Somewhere on the pass of time, about a plain sat betwixt the surrounding forests, there was a town.

  This town, dubbed “Yarhone”, was ordinary enough – except that it was barren. Yet, its inhabitance remained in its sterility.

  Inside its mudbrick walls were small tables, beds, quills and ink, common components of a home in this age. Their doors weren’t strewn open, only slightly ajar.

  Neat rows of cottages lined the narrow roads, their rooves heavy with moss and curled eaves. Gardens seemed to have been tended to with ample consistency, and signs of warmth were ever-present.

  Only, the presence of those keeping this in order was not to be discussed.

  A sense of normalcy, perpetuant in its reign, seemed evident in the lack of urgency and disarray in the town. This, however, did not go unnoticed.

  To break the still, there were no footsteps. Yet, a dim shadow did trail across the ground, its pall shifting between homes. Whenever the wind abated, sounds of creaking doors marked its path.

  Suddenly, the shadow’s motion slowed, as if confined. It began to coalesce, its edges spilling; threatening escape.

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  A single bare foot reached down, brushing the dirt road, followed soon after by another.

  Draped in a customary contour–the unadorned, dull robes of this era–the figure began to walk toward a house. Its appearance was no different to any other.

  A hand laid on the wood grain of the door and pushed. With a creak, the inside revealed itself. Light, dimmed and bronze-tinted, filtered through dense clouds and faintly illuminated the interior.

  Tables, mats, clothing, food, and more of the ordinary were located in their stations; the air of desolace there all the same.

  The silhouette at the door acknowledged this, but an area in the center of the room attracted their attention.

  On a mat, a black-haired boy sat as if ready for dinner. His hands were on his lap, legs folded as he looked down at a cleared table. His clothing was simple, consisting of worn trousers and a faded shirt. There was a lack of focus in his eyes.

  The figure’s gaze lingered, as if reaching into their memories to reaffirm what they knew of this town.

  When they turned back to the boy, they noticed he had turned his head to face the doorway. His brown eyes glistened, studying the figure silently.

  At a loss, the boy glanced around the room, his expression unsure, before refocusing on the figure.

  “Who are you?”