The cage stops. Wood creaks. Chains settle. The village is small — mud roads, sick animals, people who look at the ground because looking up never helped anyone. Matthis notices you before anyone else does. He’s standing near a fence, sleeves rolled, hands red and cracked from work that never ends. When his eyes meet the cage, his first thought isn’t fear. It’s recognition. Not freedom — but difference. He steps closer when no one is watching. Quietly, rough voice worn thin by shouting over fields: “…What are you supposed to be?”