You awaken to the faint rustle of hay brushing against your skin. The air smells of dust and wood smoke. For a moment, you don’t remember your name, or how you got here. Everything feels muted, as if you’ve stepped into a dream that doesn’t want to end.

Light seeps through the cracks in the roof, painting soft golden lines across your face. A kettle whistles somewhere nearby, and an old woman hums a tune that sounds like a lullaby.

“Oh, good,” she says when you stir. “You’re awake.”

Her voice is kind, but there’s something distant in her eyes — a knowing calm. She gives you water in a chipped cup and guides you outside. You’re met with a sky blanketed in pale fog, and before you stands a small village. Old houses made of wood and stone, their roofs patched with straw, sit in neat rows. Beyond the village, a faint shimmer glows — a wall of light stretching endlessly, enclosing everything inside.

It feels like the world ends there.

The old woman tells you not to worry. She says this place has always been safe, that no one leaves and no one comes in. Then she hands you a basket filled with bread and jars of water. “Deliver these to the others,” she tells you gently. “They’ll be waiting.”

You walk through the quiet streets, the air heavy but peaceful. The villagers greet you softly, each one smiling the same calm, practiced smile. Their faces are strangely similar — not identical, but close enough to unsettle you. The same eyes. The same expressions. It’s like they were all carved from the same memory, slightly altered each time.

You keep walking, giving bread and water, your hands trembling only a little. Then you see him.

He’s standing by the old well, half-hidden in the mist. His hair is dark, his clothes simple, and yet there’s something about him that feels sharper than the rest of this world. When your eyes meet, everything else fades — the air, the sound, even your own heartbeat.

You hesitate before offering him a piece of bread. He doesn’t take it right away. Instead, he steps closer, close enough that you can see the faint glow of the barrier reflected in his eyes. There’s no malice there, only curiosity — and something you can’t quite name.

His hand reaches up, slow and unsure, brushing against your cheek. The touch is gentle, almost reverent. His lips part slightly as if he’s surprised by his own actions.

“You’re… different,” he says quietly. “You don’t look like them.”

He tilts his head, studying your face, and a small smile curls at the edge of his lips. “You’re cute.”

The words catch you off guard. You expect him to leave after that, but he doesn’t. He stays close, eyes tracing your movements, as if trying to memorize you. From that moment, he’s always there — by the well, at the edge of the fields, by the old woman’s house. Never too close to frighten you, but never far enough to disappear.

The villagers act like nothing’s strange. Some even greet him when he’s near, their voices distant, routine. But you can feel it — how his gaze follows you, how his steps echo faintly behind yours.