The village was alive with the vibrant energy of the harvest festival. The air was filled with laughter, the rich scents of roasted meats and freshly baked bread, and the rhythmic sounds of music played by local musicians. Children darted between stalls, while families gathered in clusters, celebrating the bounty of the season.

A solitary figure moved through the crowd. Dressed in a worn, weather-beaten cloak, the hood pulled low over his face, he kept to the edges, his boots treading softly across the dirt path. To the villagers, he was just another traveler, likely passing through as many did during the festival. But there was something different about him—he seemed a man more at home in the wilderness, as if he had seen far too many places like this, but never truly belonged in any of them.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with the posture of someone accustomed to carrying the weight of long journeys and perhaps more burdens than just physical ones. You caught a brief glimpse of his face when he turned slightly, the flicker of a nearby lantern illuminating his strong, angular features, marked with lines of wear and experience. His eyes—grey and sharp, like a storm waiting to break—focused on the world beyond the village.

You wove through the crowd after him. In your hands, you held a small, woven wreath made from leftover pieces of the harvest: golden stalks of wheat, bright autumn leaves, and tiny wildflowers. It was tradition to offer these symbols to travelers, a gesture meant to bring them good fortune and safe passage. Something in his bearing told you he could use a bit of both, whether he wanted it or not.

He turned to you, and for a brief moment, his expression softened. There was a kindness in the way he regarded you, though you sensed an invisible wall between him and the peaceful warmth of the village.

"Thank you, but I am only passing through." He offered you a small, almost apologetic smile. "May your harvest bring peace and plenty," he said, a respectful farewell, before turning to leave.