As the sun rose above the forest trees surrounding the cottage, I began my second day in this fresh world. Adapting to waking with the dawn is a significant shift from my previous routine, where I worked night shifts at a gas station to afford the essentials. My parents cover my college expenses and have purchased a modest apartment for me, which I'm in the process of renovating, while I pursue a degree in teaching.
Life had been straightforward; the routine of waking up and going directly to class was no longer a part of my reality. Tears started to form in my eyes. "Damn it," I silently urged them not to fall, "why can't I catch a break?" Being the oldest of three, my parents' busy work schedules during my upbringing meant they often didn't notice that I needed their comfort, even when I wasn't being troublesome. I found solace in the quiet, with only the sound of simple music in the background, a sharp contrast to the constant noise at my family's house. When I moved out, I think my parents, in a silent act of appreciation, gifted me the apartment. I had never really grasped what I wanted from life. The dreams were always present, but everything felt overwhelmingly effortful. It's difficult to explain, but I was just tired.
I rise in what may now be my cottage. Uncertainty lingers, but the voice did declare it my claimed space, so I accept it as such. With daylight revealing more of the room and the pain diminished, I observe its layout: an open floor plan clearly meant for a single occupant, featuring a bed in one corner, a table, a counter, and a fireplace. Built-in cabinets and a solitary door suggest access to another area, possibly a pantry or root cellar. Scattered about are a few items: a closet, a bucket, and a chest.
The morning light feels gentle against my skin as I step over to the door, the air here crisp, and smells of pine and fresh earth drift in with each breeze. It's peaceful here—too peaceful sometimes. The disquiet I had been carrying in my chest starts to settle as I take in the newness around me. There's a stillness I hadn't anticipated, and yet, the weight of uncertainty remains, gnawing at the edges of my mind. This place might be mine now, but I don't know what it means to belong here. Not yet.
The absence of any system in place to guide me is both terrifying and freeing. It makes me question what I've been conditioned to value. Back in my previous life, I followed schedules, routines—systems that made sense. Here, there's no ticking clock. Only the sun, the trees, the wind. There's no one telling me what to do, no expectation that I follow any specific set of rules or paths. It's up to me to figure it all out—what I want, what I need.
A distant howl interrupts my thoughts. Not a wolf, I think. Something deeper. My heart skips a beat before the sound fades into the morning.
For now, I settle back into the cottage, closing the door behind me with a creak. A deep breath fills my lungs as I gather what I can, ready to face whatever the day holds.
The cottage felt eerily empty, yet the quiet began to feel like a comfort. With daylight filtering through the small windows, I continued my exploration, moving toward the door I had noticed earlier, the one leading to what seemed like a pantry or cellar.
The handle turned with surprising ease, revealing a narrow stone staircase leading down. The air down there was cooler, with a dampness that made my skin prick. The stone walls looked like they had been carved long ago, but it was clear that this place had been abandoned for years. The wooden floor creaked under my feet as I descended, the faint smell of earth and something else—a little rotten—drifting up.
At the bottom of the stairs, I found a bundle of potatoes, most of them withered and covered in dark patches of green and purple. A few were still firm and edible, their skins slightly wrinkled but far from spoiled. They felt like a small blessing, something to help ground me in the strange newness of this world.
I shifted some of the potatoes aside and found an old wooden crate filled with carrots—most of them withered, but still a few fresh ones that could be cleaned up and eaten. Nestled beside the crate was a bunch of lettuce, its leaves wilted but still intact. On top of it all, however, was the most intriguing discovery: a handful of seed packets, their once colorful writing faded but still legible. To my surprise, I understood the language scrawled across them—varieties of vegetables and herbs that I could recognize, even though this world didn't feel like my own.
Each packet felt like a clue, a lifeline in this strange place. But it wasn't just the seeds that caught my attention. As I dug further into the cellar's contents, I stumbled across a bundle of old papers—faded recipes written in a delicate hand. Some were for simple dishes using what little ingredients were available here, but one stood out: a set of instructions for making rural laundry soap. I smirked to myself, unsure whether to laugh or sigh. Soap. Of course. In a world where I didn't even know how to start, soap seemed like an absurd, yet oddly practical thing to find.
Next to the papers lay a kit of sorts. It was clearly something made for a housewife—complete with materials for making soap and a few recipes that looked like they could help stretch out basic ingredients in ways I wasn't used to. There was something oddly grounding about the practicality of it. It wasn't glamorous, but it was life in its simplest form. A skill I might need in this place.
As I continued shifting through the remnants of the cellar, I found something more personal—a set of utensils. They were old but sturdy, crafted from a metal that gleamed faintly in the dim light. Stainless steel, I thought, though I couldn't remember how I knew that. They were beautiful in their simplicity, the kind of thing you'd use every day without thinking. A small knife, a spoon, a fork. The basics. I felt an odd sense of connection to them. They didn't belong to me—yet.
Further into the cellar, tucked away behind a pile of forgotten items, I found a bundle of clothes. I unwrapped them slowly, surprised to see a chemise, a bodice, and a skirt. The fabric was thick, durable, yet soft, as if it had been carefully cared for. I held them up, uncertain whether they were meant for me or not. They didn't feel like they belonged to anyone else, but who else could they have belonged to?
Each of these discoveries was a tiny piece of the puzzle that was this strange new life I'd been thrust into. I didn't know who lived here before, or why I had been chosen to inherit this place, but it felt like I was being guided—by something I didn't fully understand yet, but something that seemed intent on showing me the basics of survival.
I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction as I carefully placed the clothes, utensils, and soap-making kit in a corner of the cellar. No matter how confused or lost I felt, at least I had something to work with now.
But what next? Where did I go from here?
The question lingered in my mind as I closed the cellar door behind me, the soft sound of the latch clicking shut.
I carefully observed my surroundings, noting the abandoned garden near the cottage. It was in rough shape—overgrown with weeds and wild grass—but there was potential. Perhaps with a little work, it could be revived. There was a shed nearby, its weathered wood leaning at odd angles, but still standing strong. Maybe tools or other supplies were inside. I took a mental note to check it later, but for now, I needed to focus on the immediate area.
As I ventured cautiously around the perimeter of the property, my eyes were drawn to a flash of movement in the underbrush. Something small and quick darted from one bush to another, its fur a blur in the sunlight. I froze, my instincts kicking in. "Stop!" I called out, surprised at how forceful my voice was.
To my astonishment, the creature stopped. It froze completely, its wide eyes staring back at me from a distance of six feet. It was a rabbit—its fur a soft mix of grays and browns, its ears twitching nervously.
I felt a strange pull, a compulsion to communicate with the creature. Slowly, I stepped closer. "Follow me," I said, my voice gentle but firm, "I can offer you food."For a moment, the rabbit cocked its head, seemingly weighing my offer. Then, as if deciding I wasn't a threat, it cautiously began to trail behind me. I led it toward the tree stump near the edge of my land, a safe distance from the house, and sat down.
The rabbit stayed at a cautious distance, eyeing me with suspicion, but also curiosity. "Can you understand me?" I asked, still in disbelief at what was happening.
To my shock, the rabbit nodded and responded in a clear, feminine voice, "Yes, I can."
I stared at the creature in stunned silence. My mind raced, trying to process what I had just heard. "Oh, my gods!" I blurted out, then quickly covered my mouth, realizing how loud I had been. The rabbit flinched at the exclamation. "I'm sorry," I added quickly, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I was just surprised; I've never talked to a rabbit before."
The rabbit blinked and settled slightly closer. "Not all can," it explained in its calm voice. "But I can because I have been blessed by the forest protector."
I swallowed hard, trying to comprehend what it meant. "It's rare for a human to speak to beasts. Most cannot," the rabbit added, its gaze never leaving me.
I shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the rabbit's words pressing on me. Then it spoke again, a bit more lightheartedly, "You mentioned food, human?"
"Yes!" I said, eager to move past the awkwardness. "I have potatoes—human food. I thought you might be interested. And in exchange, perhaps you could tell me about the forest... and the droppings nearby?" I stumbled over the second part, suddenly feeling awkward again. "They're good for gardening, so I could grow more food."
The rabbit regarded me for a moment, its eyes studying me carefully. Then it shuffled forward slightly. "Sounds good, human," it replied, and I could sense its curiosity was piqued.
I quickly ran back to the house, my leg throbbing with pain from the previous injury, but the thought of feeding the rabbit urged me forward. When I returned with a potato, I offered it to the rabbit, my hands trembling slightly. The moment it bit into the raw potato, something strange happened. A burst of bright green light enveloped the rabbit, blinding me for a split second.
When the light faded, I blinked in shock. The rabbit had grown taller—at least a foot taller—and sported a small horn on its head, an elegant spiraling design that seemed almost magical.
"I've grown stronger, human," the rabbit said with excitement in its voice. "This is good!"
My mind reeled. "Stronger?" I repeated, a mix of confusion and awe. "What does that mean for you? How is this good?"
The rabbit's large eyes met mine. "It enhances our intelligence, bestows skills, and alters our bodies to become stronger. This transformation occurs only when a beast is blessed with pure mana," she explained. "I can now communicate better, and my abilities will improve."
She took a step closer, peering up at me with a mixture of curiosity and something else—trust, perhaps. "Did you grow this?" she asked, her eyes trained on the potato in my hand.
Before I could answer, she added, "I wish to trade with you in the future, human. This will be beneficial for me."
I was taken aback by her request. "Your master?" I inquired, a bit hesitant.
The rabbit's expression darkened for a moment. "Yes, my master... was a beast tamer. He blessed me with mana when I was young. But he has long passed away, and I have been stuck at that level for quite some time now."
Her words hung in the air, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of pity for her. "So... you're like a companion to your master?" I asked, trying to understand.
She nodded. "Yes. Those who bless beasts with mana for the first time are considered their masters. If the beast wishes to stay with their master's family after their passing, they must be blood-related, so the mana can be shared."
My mind was buzzing with questions. "Are creatures that haven't been blessed not considered sentient?"
The rabbit's gaze softened. "Indeed. Those of us who have been blessed can no longer communicate with our kin unless they too have received the blessing."
I felt a weight lift off my shoulders—eating meat would not mean harming an intelligent creature, a thought that had bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
To shift the conversation, I asked, "What animals could I enlist to help with my garden?"
The rabbit's eyes sparkled with knowledge. "My master used birds to consume the insects off the plants, and I recommend spiders as well. They're very beneficial."
"Birds and spiders," I mused aloud. "How would I bless them? Also, do you have a name?"
The rabbit shuffled, almost shyly. "My master was a beast tamer; he simply used his magic. I assume you leave mana in the crops you cultivate. Some of it must be set aside for the beasts to consume. As for my name—" She paused, and then gave me a small smile. "My name is Zily."
Zily. It felt fitting, somehow.
A sense of excitement filled me. I didn't understand everything about this world yet, but with
Zily's help, I was beginning to see a way forward. Maybe this place wasn't so unfamiliar after all.