The door opened without a creak.

  He noted it automatically — the hinges were oiled, which meant someone took care of the house. Not this room. The house in general. Already something.

  Outside was a narrow passage between wooden buildings — not a yard and not a street, something in between. A few steps to the next wall, then a turn, then open space. He stood in the doorway and looked.

  Nobody turned around.

  He waited a second. Then another.

  Nothing. People moved past the turn, shadows flickered, someone carried something. They hadn't noticed him — not because he was hiding. They just hadn't noticed.

  He stepped out.

  The main part of the settlement was about five minutes away — he counted steps without meaning to, just habit. The previous owner's room stood at the edge, where the neat buildings ended and the simpler ones began. Not a slum — just the periphery. A place people didn't go unless they had reason to.

  He walked and listened.

  Two men by a fence talked about something domestic — grain, prices, a neighbour who hadn't returned a tool. A woman called out to a child by name. Someone laughed behind a wall.

  He understood every word.

  That stopped him for a fraction of a second — not his steps, just something inside shifted. Quietly. The first thing that had gone right since he'd opened his eyes in a stranger's body — and it turned out to be this small. Just words. Just words he could understand.

  He didn't let it expand. Noted it. Set it aside. Kept walking.

  People were sitting by the well.

  Not because they needed water — the buckets stood to the side, filled long ago. Just that kind of place. Shade, a bench along the wall, an open view of passersby. Three men of roughly the same age. People who had time and a habit of spending it exactly like this.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He approached.

  — Can I ask something?

  One of the three looked up. Looked at him — and a second later his gaze shifted slightly to the side. Not rudely. Not deliberately. Just — to the side. As if looking directly was a little uncomfortable and he hadn't understood why.

  — Ask.

  — Over there, at the edge — the last room by the old fence. Who lived there?

  The first man scratched the back of his head.

  — The roof started leaking about three years ago, — he said suddenly. — The owner kept promising to fix it. Never did. — A pause. — What were you asking about?

  — The person who lived there.

  — Oh. — He glanced at the second man. The second shrugged. — Someone lived there. Quiet type.

  — Do you know the name?

  Silence. Not long — but real. Not the kind where someone is thinking, but the kind where they understand there's nothing to think about.

  — Don't know, — the first man said. — We didn't really talk.

  — Not once?

  — Well... — He paused. — He didn't come to us. We didn't go to him.

  The third one, who had been quiet until now, suddenly looked up.

  — Who are you to him?

  The question was simple. Mundane. Someone was asking about a person nobody had ever asked about — which meant the someone asking was more interesting than the one being asked about.

  He opened his mouth.

  And for a moment found nothing to say.

  Not because he couldn't think of an answer. Because he realised — he didn't know the name. Didn't know what the previous owner of this body had been called. The room had been empty. Nobody had ever addressed him by name. And if the third man had asked not who are you to him but what's your name — there would have been no answer either.

  — An acquaintance, — he said. — We hadn't seen each other in a long time.

  The third man nodded — already disinterested. The first was looking slightly to the side again. The conversation closed on its own.

  He said a short goodbye and left.

  He walked and thought.

  The person had lived here — how long? A year? More? — and left not a single trace in anyone's memory. Three people at the well knew that someone lived at the edge. That was all.

  He tried to fit this into some kind of logic and couldn't.

  There was something in it that wouldn't simply be noted and set aside. Not pity — he wasn't sure he knew how to feel pity in the way the word was usually used. Something else. Something without a name that didn't fit into any category he had.

  He left it there. Without a label.

  Already at the turn toward his passage he stopped.

  A name, — he said to himself.

  Just — a name. First on the list.

  He stood for a second. Then walked on.