The forge roared with life.
Jake stood near the hearth, sweat on his brow and soot staining his sleeves, helping James shape iron into usable form. It was hard, honest work — a rhythm he could settle into, even as his thoughts churned beneath the surface.
"Strike it there," James said, pointing to the glowing edge of a blade. "Follow the grain."
Jake brought the hammer down, sparks leaping as steel met steel. The sound rang out into the cold morning air, sharp and steady.
By mid-morning, Jake's arms ached, but the warmth of the forge kept the mountain chill at bay. James stepped back to inspect their progress, nodding approvingly.
"Quick hands," he muttered. "You've worked before."
Jake shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "My dad taught me some things. Mostly self-defense. Discipline. Focus."
James grunted. "Sounds like a soldier."
Jake only nodded.
Later, while wiping down the workbench, Jake spotted Emma approaching with a waterskin and her usual unreadable expression.
"You still standing. Good sign," she said, handing him the drink.
"Barely," Jake muttered. "Feels like your dad's trying to forge me instead of the blade."
Emma smirked. "Well, if he sees potential, he usually tries to burn it into shape."
Jake managed a chuckle, then hesitated. "Hey, um… when I was found — did you or your dad pick up anything near me? Like a… metal object? Small, sort of shaped like a coin, but not?"
Emma shook her head. "No. Wasn't anything like that when he brought you back. Just you and your ragged coat."
Jake frowned. That thing — whatever it was — had to be nearby. But if it wasn't found with him…
He stuffed the thought down. Best not to push it right now.
"Was it important?" Emma asked casually.
Jake paused. "Just… something that belonged to my father. I dropped it when I fell."
Her gaze lingered for a moment, then she nodded and said nothing more.
That afternoon, while Jake hauled ore from the supply shed, he overheard a conversation from the nearby well.
Two older men were deep in discussion, their voices low but clear in the still air.
"Remember the outsider years back?" one said. "Strange talk, strange gear. Said he was just passing through, but… something about him didn't sit right."
"Wore odd leathers," the other added. "And his blade was forged from metal I'd never seen. Didn't say where he came from, either. Just… vanished, one day. Like smoke."
Jake froze, breath catching.
That had to be his father.
He kept his head down and walked on, heart thudding in his chest. This world was more connected to his past than he'd dared imagine.
That night, after supper, Jake sat near the hearth, warming his hands and letting the fire's crackle fill the silence. James was whittling a wooden spoon while Emma sat across from him, flipping through a leather-bound book filled with rough sketches and village stories.
Jake glanced at her. "Hey… can I ask you something weird?"
Emma didn't look up. "Sure. Weird seems to follow you."
He tried to smile but it came out thin. "Let's say someone ended up somewhere totally unfamiliar. Like… completely out of place. Is there a way to know if time moves the same in both places?"
She furrowed her brow, finally meeting his eyes. "Like… dreams?"
"Something like that."
Emma shrugged. "Time's tricky in the mountains. Sometimes it snows for an hour and you think it's been a day. Other times, the sun sets before you've even blinked."
"So… it could move different?"
"Maybe. But people talk more about places where time changes. Ruins. Magical sites. Not… people."
Jake nodded slowly, not pushing further. She didn't know. Not really.
But her answer gave him a sliver of hope. If time did move differently between his world and this one… maybe Anna and his mom were okay.
Maybe there was still time to get back.
The next morning brought a clearer sky and a hint of spring in the wind. Emma offered to take him deeper into the village, away from the forge and market. As they walked, Jake took in the sights with quiet wonder.
They passed a training yard where villagers sparred with wooden swords and polearms. Nearby, a woman drew glowing symbols in the snow, her hand guiding the magic with practiced grace.
Jake slowed to watch. "That… that's magic?"
Emma nodded. "Some folk learn it. Mostly healers, hunters, warders."
"Do you…?"
She shook her head. "Not me. I'm just good with metal and bad with patience."
Jake smirked. "Fair enough."
They continued down a stone path flanked by trees heavy with snow. Chickens clucked in a nearby pen. A carpenter argued with his apprentice over crooked nails.
"Hey Emma, I'm curious. Since everyone has weapons, what do people do when they run into something like… well, what I saw?"
Emma tilted her head. "If they're smart? They run."
Jake didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what category he fell into.
That night, he lay awake under thick furs, staring at the wooden beams overhead.
The object was still out there.
His father had been here.
And somewhere in these snowy peaks, there was a path forward — or a way back.
He just had to find it.
Jake stood in front of the mirror — if you could call a slightly polished iron plate a mirror — and frowned.
His clothes looked worse than he remembered. Torn at the shoulder, stained with soot and dried blood, and dusted with the fine gray ash of the forge. His coat was barely holding together, one of the sleeves hanging by a few stubborn threads. His jeans, once dark blue, were now a faded mess of fabric worn thin at the knees.
He looked like a ghost of the world he came from.
James walked in carrying a bundle of fabric and tossed it onto the table beside him.
"You're not gonna win any favors looking like you crawled out of a collapsed mineshaft," he said plainly.
Jake gave a dry chuckle. "Pretty sure I did crawl out of something worse."
James gestured to the bundle. "Go on. Try 'em."
Jake unfolded the clothes — sturdy woolen trousers, a long-sleeved linen tunic, and a thick brown cloak with a hood. There was even a leather vest with small loops for tools or knives, and boots made of tough hide, worn but well-cared for.
"They were mine, once," James said. "Back when I was younger and didn't have to bend twice to touch my toes."
Jake hesitated, then nodded gratefully. "Thanks. I'll try not to ruin them."
By the time he stepped out of the back room, dressed in the village garb, the cold air bit a little less sharply. The fabric was rougher than he was used to, but warmer. Real. Functional.
Emma looked up from the forge and blinked.
"Wow. You almost look like you belong here now."
Jake grinned. "Almost."
She walked around him, mock-inspecting the new outfit. "You're missing one thing."
Jake raised a brow. "What's that?"
Emma reached for a thick cloth belt on the nearby bench and tossed it to him. Attached was a small utility pouch and a sheathed knife — simple, but sharp.
"Everyone carries something," she said. "Even if you're not a fighter."
Jake took it slowly, feeling the weight of the knife in his hand. "Thanks."
Emma shrugged. "Figured you'd rather have it and not need it than the other way around."
They spent most of the morning gathering odds and ends from the village. Jake needed a proper cloak pin, a set of gloves, and something warm for his ears — which Emma found at the weaver's stand in the form of a comically oversized wool cap.
"I look like a mushroom," Jake muttered.
"You look warm," Emma countered.
Still, by midday, he was no longer the ragged outsider everyone stared at. Now, people greeted him with polite nods, even a few smiles. Some asked if he was James' new apprentice. Jake didn't have the heart to correct them.
Back at the forge, James was hammering out what looked like a horseshoe when they returned.
"Ah. You look less like you came out of the belly of a beast," he said, eyeing Jake's new getup.
Jake laughed. "That's the goal."
James paused, then added, "Emma said you've been useful. Steady hands. Good instincts."
Jake blinked. "Thanks."
James nodded, then turned back to his work. It wasn't much, but it was something. A small spark of belonging.
That evening, after dinner, Jake sat alone on the small bench just outside the forge. The stars were out, crisp and brilliant in the mountain sky. The village glowed softly below, torches flickering, the quiet hum of nighttime life settling in.
He pulled his cloak tighter around him, staring out at the peaks.
The clothes fit. The forge felt like a place he could belong. The people… weren't bad.
But he still didn't feel whole.
The object — wherever it had fallen — was a key he couldn't afford to lose.
And the thought of Anna and his mother still lingered like a stone in his chest.
He sighed, breath fogging in the night air.
One step at a time, he told himself.