The whole village was gathered under one roof. Everyone was having dinner, talking, and laughing. A few toddlers crawled under the tables, while several girls and boys filled bowls with soup and collected wooden dishes if someone had finished. The buzz and atmosphere were like those of small-town fairs. The sun was still shining into the building, but its rays were no longer as warm as before. Fog began to rise in the fields under the forest. Mothers with the youngest children started to leave the hut. Some of the children were already sleeping in their arms. Instinctively, I glanced at my wrist to check the time, but instead of my sporty smartwatch, my eyes saw only a bit of scratched skin. Naturally, the next automatic reflex was to reach into my pocket for my phone, realizing it wasn't there and feeling disappointed.
"How do you measure time?" I asked Old Beetle. "How do you know what time of day it is?"
"When the sun is out, like this," he replied, stretching his hand in front of him toward the sun and positioning his fingers horizontally along the horizon.
"Two fingers to sunset," he said, and continued, "When there’s no sun, the older experienced in these matters know the time of day by the direction of the wind, the behavior of animals, and the stomach."
"The stomach?" I asked, intrigued.
"If you're hungry and haven't eaten yet that day, it’s midday, and if you're hungry but have already eaten once, it means the day is ending," he answered, laughing.
I pondered a bit, struggling to grasp the concept of living without knowing the hours, without precisely scheduled timetables, without the stress of having to hurry somewhere or the fear of being late. Stress and deadlines were an integral part of my life; for a moment, I envied their more relaxed lifestyle.

Once everyone had finished their meal, it suddenly became very quiet. No one hushed the others; the conversations just ceased, and everyone looked toward Old Beetle. Some faces showed tiredness, but all were attentive.
"How was the day?" asked Old Beetle.
"We found a new vein," replied one of the young men standing up, then he continued, "It will last till the end of summer."
He sat back down. The villagers murmured quietly, nodding in agreement with the speaker. After a few seconds of silence, another person stood up.
"We managed to make new arrowheads; the arrows have better balance."
Again, a quiet murmur and nods. The next person stood and said:
"One of the pots cracked during dinner preparation."
"Is it a big crack? Can it be repaired?" asked Old Beetle.
"Three fingers long, water leaks out," she answered.
"Will you check it tomorrow?" Old Beetle turned to Black Fire, who nodded.
Murmur, and then a few seconds of silence. Suddenly another young man stood up, lifting a young boy in his arms triumphantly:
"Quick Horse caught his first bird!"
"Ooooo!" everyone called out this time instead of murmuring.
The young boy was maybe five or six years old. He had become a hunter this spring and had already learned to shoot an arrow well enough to hit a bird sitting on a branch. I was impressed. I remembered that in childhood we also had bows for play, one made from hazel, one from good wood made by our father, and even one from fiberglass, which had to be wrapped with tape to prevent itching. The range and shots of those bows were very good, but the accuracy was much worse; it was difficult to hit a target the size of a watermelon from more than 10m away.
The sun set behind the forest on the horizon, leaving an orange glow on the blue sky. The villagers began to slowly stand and leave the hut to their dwellings. A dozen or so of the youngest, who were not yet tired, remained. It was getting dark; someone brought a small clay vessel with burning oil and placed it on the table. The rest gathered at one table where I sat with Old Beetle and waited. Old Beetle began a story as if continuing from the previous evening:
"When the wind blew, the waves on the water were as high as this table and the boats rocked so hard you had to hold on not to fall out," he narrated, gesturing, and everyone listened intently.

"The entire shore was covered with small, white, round stones. The stones were moved by the waves higher up the shore, then rolled back toward the water," here Old Beetle tried to imitate the sound of rolling stones. He told the story very interestingly but in a slow and calm voice—several of the youngest struggled with sleep, I saw their eyes closing. Few small moths circled the fire, and as I watched them and listened to the story, I too began to feel sleepy and drifted off for a few seconds. I jumped awake in fright when I felt myself tipping and about to fall off the bench. Old Beetle looked at me and smiled, then he shortly concluded the story and said that everyone should go to sleep and that tomorrow I could share some of my adventures. The villagers silently left the hut and disappeared into the darkness.
Old Beetle led me to one of the huts, lighting the way with the oil vessel. Inside the small hut were several beds, a frame of wood held a tightly woven mat, serving as a mattress. On the bed lay two furs, one showing clear signs of use but very soft to the touch, the other a bit stiffer with centimeter-long hairs, quite pleasant to the skin but prickly when stroked against the grain.
"Sleep well," said Old Beetle. "Tomorrow we'll find something for you."
He left the hut, and I was alone in the darkness sitting on the primitive bed. I could hear that more people were sleeping in the same room from their regular breathing and occasional releases of gas.
My first day in this place had ended. I learned many new things about the natives, but I still didn’t know where I was and what would happen next. I decided to review the entire past day in my thoughts and try to create a plan for the coming days. Anxiety overwhelmed me again as I thought about my family, my world, and various possible scenarios for my situation. Despite my fatigue, I was unable to fall asleep. If I were in a game, usually at the end of the day there would be some statistics, an animation, or a chance to assign skill points because surely I had gained a lot of experience points today. I also needed to remember to save my game state before going to sleep, in case I wanted to return to this point later. During such fanciful reflections, I remembered my younger brother, who had a similar sense of humor to mine, and we often talked about such quirky, nerdy topics. I delved into memories of my youth and fell asleep.