Chapter Five: The real battle pt2

The stand for yams—green, flat, no dot—was near the far edge of the market.

Wooden crates stacked on burlap, all shapes and sizes of root vegetables laid out like someone was playing produce Tetris.

Uma scanned until she found them.

Flat. Green. Not a single dot in sight.

'Mission clear.'

She crouched, checked for bruising like she knew what she was doing (she didn't), and picked out two of the least suspicious-looking ones. Set them into the cloth pouch with everything else: fennel root, salt pods, the pear rescue prizes.

The bag was getting heavier.

Her balance? Flawless.

She stood.

Turned.

Took two steps back into the crowd—

—and collided with something that felt like a wall, sounded like a man, and smelled like the inside of a tavern's regrets.

"Oi—!"

The impact was sharp.

A shoulder to her chest, a boot knocking into her foot, and her whole body pivoting midair on instinct.

She didn't panic.

She flowed.

Basket in one hand. Satchel slung over her shoulder. Her foot slid back, body leaning at a perfect forty-five as her free arm snapped out to catch the bag before it fell.

The yam wobbled.

She flicked her wrist.

It spun once in the air—just once—and landed squarely back in her palm.

People stared.

Someone clapped.

'And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you stretch.'

She turned to the man she bumped into—mid-30s, boisterous, red-cheeked, and currently holding the largest mug of ale Uma had ever seen. Like, cartoonishly oversized.

Or at least… he had been holding it.

Now it was upside down.

And pouring.

Directly.

Onto her.

First her scarf.

Then her coat.

Then, as if to personally offend her soul, it dripped down her pants and into her left boot.

Not the right boot. That would be forgivable.

The left.

The one that squeaks when wet.

She stood there, arms still out, everything she owned not soaked—balanced perfectly.

And everything else?

Soaked in barley-flavored shame.

The man froze.

"Oh. Oh gods, I am—I am so sorry."

Uma blinked slowly.

Looked down at herself.

Then at the yam in her hand.

Then back at him.

He winced. "You want a towel? I've got a towel. I think. Maybe."

She raised her board slowly and shakily wrote:

:|

"Okay, yep, that's fair."

She didn't scream.

Couldn't.

She didn't cry.

Refused.

She just closed her eyes.

Took a deep breath through her nose.

And whispered silently to herself:

'I hate this town so much right now.'

A breeze passed.

Her scarf dripped.

She squelched as she turned to leave dignity intact, but only because she'd duct-taped it to her spine.

'Just. Just one more thing, Uma. Come on. You can do this, girl.'

The stall for dairy and rind products sat beneath a crooked canvas canopy that flapped like it owed someone money.

Uma approached it with the air of a soldier returning from war—coated in beer, squelching slightly, yam in hand like a war trophy.

The guy at the counter perked up the second he saw her.

Young. Maybe late teens. Hair slicked back with something too shiny to be water. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to say "I think I'm charming."

"Whoa," he said, eyes scanning her from beer-stained scarf to dripping pant leg. "Rough day?"

Uma blinked once. Slowly.

"I got just the thing to fix that," he continued, leaning on the counter like it was part of his personality. "Aged yellow rind. Best cut in the region. And trust me—not easy to get."

She raised her board and, with a long-suffering motion, scrawled:

YELL RIND

He snapped his fingers. "Exactly! That's the one! You've got good taste. Real good. See, this block right here?"

He slapped his palm onto a wax-wrapped wedge the color of regret.

"Took me three days to get it here. Bandits on the northern road. I had to fight for this."

Uma tilted her head.

He kept going. "Like, actual blades and everything. Thought I was gonna die. But I held onto this cheese like it was sacred. My mom's favorite, you know? I told her I'd bring her a piece, but I can't break it up now—gotta sell it whole."

He smiled, big and toothy.

"Would hate to part with it," he added, already gesturing for coin.

Uma didn't write anything.

Didn't flinch.

Just stared.

Not a blink. Not a twitch.

The guy's smile faltered slightly. "Uh…"

Her eyes narrowed by a millimeter.

That was all it took.

Whatever light he had in his soul?

Gone.

Extinguished.

If the squirrels from earlier had seen that look, they'd have abandoned the forest.

There was no yelling. No storming. No threats.

Just that stare.

The kind of stare that said:

'If I had a knife, this would be your final transaction.'

He swallowed hard.

Cleared his throat.

"You know what? Uh. Discount. Huge discount. Let's call it… friendship pricing."

She didn't break eye contact.

"Actually," he continued, now sweating, "you can just take it. I insist. Really. If anyone asks, just tell them you paid full price, okay?"

Still no reaction.

He wrapped the cheese with shaky hands and slid it across the counter like it might explode.

"Have a great day, ma'am."

Uma picked it up without a word and tucked it into her bag.

Then slowly raised her board and wrote:

T H A N K S F R I E N D

Somehow, some way, she made words intimidating as she walked away.

It made the vendor close early.

The walk home was quiet.

Not peaceful.

Just… quiet.

Uma's boots squeaked once every six steps. Just enough to be annoying. Her scarf dripped steadily onto the path behind her, a trail of barley-scented humiliation.

She carried her bag like it was filled with glass.

No swinging. No fumbling.

Each item had survived too much to be lost now.

When she reached the house, the door creaked open with a soft groan.

No fanfare.

No triumphant return.

She stepped inside.

Squelched once.

And gently—gently—set the satchel on the counter like it was sacred.

Salt pods.

Fennel root.

River pears.

Yams.

The Rind of Unnecessary Drama

Each item unwrapped.

Laid out.

Arranged like they were offerings.

No clattering.

No drops.

Just… reverence.

Then she turned.

Serosa was already there.

Mug in hand.

Leaning against the doorway like she hadn't moved all day.

"Well," she said, the smile already forming at the corners of her mouth.

"Looks like someone had fun."

Uma didn't blink.

Didn't smile.

Hell, Serosa could've sworn she didn't even breathe.

Just stared.

The kind of stare that said:

I know what you did.

I lived what you caused.

And I have written your name in my soul's complaint journal.

Serosa raised an eyebrow, unfazed.

"I'm just saying, you look a little…"

She waved a finger vaguely in Uma's direction.

"Soaked with disappointment."

Uma picked up the board.

Wrote nothing.

Just held it.

Serosa took a long sip of her drink.

"Alright, alright," she said, smirking. "Go rinse off, stormcloud."

Uma turned, still dripping.

Opened the door again.

Paused.

Then, without looking back, raised the board one more time over her shoulder:

I K N O W

W H E R E

U S L E E P

Serosa nearly choked on her tea.

Uma walked off without another word.

The lake sat just a short trail away from the house.

Quiet.

Still.

Framed by pines that reached up like they were trying to hold the clouds still.

She sat on the edge for a second.

Just breathed.

Then stripped down to the basics and slipped into the water like a ghost returning to haunt something.

The cold didn't bother her.

Not really.

It felt earned.

She dunked once.

Twice.

Then just floated—arms out, hair drifting, staring up at the sky.

'…I swear if one more thing happens today, I will start swinging.'

The water was cold enough to bite, but not enough to chase her out.

She floated near the center of the lake, arms spread, back flat.

Her hair drifted around her like ink in water.

Eyes wide open.

Clouds moved slowly above her.

Heavy. Distant.

The kind of sky that didn't ask anything from you.

She didn't move.

Not for a while.

'Okay,' she thought.

'Let's review.'

'I got yelled at by a squirrel today.'

A soft exhale through her nose.

Not a laugh.

Just… breath.

'And I fought cheese with my eyes.'

Another breath.

She closed her eyes this time.

Let the chill crawl over her arms.

Settle into her ribs.

Then the thought finally came.

The one that had been hiding in the corners all day.

All week.

Ever since the barn.

Since the screaming.

Since the nothing.

'I'm not going home, am I?'

She didn't know where that home even was anymore.

That little apartment? Gone.

The stupid job she almost had? Gone.

The people who walked by her every day like she was air?

Probably still walking.

Probably still not looking.

She dipped her head back under the water.

Held it there until the silence went from cold to quiet.

Then surfaced, blinking droplets from her lashes.

She raised one hand from the water and stared at it.

Still hers.

Still shaking just a little.

But steady enough to carry groceries.

To fight back.

To walk.

'This is my life now.'

Not the errands.

Not the soup ingredients.

But the fact of it

The breath.

The beat of her heart against her ribs.

The trees watching from the shoreline like old friends who hadn't introduced themselves yet.

She floated a little longer.

Then whispered in her head—not even to herself this time, just to the air:

'I'm here.'

And for the first time since waking up in this world,

that didn't feel like a threat.

It felt like a truth.