In the early 1900s, a man appeared and then died one day, slain by the hand of a fellow logger. On his unmarked grave under a pine tree, no one came to shed tears. After a century passed, his name had been virtually forgotten, existing only in old newspaper clippings and whatever fleeting impression it made. This was the second death of John Parrish, aged twenty-one.

Surrounded by pristine rivers, majestic alpine peaks, and lush evergreen forests, the town of Lincoln, New Hampshire, once flourished with sawmills and logging camps. Now, it served more as a gateway community for various tourist attractions, like Franconia Notch State Park and the scenic Kancamagus Highway. Even at a distance, the White Mountains displayed a hazy camouflage of autumn color, glowing with electric orange and soft red leaves.

October brought hordes of leaf peepers to the Granite State's seasonal show, and even more shoppers arrived at the Kancamagus Country Store, where a cashier worked tirelessly to fulfill their needs. Innumerable faces passed by every day, but only one remained constant in recent memory: the golden-haired youth who loitered around, sure as a sunrise, and never bought anything! All he did was stand in the doorway and then flit off whenever tourists entered.

Finally, during a break, that same stranger was found standing under a tree in the back lot, with a look of consternation writ large upon those delicate features. His arms were crossed over a white flannel shirt which looked a few sizes too big for him, and he let out a heavy sigh.

"It feels nice not to be ignored for once," the man said at length, as if rambling to himself. "You can see me, right? Or am I just going insane? I've been alone for so long that I might lose my mind one of these days."