingered a moment longer, asking about other products. His voice rose a bit as he laughed at something the old man said.

That’s when he heard it—cutting through the quiet like a pebble tossed at glass.

"Who’s that city parrot disturbing the peace?"

Mark turned, jar still in hand.

A shadow stretched beside the stall. Jay leaned against the post, arms crossed, smirk sharp enough to cut, he dressed in a fitted dark jacket, boots slightly dusty, expression all smug curiosity.

Mark blinked. "And who are you? Village security?"

Jay took a step forward. "Depends. You trespassing or just loud for fun?"

"I’m shopping," Mark said, lifting the jar in demonstration. "Not that it’s your business."

Jay’s brow lifted. "Your voice echoes like a tourist guide. Thought we were getting invaded."

"You’re awfully dressed up for a villager," Mark shot back. "Lost your sheep?"

Jay let out a laugh, folding his arms tighter. "I don’t herd. I supervise chaos."

Mark eyed him. "So... a nuisance."

Jay grinned. "Takes one to know one."

The stall owner was chuckling now, pretending to focus on stacking, clearly enjoying the show.

Mark sighed and offered a half-smile. "You always this charming or am I special?"

"Let’s just say you’re... lucky," Jay said, walking closer. "Or unlucky, depending on how long you plan to stay."

"Long enough to know this place talks back," Mark replied.

Jay tilted his head. "Then maybe stick around. See how loud the village can get. "Jay didn’t move.. Are you planning to stick around and stink up the village, or is this just a pit stop before you go back to wherever you lost your charm?"

Mark’s laugh was humorless. "Still got that tongue, huh? I see the village couldn’t wash the poison off you."

Jay stepped forward. "I could say the same. Didn’t think they’d let your kind wander back in."

"Let?" Mark scoffed. "I’m family here. Not some... stray taken in by pity."

Jay’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t bite. "Family? Please. You disappeared when things got rough and now you’re back acting like you left a legacy."

Mark’s eyes narrowed. "And you? You’re just... what? A convenient shadow clinging to someone else’s roof?"

Jay’s lips curled—not quite a smile. "At least I don’t pretend to care just to come sniffing around when it suits me."

Mark set the jar back down with a soft clink. "I knew it was you the second you opened your mouth. No one else could sour the air so fast."

Jay leaned in, his voice a blade wrapped in silk. "Knew it was you—the stall owner stopped smiling the second you opened your mouth."

Silence hung for a moment, sharp as broken glass.

Then Mark straightened. "This village used to be peaceful."

Jay tilted his head. "It was. Until today."

They stared at each other—old resentment stirred fresh in the open air.

Jay caught himself staring too long—and blinked the memory away before it softened him.

The breeze had quieted, the air heavier now—as if the village itself was listening.

Neither smiled. Neither blinked.

Enemies before. Enemies still.

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