When I first opened my eyes, I thought I was dreaming.
The ceiling above me wasn’t smooth or smart-glass like the one I was used to—it was wood. Uneven, roughly cut, with small gaps where rays of sunlight peeked through. The smell in the air wasn’t my usual filtered lavender-mint blend. It was smoke. Earth. Something faintly sour.
My head pounded as I sat up, blinking. I expected to hear the soft beep of my home AI assistant or the sound of my drone curtains pulling open. Instead, I heard chickens. Actual chickens. Clucking, flapping—loud and obnoxious.
“Where am I…?” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “CARA, status check.”
Nothing.
I clapped twice. “Activate room interface.”
Still nothing.
Then the door creaked open. A girl about my age stepped in, holding a wooden bowl and a warm smile. Her long brown hair was tied in a messy braid, and her clothes were simple—some kind of tunic with a rope for a belt.
“You're awake!” she said brightly. “You were out cold in the forest. We thought you were dead!”
I stared at her. “Who are you? Where am I?”
She frowned slightly. “I’m Fenna. You’re in Grimswood.” Then, seeing my confused expression, she added, “The village. Don’t worry—you’re safe here.”
Grimswood? I’d never heard of it. “Do you have a terminal or—anything I can connect to the net with?”
She blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”
I paused. “A computer? A device? Touchscreen? Scanner? Anything that runs on power?”
Now she looked alarmed. “You speak strange words. Are you… are you cursed?”
Oh no. My stomach dropped.
I stood too fast and almost tripped over the rough wooden floor. “I need to find a signal. A tower. A city. Something.”
Fenna gently touched my arm. “There is no city nearby. And what is a ‘tower signal’? We only have the temple bell and the mountain.”
I stared at her. “You’re kidding. Right?”
She looked dead serious.
---
Later that day, Fenna took me outside. The village—Grimswood, as she’d called it—was something out of a history simulation. No lights. No paved roads. No screens. Just wooden houses, muddy paths, and smoke rising from chimneys.
People eyed me warily as I passed. Some whispered. Others made strange hand signs, like they were warding off evil.
I overheard one old woman say, “That’s the girl who fell from the stars. Mark my words, she brings trouble.”
Fenna guided me to a small bench near the well. “They don’t understand,” she said softly. “You dress strangely. You speak differently. Some think you’re a spirit. Or a trick.”
“But I’m not,” I whispered. “I’m just... from somewhere else.”
“You’re not from any land I’ve heard of,” she said, sitting beside me. “And I’ve read all the scrolls in the temple.”
“Scrolls?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “No books? No archives?”
“Only scrolls,” she said with pride. “They’re written by hand. Paper made from reeds and bark.”
I swallowed hard. This wasn’t just another village. This was another world. Or another time. No power, no tech, no concept of science beyond the stars. It was like I’d been thrown into the Dark Ages.
“Fenna,” I said slowly, “What do people here think about... machines?”
Her expression darkened. “Machines are evil. Tools of the old gods. That’s what the elders teach. They say the Great Collapse came when the world tried to rise too high—buildings that touched the sky, lights without fire, voices trapped in glass boxes. It angered the Flame.”
I froze.
They were talking about my world. My time. And they thought it was evil.
---
That evening, Fenna let me sleep in her home—a small hut with a single candle and an old wool blanket.
She brought me soup and bread, watching me with curiosity as I examined the wooden bowl.
“You really don’t remember where you’re from?” she asked.
I hesitated. “I do. But if I told you, you’d think I’m a witch or worse.”
She laughed. “I already think you’re strange. Might as well tell me.”
I looked into the flickering candlelight and spoke. “I came from a world with buildings taller than mountains. Where lights stayed on without fire. Where we could talk to someone across the world with just a blink. Where machines helped us eat, learn, live.”
Fenna’s eyes widened. “That sounds... like the ancient legends. We were told such stories were lies.”
“They weren’t,” I whispered. “They were real. That was my world.”
“But where is it now?” she asked. “If it was so great?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe I fell through time. Maybe through space. Or maybe this is an alternate universe. But wherever I am... I’m alone.”
Fenna placed a hand on mine. “You’re not alone now.”
---
Days passed. I stayed in Grimswood, helping Fenna with chores—gathering water, grinding grain, even patching roofs. All the while, I tried to introduce small bits of knowledge, careful not to trigger panic.
Once, I made a small lens from melted glass shards and showed her how it could make things look bigger.
She gasped. “Is this... sorcery?”
“No,” I said gently. “It’s science. It’s understanding how light bends.”
Another time, I used heated metal and wood to craft a tiny sundial. When it worked, Fenna’s eyes sparkled.
“You could teach us,” she said one night. “Quietly. Maybe things could change.”
But it wasn’t that easy.
---
One cold morning, a group of robed elders visited Fenna’s house. The leader, an old man with a crooked staff, stared at me with sharp, judgmental eyes.
“We’ve heard stories,” he said. “That you bring ideas. That you whisper of forbidden knowledge.”
“I’m just sharing what I know,” I said.
“Knowledge is dangerous,” he hissed. “It brought the ruin before. Fire fell from the sky. The seas rose. Machines turned on their makers.”
“But that wasn’t knowledge’s fault,” I argued. “It was how it was used.”
The elder slammed his staff. “Silence! If you do not stop, we will cast you out. And the girl too.”
Fenna stood beside me, eyes blazing. “She only teaches what could help us. Why must we live in fear forever?”
But they left without another word.
---
That night, Fenna and I sat beneath the stars.
“I think I’m supposed to be here,” I said quietly. “Not forever, maybe. But for now. To help.”
She nodded. “Even if they fear you... I believe you came for a reason.”
“Then maybe,” I said, “this ‘Dark Age’ won’t last forever.”
And as I stared at the constellations above—a sky untouched by satellites—I realized something:
They feared technology because they forgot what it truly was. Not power. Not magic.
Possibility.
---
Moral Lesson:
Even in a world that has forgotten the light, a single spark can lead the way. Technology, when misunderstood, can become a symbol of fear. But with patience, courage, and compassion, understanding can bloom again. Even in the darkest of ages.
