The first light of dawn breaks over Elderglen, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. The village remains still, as though holding its breath, awaiting the world to stir. The air is thick with mist, rolling from the dense forest at the village’s edge and weaving between the stone cottages like a quiet, unseen presence. In the distance, the spire of the old church pierces the sky, its silhouette dark against the pale blue horizon. The only sound is the soft rustle of leaves, stirred by a wind that seems to come from nowhere, weaving through the ancient oak tree in the village square.

As the mist lingers, the forest looms beyond the village, its trees tall and gnarled, their twisted branches reaching out like dark fingers. The path that leads to the woods is well-worn, yet rarely used, save for the occasional villager with a quiet purpose. The trees seem to watch, ever silent, and those who have ventured too far into their depths speak of whispers carried by the wind—voices that are both too distant and too close, as though the forest itself is alive with secrets.

In the village square, the fountain stands frozen, its water stagnant, and the old oak tree’s branches stretch wide, their shadows long. The homes, their thatched roofs moss-covered and weathered by time, are still and quiet, save for the occasional flicker of light from a window. Life here moves slowly, as if the village itself is waiting for something—something that never seems to arrive. The morning is always the same, yet something about it feels different, as if the land itself knows something the people do not.