A lone figure appears at the edge of the village, his silhouette elongated by the dim lanterns flickering in cottage windows. Wrapped in a dark cloak, he moves silently, his footsteps muffled by the damp ground. As he passes, a stray dog whimpers and scurries behind a barrel, sensing the unnatural chill that follows the visitor.
Old Marta, the innkeeper, peers through a cracked window, her wrinkled hands clutching a candle.
"Who walks our streets at this hour? Only trouble comes with the night," she mutters, watching as the stranger surveys the silent square. The air grows colder, and the breeze carries a faint whispering, like voices lost to the darkness.
Tomas, the blacksmith's son, challenges the cloaked figure, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
"Halt! Who are you, and what brings you here on such a night?"
The visitor lowers his hood, revealing sharp features and eyes that gleam with an unnatural silver hue. He does not answer at first, simply studying Tomas with an intensity that makes the young man shiver despite himself.
The visitor finally speaks, his voice low and melodic, yet carrying an ancient weight.
The Visitor
"I seek the one who called into the dark, who wished for a secret to be uncovered. The night has answered, and so have I."
Tomas falters, recalling the whispered words he had uttered in desperation days before, not believing anyone—or anything—would truly listen.
"The night does not give without taking," the visitor intones. "Are you willing to pay the price for what you desire?"
"What is the price?" Tomas asks, his voice wavering between hope and fear.
"A memory. The one you cherish most. In return, your wish shall be fulfilled."
Tomas hesitates, his thoughts racing to his late mother’s lullabies and his childhood laughter. The villagers murmur, torn between urging him to refuse and the allure of the stranger’s promise.
"I cannot," Tomas finally says, tears glistening in his eyes. "No secret is worth losing what makes me who I am."
The visitor nods, a glimmer of respect in his otherworldly gaze. He steps back into the darkness, his form dissolving into mist as the first light of dawn touches the village rooftops.
"You did well, boy," Old Marta says, her voice trembling with pride.
As the village comes alive, the memory of the visitor lingers—a reminder that the night listens, and sometimes, it answers. But its gifts always come with a price.
