The light of the torches had seemed far away when Aarav first saw them—but now, with each cautious step forward, they loomed closer, sharper. The forest around him fell silent, as if holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come. Only the occasional rustle of leaves in the night breeze broke the stillness.
Figures moved near the flickering glow, silhouettes against the dark treeline, shadows cast by fire and tension alike. Men with spears, women with children tucked behind them—a community on edge. Aarav's body tensed, muscles coiling like springs as adrenaline surged through him.
If this was a dream, it had gone on too long. The pain in his feet from walking, the gnawing hunger in his stomach, the sharp clarity of the cold night air—all felt too real. If it wasn't a dream... what then? Where was he? When was he?
A stick cracked under his foot. The sound seemed to explode in the quiet forest.
The nearest figure turned sharply, voice raised in alarm—words Aarav didn't recognize, short and sharp, followed by synchronized movement that spoke of practiced vigilance. Spears pointed his way, their sharpened tips catching the torchlight in deadly glints.
He froze, hands half-raised in a universal gesture of surrender. His heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced his breathing to steady. No sudden moves. Nothing that could be interpreted as threat.
There was a moment—tense, stretched—before an older man stepped forward. Beard silver in the moonlight, eyes sharp as flint beneath heavy brows. The elder's face carried the weathered lines of someone who had survived much and expected more hardship to come. He said nothing at first. Just watched, head slightly tilted, assessing the stranger who had wandered into their domain.
Aarav didn't speak. What could he say that wouldn't make things worse? His language would be as foreign to them as theirs was to him. Instead, he lowered his eyes in deference, then looked back up with deliberate calm. No flinching. No sudden moves. Just...stillness. Measured breaths.
It was the same technique he had once used when approaching a client meltdown or walking into an investor meeting five minutes after learning his lead developer had quit. That same calm—born of necessity and practice—settled over him now. Different world, same skill.
The old man spoke again, more softly this time. His words carried authority but not immediate threat. One of the younger guards gestured with his spear—not jabbing, but pointing. Walk with them. Follow.
Aarav nodded, understanding the universal language of gesture and tone.
The village wasn't far. As they approached, it emerged from the darkness like something from a history book come to life. Nestled against the forest's edge, its outer walls were built from sharpened logs and reinforced with stone where the earth allowed. Functional, not decorative—made to keep threats at bay.
It wasn't large—maybe twenty or thirty structures, huts with sloped thatched roofs, a communal square, and a central fire still glowing with embers. Smoke rose in thin tendrils toward stars that seemed impossibly bright, untainted by the light pollution he had known all his life.
They didn't shackle him. Didn't treat him like a prisoner. But the unspoken rule was clear: stay where you're told. The spears that had lowered never fully disappeared, and eyes followed his every move with wary curiosity.
The people here were weathered. Scarred. Strong in the way survival made people strong—not from vanity or leisure, but necessity. Their bodies told stories of hard work, of hunting, of building, of enduring. Children peeked from behind corners, wide-eyed and silent. Women pulled them back gently, their own gazes both protective and curious.
A few men carried tools and weapons—primitive by modern standards, but functional in ways that spoke of generational refinement. Each knife, each spear, each hammer had been shaped by centuries of use and knowledge.
As they guided him to the longhouse at the village's edge, Aarav took in the details: bundles of herbs drying on racks, their pungent scent mingling with woodsmoke. Smoked meat hanging over open fire pits, the protein carefully preserved for leaner times. Chickens and goats tied to simple wooden posts, drowsing in the night, livestock that represented wealth and survival in equal measure.
A rhythm existed here. Brutal, efficient, but grounded. Lives lived in accordance with the sun and seasons, with the turning of the earth and the migration of animals. No smartphones dictating schedules, no deadlines except those imposed by weather and hunger.
He caught snippets of conversation—tonal shifts, patterns. Different from anything he knew, but not entirely alien. Language evolved around survival. Around place and need. Words for hunting, for danger, for family. Universal concepts wrapped in unfamiliar sounds.
That same elder who had first seen him spoke again, this time not in suspicion—but with something closer to curiosity. His hands moved as he spoke, emphasizing words Aarav couldn't understand but could feel the weight of. A short exchange followed with others in the group, heads nodding, decisions made.
And then Aarav was given a spot near the central hearth in the longhouse. A woven mat, crafted from reeds he didn't recognize, laid out on the packed earth floor. A rough fur blanket, the animal unknown but the warmth welcome. A warm bowl of something that tasted like barley and herbs, with chunks of some gamey meat that his hunger didn't allow him to question.
He ate without complaint. He'd had worse on hackathon weekends back home—those seventy-two-hour coding sessions fueled by pizza grown cold and energy drinks gone flat. But here, the food connected him to the earth in ways his former life never had. Each bite represented work—planting, harvesting, hunting, cooking. Not ordered through an app with the tap of a finger.
As he lay back, staring at the ceiling's wooden beams, he thought of how familiar all this was—and how utterly foreign. The air was clean but heavy with smoke and ash. The stars outside glowed differently—bigger, older, arranged in constellations he should know but couldn't quite place. There were no electric lights, no hum of machines, no notifications demanding attention. Just the sound of wind, animals, and quiet human life trying to endure.
He thought of medieval documentaries he used to watch at 2 AM when sleep wouldn't come. Those reenactments of stone-age farming or Iron Age tribes now seemed less like fiction and more like blueprints. But the people here... they weren't actors. They weren't there for entertainment or education. They bled, hunted, built, and died here. Their world was as real as the one he'd left behind.
As he turned to his side, eyes heavy with exhaustion, the elder's voice came again. He stood near the doorway, silhouetted in firelight, his shadow stretching across the earthen floor like something from another time. The words were simple. He didn't understand them. But the tone carried meaning across the barrier of language.
Aarav nodded slowly, holding the old man's gaze.
The old man pointed to the fire, then to the door. A warning. Clear in any language, in any time. Respect the shelter given. Don't wander. Don't bring harm.
Especially not in the dark.
And with that, the door was pulled shut, its wooden frame settling with a soft thud that felt strangely final. The longhouse fell quiet, save for the occasional crackle from the dying fire and the soft breathing of others he could not see in the shadows.
Aarav lay awake, staring into the glowing embers. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new attempts at communication. But tonight, he had shelter. Food. A momentary peace.
In a world stripped of everything familiar, that would have to be enough.