After spending so long struggling, having a place to call home made everything feel so much easier. Made my thoughts lighter. I felt like I could actually build something, not just survive.

Switch flipped, I started thinking about that kind of stuff, things to make my life easier or better. Like putting straw down in the room to make it more comfortable. That meant a trip up to the plateau to collect more wheat, my farm still growing, but I was happy to do it, eager to see how much I could carry with my ropes.

The answer? Lots. All four bales were as big as the ropes could be, each one about as much as I could carry before. Like I’d found with the reeds, though, it was so much easier carrying them like this, able to put them down and adjust how I held them if certain muscles were getting tired. If only my camp was at the bottom of the hill, I could just roll the bales down.

Those needed a few days to dry out. While I waited, I tidied up some things. The reeds I were growing had made seeds, so I sowed those around the marshy bank. Still had the last wall to finish, so weaved that. Plenty of threads hanging on the branch, I spent my spare time between ideas braiding more twine.

My next idea came when I noticed my crop of wheat looked ready. More of the kernels were big this time, so I was looking at digging up a lot more area to sow, which meant a bunch of kneeling on the ground, and I thought a hoe would be really useful.

That wasn’t impossible, was it? I mean, an axe seemed like it would just fall apart unless I could find the perfect stick and stone combo, but a hoe just dug into the dirt.

I thought about it while cutting down the wheat, sorting by kernel size, then put the small ones to cure in the larder—which was already stuffed full from all the wheat I’d brought down the other day—and the stems to dry under the tree.

Finally, I went to find the perfect stick and stone for the job. A stick that was pretty long and kind of thick, but not too thick, important it wasn’t heavy. A stone that had a good shape for tying to a stick, sharp.

Not an easy search.

It helped that I’d collected a bunch of sticks for firewood and knew where to look for stones, but I still tried a few times before I found a stone that worked. Tied the twine across this way and that, hooked onto a small notch on the long stick to keep it from slipping, the weight feeling good when I lifted it and gave it a swing.

I would probably need to fix it soon, learn how to do it better. Definitely needed to take care while swinging it in case I sent a stone flying up into the air. For now, though, I had something that wasn’t just a stone. A tool. An actual tool.

Back at the wheat patch, I didn’t waste time and got straight into it. Too scared to lift it over my head, I only raised it shoulder height, then swung down. A shock ran through my arm, almost making me drop it. But it wasn’t too bad, ready for it on the next swing. Swing after swing, breaking up the dirt, then I went back over it, pulling the head along to make rows of loose dirt.

It looked kind of proper, something I might have seen in a textbook. I planted the large kernels, watered them, and put all that to the back of my head for about nine days (according to my calendar).

Another day’s work coming to an end.

Given a couple days, the huge batch of straw I’d brought down had mostly dried out. Not dry enough for kindling, but, excited for the comfort, I thought dry enough for bedding. After checking on everything, some farming for my other foods—mostly an excuse to use the hoe some more—I sorted through the straw, finding the driest clumps and moving them to my room.

It wasn’t perfect, I found out, lying on the straw only for it to poke at every bit of uncovered skin. I hoped that would go away after a day or two, or that I could used to it. Maybe it had been a mistake.

Oh well, time would tell.

At least for now, still there, it felt like lying on thick grass, not really soft, but softer than the ground. Hard to tell in the middle of the afternoon, but hopefully warmer at night too. I’d spent a good month sleeping while sitting up, curled up, so actually stretching out sounded amazing.

Thoughts of straw and the ground shifted to other things I’d love. An actual plate, for starters. Something that my food wouldn’t roll off and that didn’t feel so dirty to use. Maybe I could find clay, but I doubted I could heat it up enough to, like, fire it? Even then, I wasn’t sure if clay could be used for plates and bowls without a finish. Well, if I could fire clay, bricks made more sense. Then I could really build something.

After trying to fill the day with work for so long, it caught up to me. Drifting off, I didn’t quite fall asleep, thoughts fading in and out and blending with dreams I only caught glimpses of. Straw, clay, bricks….

Maybe minutes, maybe an hour, I woke up enough to crawl out, feeling refreshed. A bit itchy, but refreshed. I tried to remember what I’d dreamt about, but all I could remember was the meandering thoughts of clay and pottery and bricks.

I stood up, staring at the room, and it clicked. Even if I couldn’t fire clay, people had made houses out of mud and straw for millennia. Of course, they had generations to learn what mud to use, how much straw to add, how thick to make it. I had a few sentences I hoped I was remembering correctly.

But what was the worst that could happen? If it cracked and fell apart, that was fine. All I had was time to waste.

Of course, I couldn’t make them all mud walls: I needed to get inside. So I settled on doing the two side walls, leaving the smaller one at the front as a door. I also needed a “quarry” where I could dump water and mix straw into the mud… which meant getting the hoe out, I thought, smiling. I loved using it. Back on topic, it also meant near the stream. It didn’t matter if the water was warm, but I also didn’t want to carry the mud far. Needed a good rock for carrying mud too.

Plan coming together, I got to work. Looked around the top of the stream for a good spot, then went up the mountain to places with a bunch of rocks and stones, then dug up a bunch of loose dirt. Swing after swing after swing. Added water, added straw. Took off my boots and socks and rolled up my trousers, standing in it to mix the straw in, too thick to use a stick, squelching, cold, but fun.

Then I started piling it up on both sides of the two walls, using the wall itself as like the steel in reinforced concrete. It took a few tries to get the consistency right, but it was as easy as adding water or adding dirt, so I found something that I could mix, move, and stick. Started at the ground, going up a little at a time. Glad the weather was hot and dry.

The drying wasn’t instant, though, so I braided more twine while I waited. No rush.

One day, two, three. A routine that went round and around, feeling more like a real room every time. Dimmer, quieter, warmer. Cosy.

The braiding wasn’t quite so rewarding. I knew I’d have a use for more twine eventually, but I wanted to make, like, fabric—cloth. The problem with that was I didn’t know how to knit or crochet and, if I weaved something, I’d need a wooden frame around it. I didn’t think felting would work, pretty sure that was for wool.

Nothing I could really do about it. Looking down at my clothes, that would just have to be the timer for finding a village, I thought.

Hopefully not for a long time.

One day became, two, three, a week, weeks. Checking on the plants, expanding my farms until they made enough for me, drying straw and reeds to burn. Rain came and went, eroding some of my “house”, but I made the roof wider and that kept it from being washed away.

Flattened reeds with a rock and dried them, weaving them into a more wind-proof door, using twine and sticks for strength. That worked so well, I practised, wove a few square plates with flattened reeds, then kept trying for a basket until I managed to make something that worked. Wasn’t pretty, but it worked.

Found more vegetables to grow. One looked like asparagus, but tasted like mushroom with a ginger kick after roasting it. The other was like if bell peppers actually looked like small bells, narrow at the top and flaring out at the bottom; once roasted, the texture was smooth, but had a plain taste with a hint of sweetness. Kind of like marrow. A bit hollow in the middle, I liked stuffing it with the mustard leaves.

Slowly slowing down, I spotted the skittish animals of the forest, darting among the shadows and through bushes, and I found more slimes on the plateau… and watched one get eaten by a rather large bird, feathers maroon and beak stained in blood. Found bones with teeth marks in them, any meat long-since scavenged. Buried them for the little peace of mind it brought me.

I bathed every other day while the weather stayed warm, washed my clothes once a week. Replaced the straw I used for bedding once a week too. Warm inside my home, I usually used my jumper as a pillow, keeping the straw from poking my neck and head.

Tried making an axe, but the problem was finding a stone sharp enough. Plenty stones were fine for sawing, only to fail at, well, axing. Either broke quickly or didn’t really bite into the wood.

After the encounter with that large bird, though, I made an axe I could carry in one hand, bringing it with me when I went out. Realised the animals in the forest were probably skittish for a reason.

Day after day, threshing wheat, weaving flattened reeds. Slow and steady. I didn’t need another room, didn’t need more food. This was enough.

Although weeks and months didn’t really mean anything in this world, I kept count of the days, decided months were four weeks. That made it the fourth day of the third month here. Taking a while, I worked out the current date back in my old world.

I smiled to myself. It would have been Hatty’s birthday today. Or rather, it was, I just wasn’t there to celebrate it with her. Or maybe it wasn’t her birthday, given up to the orphanage as a baby like I was, but not even with a birth certificate.

Taking in a deep breath, I tried to blink the tears away. There was no blood between us, but they were my family and I missed them so very much.

Then a twig snapped nearby.

I jerked around to look, knowing no animal came so near, and I was right—it was no animal.

A person.