The next morning, the village square looked more like a marketplace of ideas than the quiet place it once was. Groups were huddled around tables, stones, and clay pots. Each one was trying something new.

“Riaan! Look!” A young man proudly struck a match against a rock. It flared for half a second, then fizzled into a thin trail of smoke.

“Hmm,” Riaan said, taking it. He sniffed the end, noticed the sulfur unevenly spread. “Too little powder. Try coating it more evenly.”

The man groaned, but immediately started preparing another batch, his fingers stained yellow.

Nearby, two women were pressing soggy sheets of reed pulp, trying to dry them under the sun. The paper tore easily when lifted.

“This won’t hold any writing,” one muttered in disappointment.

Riaan crouched beside them. “Not yet. But it’s a start. Try pressing it harder, with weight. And… maybe smooth stones instead of your hands.”

Their faces lit up, hope replacing frustration.

At another fire, a group of children watched as one boy stirred oil and ash too quickly. The pot foamed over, spilling black paste onto the ground.

Everyone laughed. Even the boy couldn’t help grinning. “I think the soap doesn’t like me!”

“It doesn’t like impatience,” Riaan corrected gently. “Go slower next time.”

But not all failures were harmless. One herbal mixture caused a rash on a man’s arm. Another batch of matches nearly set a hut’s straw mat on fire. After that, Riaan insisted all experiments be done in the open square, where he could keep watch.

Despite the mistakes, small victories began to shine through. By sunset, someone managed to light a match that stayed aflame long enough to ignite dry leaves. The paper, though rough, could finally hold charcoal writing. And the soap—while still ugly—left hands cleaner than before.

The villagers cheered each success as if it were gold. Laughter, claps, and shouts filled the air. For the first time, invention was not Riaan’s alone. It belonged to everyone.

That night, sitting by the fire, Riaan thought of the AI waiting in 5355. “They’re learning faster than I imagined,” he whispered to himself. “Maybe… the future doesn’t only belong to me.”

For the first time since his discovery, he felt less like a lone traveler between times and more like a teacher planting seeds.

And those seeds, though fragile, were already beginning to grow.