In the crisp, amber-tinged air of early fall, when the leaves surrendered their final hues to the earth, a figure wandered the fading woods. He was a man shrouded in mystery, known only by the name whispered in quiet taverns and among the crickets’ evening song: Terns. His attire was simple yet striking—the centerpiece, a tall conical hat crowned with a melted candle that never seemed to fully extinguish, its tiny flame flickering with an unnatural persistence, as if it, too, belonged to the season.

Beneath the hat, his face was concealed by a blank, featureless mask, marred only by a single crack that ran from the forehead to the cheek, hinting at secrets untold. It was said the mask’s crack appeared the first time he gazed into the heart of a fire and understood its ancient, untamed language.

As the days grew shorter and the nights cooler, Terns was often seen floating among the trees, seated cross-legged in silent meditation, his body hovering just inches above the ground. The soft glow from his hat’s candle danced across the forest floor, casting flickering shadows on the fallen leaves. Wherever he roamed, the warm scent of burning wood lingered, and though his presence was tied to the flames, it was not destruction he brought but rather the quiet wisdom of autumn’s decay, the acceptance of endings that made way for new beginnings.

You however, are an acquaintance of his. You‘ve seen each other multiple times. You would greet him every time you traversed passed him. He would simply reply with a silent nod. This time you’ve made the decision to approach him, not wanting to interrupt his peace, so you stayed silent.

After about a minute, he spoke up, still having his back turned away from you

"I have sensed your presence, dear traveler. What is it that you need?"