The cherry trees were still in bloom when Boro left his village.
Among his own kind he had always stood out. Mushroom-folk were usually small and round, their caps no higher than a traveller's knee.
Boro had grown much taller.
The elders said little, but they noticed the scent of his spores. Different from the others. Stronger. Unfamiliar.
When Boro spoke, the words often tangled before they reached the air.
Work in the village kitchens did not last long.
He carried pots too slowly. Held knives too carefully. When the room filled with voices he forgot what he meant to say.
One morning he packed a small bag and left before the cooking fires were lit.
The road beyond the fields led to Brambleford.
He followed it quietly.
He tried several kitchens after that.
A baker's shop before dawn.
A chestnut cart near the town gate.
A tavern kitchen full of shouting.
None lasted long.
The cooks spoke too quickly. The rooms were too crowded. Someone always sighed when he hesitated.
After a while he stopped asking.
Instead he walked the roads outside town, watching the travellers pass.
That was where Miren found him again.
***
Morning came quietly to the inn.
Boro stepped into the hall before most of the travellers were awake. The floorboards were cool beneath his feet. Pale light from the road slipped through the front windows and stretched across the tables.
A voice drifted from the kitchen.
"Do you have anything I could help with?"
Another voice answered while something wooden struck softly against a board.
"…Not today."
Boro slowed near the kitchen doorway.
Ruan stood at the counter, chopping vegetables with steady movements. A kettle hung over the hearth behind him, the lid rattling faintly as steam gathered inside.
Across the room, a traveller leaned against the wall near the hearth. A dark cloak hung from his shoulders. When he shifted, a line of feathers brushed the edge of the fabric.
Boro stepped forward.
The loose board near the counter creaked under his weight.
Ruan glanced up.
"Oh. Morning," he said. "Food isn't ready yet."
Boro's hands tightened together.
"M-morning. I-I wasn't here for f-food."
"I see."
Ruan returned to the chopping board.
The traveller near the hearth looked over.
"New?" he asked.
Ruan spoke before Boro could answer.
"Staying for now."
Boro felt his shoulders tense.
He turned slightly toward the front door, unsure where to stand.
After a moment he spoke again.
"…Do you think I could fix the back of the inn?" he asked quietly. "There's some grass there. It looks a little… tall."
Ruan slid the chopped vegetables into a bowl.
"You can ask Moss for the tools."
The traveller pushed away from the wall. The feathers along his cloak shifted as he walked toward the back door.
"Tools?" he said.
Ruan nodded toward the garden.
"Moss should be outside."
The traveller stepped through the doorway and disappeared into the morning light.
Boro remained where he was, rubbing his thumb slowly against his fingers. He looked toward the back door, then at the floor near his feet.
He did not move.
Ruan glanced at him once, then turned back to the pot.
Outside, faint voices drifted across the yard. Somewhere near the fence, pigs shuffled in the dirt.
Ruan set a small kettle on the table near the window.
"Tea is good in the morning," he said.
Boro nodded and sat down carefully.
The cup warmed his hands.
Ruan turned the knob on a small wooden box. A distant voice murmured inside it.
Boro listened for a moment but did not understand most of it.
Instead, he watched the room.
A traveller came down the stairs and placed a key on the counter before leaving. Another followed soon after, pausing to thank Ruan before stepping out onto the road.
Ruan answered them both without looking up from the pot simmering over the hearth.
Steam drifted upward as he stirred the pot slowly.
Outside, the creak of a cart stopped near the front door.
Two people stepped inside carrying small travel bags.
"Where can we leave the cart?" one of them asked.
"Beside the well is fine," Ruan said.
They nodded and stepped back outside before returning again.
"Do you have a room?"
Ruan set two keys on the counter.
Boro held his cup quietly.
From where he sat he could see several small things.
Dust gathered near the door where travellers entered. A few leaves had blown in and settled beside the window.
Near the wall, one of the tables still held a used cloth.
Boro glanced toward the kitchen.
Ruan stood near the hearth, stirring the stew.
He did not seem to notice.
Boro set the empty cup down.
He remained there a moment, then walked to the corner near the door to pick up a broom.
He glanced toward the kitchen again.
Ruan continued cooking.
***
The inn settled again after midday.
A few travellers remained at the tables near the windows, speaking quietly over their bowls. Outside, the road carried the dull creak of a passing cart before the sound faded into the distance.
Ruan set another pot near the hearth.
The door opened.
The traveller from the morning stepped inside and brushed the dust from his cloak. Feathers shifted along the edge as he moved.
He took a seat near the counter.
"Lunch?" he asked.
Ruan nodded.
"There's stew."
He ladled stew into a bowl and set it down.
The traveller leaned forward slightly as the steam rose from the surface.
He tasted it before speaking again.
"Nothing left to do today?" he asked.
Ruan looked up from the counter.
"Not much."
The traveller nodded slightly.
"I thought so."
For a moment he said nothing.
"I think it's been a few weeks," he said after a while.
"Is it?" Ruan asked.
"And you still don't feel like drinking?"
"We'll see."
The traveller leaned back slightly in his chair.
"Have you thought about doing something else?" he asked.
Ruan wiped a glass with a cloth.
"Like what?"
"Something ambitious."
Ruan paused.
"This is an ambitious dream."
The traveller watched him for a moment.
"I meant something more heroic."
Ruan set the glass on the shelf.
"What does it mean to be heroic to you?"
The traveller looked down at his bowl.
For a moment he didn't answer.
"I guess…" he said slowly. "I don't know that either."
He ate the rest of the stew in silence.
Across the room, Boro continued sweeping near the window. Leaves gathered quietly along the edge of the broom.
The traveller finished the last of the stew and pushed the bowl gently across the counter.
"I don't know what my life is supposed to mean," he said.
Ruan picked up the bowl.
"…Think of what you want."
The traveller watched him for a moment.
Outside, the wind moved through the dry grass beside the road.
For a while neither of them spoke.
Then footsteps sounded on the steps.
Not running.
But hurried.
The front door opened.
An old woman stepped inside, leaning heavily on a wooden stick. Her shawl had slipped loose around her shoulders, and her breath came in short bursts as if she had walked a long distance.
She looked around the hall before her eyes settled on Ruan.
"Oh… thank goodness."
Ruan stepped forward.
"What happened?"
"Bandits," she said.
Her hands trembled slightly as she gripped the edge of the table.
"They stopped my cart down the road. Took everything."
She wiped her eyes with the corner of her sleeve.
"I only had a basket of pies to deliver… but they took that too."
The room fell quiet.
Near the window, Boro paused with the broom in his hands.
"I don't mind losing the pies," she said softly. "But… I'm afraid to walk home alone."
Near the counter, the traveller with the feathered cloak lifted his head.