The days in Oakhaven blurred together, but not in a bad way. Each morning I woke to the sound of chickens. The barn was cold, but the straw was warm. Sunlight came through the cracks in the wooden walls. I sat up, stretched my arms – the Prophet Model body still felt strange, but I was getting used to it.
I walked outside. Marta was already feeding the hens. She threw grain from a cloth bag. The chickens pecked and scratched.
"You're up," she said.
"I don't sleep much."
"Then help with the eggs."
I went into the henhouse. The birds clucked and moved away from me. I reached under a fat brown chicken. It pecked my hand. I pulled back.
"Firm but gentle," Marta called.
I tried again. I found an egg. It was warm. I lifted it carefully. I didn't break it. I put it in the basket.
"Good," Marta said. "You're learning."
I collected a dozen eggs that morning. Only broke one. Marta said that was progress.
After breakfast, I helped Rik's father repair the fence near the south field. A storm had knocked down a section, and the cows kept wandering into the forest. Rik's father showed me how to hammer the posts deep into the ground. The work was hard. My arms ached. But I liked the feeling of being useful.
Rik came by with a jug of water. We sat under a tree and drank.
"You're getting stronger," Rik said.
"I'm getting tired."
"That's the same thing."
We laughed. Rik had a loud laugh. It echoed across the field.
That afternoon, Marta sent me to the river to fill a bucket. The village well was low, and the river was cleaner anyway. I took the bucket and walked through the forest. The path was narrow, lined with ferns. Birds called from the trees. A squirrel ran across a branch. I walked slowly. The air was cool and smelled of wet soil.
The river was wide and slow. Sunlight sparkled on the water. I knelt on the bank and dipped the bucket. The water was cold. It splashed on my gloves.
That's when I saw her.
A girl was sitting on a large flat rock near the water's edge. Her feet dangled in the current. She had brown hair, cut short and messy. Her clothes were plain, patched at the knees. She was not pretty, not in the way people talk about. But she looked... calm. Like the river itself.
She did not look at me.
I filled the bucket. I stood up. I should have left. But I didn't.
"Hello," I said.
She turned her head. Her eyes were grey, like river stones. She looked at my hood. At my covered face. She did not stare. She just looked.
"Hello," she said. Her voice was soft. Low.
"I'm Ash," I said.
"I know," she said. "Everyone knows you. The healer."
"I'm not a healer. I just... help."
She nodded. She looked back at the water.
I stood there for a moment. Then I sat down on the grass near her rock. Not too close. Just close enough to talk.
"Why are you here?" I asked.
"I like the water," she said. "It's quiet."
We sat in silence for a while. The river flowed. A fish jumped. A dragonfly landed on a reed.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Lora."
"That's pretty."
She shrugged. "It's just a name."
I thought about my own name. Ash. A thing left after fire. I didn't know if it was pretty or sad. Maybe both.
"Do you live in the village?" I asked.
"On the edge. With my grandmother. She's old. I take care of her."
"Is she sick?"
"Just old," Lora said. "Old and tired."
I wanted to say something helpful. Something about healing. But I didn't know if I could heal old age. So I said nothing.
Lora looked at me again. "People say you saved Rik's hand. And the rabbit."
"Word travels fast."
"It's a small village."
We sat a little longer. Then I remembered the bucket. "I have to go. Marta needs the water."
Lora nodded. "I'll be here tomorrow. If you want to talk."
I stood up. I picked up the bucket. "Maybe I will."
She almost smiled. Not quite. But almost.
I walked back to the village. The bucket was heavy. My chest felt light.
---
The next day, I went to the river again. Lora was there, on the same rock. Her feet in the water.
"You came," she said.
"I said maybe."
She patted the rock next to her. "Sit."
I sat. The rock was warm from the sun. My boots hung over the edge, above the water.
We talked. She told me about her grandmother. How she used to dance, before her legs got weak. How she sang old songs. How she forgot things now, but sometimes remembered.
"Yesterday she called me by my mother's name," Lora said. "She looked right at me and said, 'Elara, you're home.' Elara was my mother. She died when I was small."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"It's okay. I didn't know her well. But my grandmother misses her."
I told Lora about my old life. Not the cell. Not the needles. Just the lab. The books. The hours of research.
"You were a scholar?" she asked.
"Something like that. I studied how bodies heal."
"That's why you can heal."
"I don't know if it's the same. The knowledge helps, but the healing comes from somewhere else."
Lora looked at me. "From where?"
I touched my chest. "From here."
She didn't ask more. She just nodded.
The sun moved across the sky. The river kept flowing. We sat until the light turned orange.
"I should go," Lora said. "My grandmother will be waiting."
"I'll walk with you."
We walked through the forest. The path was narrow, so we walked single file. Lora went first. I followed. She didn't talk, and I didn't mind.
Her grandmother's cottage was small, made of stone and wood. Smoke came from the chimney. A few chickens pecked in the yard.
"Thank you for walking with me," Lora said.
"Thank you for talking to me."
She went inside. I stood there for a moment, then walked back to the village.
---
The next week, I went to the river every day. Sometimes Lora was there. Sometimes she wasn't. When she was, we talked. When she wasn't, I sat alone and watched the water.
I learned more about her. She was eighteen. She had lived in Oakhaven her whole life. Her father died in a mining accident when she was twelve. Her mother died of a fever two years later. She lived with her grandmother in the cottage at the edge of the forest.
She didn't have many friends. She said she preferred the quiet.
"You're quiet too," she said one afternoon.
"I didn't have many people to talk to before."
"Before?"
"Before I came here."
She didn't ask where I came from. She never asked about my face or my hood. She just accepted me.
One day, I brought her a loaf of bread that Marta had given me. "I can't eat it," I said. "But you can."
Lora took the bread. She broke it in half and gave one piece back to me. "Eat it," she said.
"I told you, I can't."
"Why not?"
I hesitated. "I don't have a mouth. Not a real one."
She looked at my hood. "Can you breathe?"
"Yes."
"Can you see?"
"Yes."
"Then you can eat. Even if it's just pretending."
I took the bread. I lifted it to my hood. I pretended to take a bite. Lora smiled. A real smile. It was the first time I had seen it.
"See?" she said. "You're human enough."
I didn't know if that was true. But it felt good to hear.
---
One evening, I helped Lora carry firewood to her grandmother's cottage. The old woman was sitting by the fire, wrapped in a blanket. She had white hair and wrinkled hands. Her eyes were cloudy.
"Grandmother," Lora said. "This is Ash. He's the healer."
The old woman looked at me. She squinted. "Healer? You're just a boy."
"I help where I can," I said.
She nodded slowly. "Lora talks about you. Says you're strange."
"I am strange."
"Good. Strange is better than boring."
She laughed. It was a dry, crackling laugh. Lora laughed too.
I helped stack the firewood by the hearth. The old woman watched me.
"You have good hands," she said. "Strong."
"They're not real," I said.
"Doesn't matter. Good is good."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I just nodded.
Lora walked me to the door. "Thank you for helping."
"Thank you for letting me."
She stood in the doorway. The light from the fire behind her made her hair glow.
"Will you come to the river tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
She smiled. "Good."
I walked back to the village. The stars were out. The air was cold. I felt warm inside.
---
That night, I lay in the barn. I looked at the stars through the crack in the roof. I thought about Lora. About her quiet voice. About her smile.
I thought about the name Ash. It meant something left after fire. But maybe it also meant something that survived.
I closed my eyes. I slept.
In the morning, chickens again.
I went to the river.