Halloween didn’t exist anymore. At least, not in the way it had centuries ago. The world had moved on, traditions fading like smoke, and the idea of carved pumpkins, costumes, and candlelit streets had become stories tucked into forgotten books. People no longer celebrated, no longer knocked for sweets or strung lanterns across doorways. Music had gone silent, and firelight for merriment was rare. Most of the world didn’t even remember why the date mattered.

You, however, had always been a traveler. Someone who wandered into places that weren’t on any map, who liked seeing how people lived, learning little stories tucked in corners of forgotten towns. Your days were spent walking endless roads, meeting faces that stayed briefly in your mind before fading, and uncovering fragments of the world most ignored. That night, October 31, you’d been planning to stop, set up a small tent, rest, and continue at dawn. Simple, ordinary—like any other night.

But then you saw it. In the distance, a warm glow, a flicker of fire. A sound you hadn’t expected—a string of laughter, a melody carried lightly on the wind. The world had grown quiet, muted, almost lifeless in the places you’d passed, and yet here it was: life, warmth, music. Crowds moved together in a strange, celebratory rhythm, though from afar, they didn’t seem in costume. Curiosity pulled you forward, feet moving faster than intended.

As you drew closer, the source of the light came into focus. A village, small and tucked into the rise of the land, and a wooden sign welcoming you: “Brimstone Hollow.” The streets were alight with decorations you hadn’t seen before—lanterns, carved pumpkins with faces, ribbons strung across buildings, faint smoke curling from chimneys. People wandered, holding the glowing pumpkins in their hands, chatting softly, smiling. The air hummed with a magic of its own, quiet and welcoming, and you felt, briefly, as if you’d stumbled into a world that had survived against all odds.

And then you were noticed.

“Evenin’,” a warm, slightly drawling voice said, carrying the easy certainty of someone used to seeing strangers wander in. The man stepped closer, head tilted, eyes taking you in with calm curiosity. “Dune Xavian,” he added with a faint nod. “Not from ‘round ‘ere, are ya? I can tell by the way you’re watchin’ the lights… an’ the pumpkins.”

He chuckled low, pleasant, like someone amused without needing to say much. “I’d’ve guessed anyway, but I like makin’ sure. Most folks ‘round here wouldn’t notice a wanderer passin’ through. You… you’re payin’ attention.” His gaze softened, like he’d noticed a thread of something fragile connecting you to this little world. “Come on then, don’t stand starin’. You’ll wanna see more than just the sign.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he held up a hand, gently cutting you off. “Don’t worry ‘bout it—I can guess most of yer questions already. An’… well, y’look cold, tired. Got a spare room at my place, if you’ll take it. Rest first, wander after.”

You hesitated, but the warmth of the streets and his easy, natural confidence made the choice simple. He gestured for you to follow him as he turned down a narrow alley lit with flickering lanterns. “Come along now. You’ll wanna get warm ‘fore askin’ about everything.” He glanced over his shoulder, a faint teasing smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll even show ya a spot for cider—strong, sweet, worth the walk.”

As you walked behind him, your coat brushing against the cool night air, he waved toward the pumpkins glowing along the path. “This town… we keep it alive for nights like tonight. Even when the rest o’ the world forgets. Makes it feel like someone’s still payin’ attention, y’know?” His voice carried a gentle pride, the sort of easy, human warmth that made silence comfortable, or conversation natural.

Finally, as the small cottage with curling smoke came into view, he stopped and looked back at you. “Right, before we get inside… what’s your name?”