The forge had a certain silence to it in the mornings—before the bellows groaned and the sparks danced, before the village clanged awake with steel and sweat. Jake had grown fond of these quiet hours, the smell of charcoal clinging to the walls, the way his breath fogged in the chilled mountain air.
James was rummaging through the old tool chest in the corner, muttering curses under his breath. "I swear I had another set of tongs… maybe they got buried under all this rust and memory."
Jake crouched beside him to help. Most of the chest was filled with dull blades, warped nails, and forgotten bits of ore. But as Jake lifted a stack of brittle leather straps, his hand brushed something softer—wrapped in oilcloth, frayed at the corners.
He pulled it free. A journal.
James looked over. "Huh. That doesn't ring any bells."
The cover was cracked and weathered, but the moment Jake opened it, the words inside struck him like a hammer to the chest.
Day 16. Snow near the peaks is thicker than expected. Ruins visible from the west ridge. Something sings at night—low, like a wind humming through bone.
Jake's pulse quickened. The handwriting was familiar. Strong, slanted, hurried. His father's. English, clear and precise.
He turned the pages, devouring the words.
Day 23. They call it the Heart of the World. Not a place, exactly—but a sound. A feeling. I felt it when I stepped into the oldest part of the ruins. Like standing inside a memory that didn't belong to me.
I thought I came to find something. Maybe a weapon. Maybe a way to protect them. But now I wonder if I just didn't want to go back.
Jake's chest tightened. The entries were scattered, some water-damaged or torn. There was no timeline. Just thoughts. Questions. Regret.
The veil is alive. It thins when it wants, for who it chooses. I've crossed twice now. Time doesn't match. It never matches. But I keep hoping the door opens again. If it doesn't…
The rest of the page was missing.
Later that day, Jake stood in the yard behind the forge, the journal hidden beneath his coat. The wind carried the smell of snow and firewood. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something ancient and invisible.
Emma found him there, leaning against the fence. "You okay?"
He nodded slowly. "You ever hear of the Heart of the World?"
She blinked. "I've heard stories. It's something old—deeper than magic. Some say it's the breath of the land. Others think it's where the first spell was ever spoken."
Jake hesitated. "And what about a place called… the Doorway?"
Emma's eyes narrowed. "Only from old hunter tales. Supposedly hidden somewhere in the mountains. A ruin older than any city—said to be the original passage between worlds." She looked at him. "Why?"
Jake shrugged, keeping his voice even. "Found a scrap of map in an old book. Just curious."
Emma didn't push. But Jake noticed her watching him more carefully now.
That night, back in the room James had given him, Jake laid the journal flat across his lap. He traced the lines on the old map, feeling the tension in his chest tighten into something heavier.
There was a part of him that wanted to believe his father had been trapped here. Forced to stay. But the words told a different story. A quiet, heartbreaking truth:
Jonathan had fallen in love with this place.
And maybe, somewhere along the way… he'd stopped looking for a way back.