Rhys Downing pulled his hood lower as he entered the tavern in Chorastine. The metal mask covering his face caught the lamplight. Scars ran deep beneath that mask, reminders of a past he couldn't change. He wanted something simple now—someone who could see past the metal, past the silence. Someone who wouldn't flinch when he lifted his hood. The next morning, he walked through the market square. A rusted iron pump stood near the edge of the square. Its weathered body curved like something from an older time. A woman knelt beside it, working soil around young plants. She glanced up at him. Her eyes stayed steady on his mask. She held out a small trowel. Rhys took it. They worked side by side, hands in the dirt, no words needed. The pump creaked as someone else came to fill a bucket. The woman smiled at him before returning to her plants. Something tight in his chest loosened. Maybe this place could hold what he was looking for. Maybe someone here wouldn't turn away. Days passed at the pump. He returned each morning to tend the plants. Others came and went, filling buckets, kneeling in the soil beside him. One afternoon, he spotted a newspaper stand draped in thick moss near the square's edge. The green covering made it look like something alive. He walked closer and saw papers pinned to its face. Messages from townspeople. Invitations to meals. Offers to teach trades. Requests for help with harvests. Rhys read them slowly. His gloved finger traced the words. One notice asked for someone to help repair a fence. Another invited anyone to join a gathering at week's end. He pulled a blank slip from his pouch and a piece of charcoal. His hand hovered over the paper. Then he wrote four words: "I can help build." He pinned it to the stand. The moss felt damp under his fingers. He stepped back and looked at his message among the others. It was a start. A way to be seen without speaking. A way to find what he needed most. Two days later, a response appeared on the moss-covered stand. Someone needed help building a gathering hall. Rhys followed the directions written on the slip. The foundation was already laid when he arrived. Stone walls rose waist-high, covered in patches of green moss. Others were there, lifting beams and hammering posts. They nodded at him. He picked up tools and joined them. The work took weeks. The hall grew taller each day. Moss crept up its walls like the building belonged to the earth itself. When they finished, the woman from the pump stood at the entrance. She gestured for him to follow her inside. The hall was empty but warm. Light came through high windows. She touched his arm and pointed to the open space. This place was for people like them, she seemed to say. People who needed somewhere to belong. Rhys looked around the hall. His message on the stand had led him here. To this space. To these people. He didn't have what he wanted yet, but he had a place to start looking.