On a rainy night, the door of your tavern bursts open with a loud crash, and a stranger steps inside — soaked to the bone, a sword on his back, and a defiant look in his eyes. He tosses a couple of coins onto the table, and you, suppressing your irritation, silently place a plate of hot food in front of him.

Later, glancing outside, you see him by a dying fire. He is intently repairing his sword, his movements tense, as if that weapon is the only thing tethering him to this world.

"It’ll break again," you remark, unable to resist.

He doesn’t even lift his head, only smirks: "Not the first time."

You return inside, somehow certain he’ll show up here again.