The house felt too still without the ghost's humming presence echoing off the stones.
For the first time in months, he sat at the long wooden table near the hearth, sipping something warm he didn't need—old habit. The silence didn't comfort him like it used to.
"But he didn't chase her. Not this time. His guilt was quieter now, buried beneath duty—but still there, like an ache in old bone."
Let her go, he told himself. Let her taste the freedom she wanted so badly.
The girl was safe. That mattered more.
He glanced around the quiet room—the worn walls, the dried herbs hanging above the hearth, the old books stacked beneath candlelight.
It was strange how nothing had changed… and yet, everything had.
A knock came at the back door.
Three soft taps.
He rose, slow and careful, his senses opening like a hound on alert. He knew who it would be.
When he opened it, a young boy stood there, no older than ten, with wild curls and dirt on his cheek.
"Mister," the boy said. "She's coughing again. Mama said you'd know what to do."
He nodded once, reaching behind for his satchel. "I'll come."
No questions.
No reward.
Just the quiet duty he had grown into—helping the village heal while they feared him from afar.
The boy led the way down a narrow path toward the edge of the village.
As they walked, dawn broke gently, spilling gold through the branches.
He liked this hour.
The hour of nearly.
Nearly morning. Nearly day. Nearly warm.
The cottage was small—one of the older ones, with crooked beams and a sagging roof.
Inside, the boy's mother lay pale beneath thin covers, "Her breath rattled like parchment torn too slowly, the scent of fever and vinegar thick in the air."
He crouched beside her, gentle fingers pressing against her wrist.
"Still fevered," he murmured.
"She won't eat," the boy whispered. "She says it hurts."
"Is she gonna die?"
The man paused. "Not if we're careful."
"You're the one from the—" she began, but the cough stole her breath.
He paused, not asking her to finish.
He opened his satchel and pulled out a pouch of dried leaves. "Boil this with honey. Not too long. Make her sip it three times a day."
The boy nodded quickly.
He lingered just a little longer, brushing the woman's hair away from her forehead. She opened her eyes for a moment—startled, then recognizing.
"Thank you," she whispered hoarsely.
He didn't speak. Just stood and left, the boy running behind to see him off.
Back home, the day had fully risen.
He spent the hours gathering herbs, repairing an old roof tile, feeding the crows that always came to his window around dusk.
The world moved around him, but he remained—constant, unchanging, a shadow tucked between centuries.
He didn't mind.
He had built this life.
But as he stood on the porch that evening, watching the sun crawl beneath the hills, he realized—
He was waiting.
Not for trouble.
Not for peace.
The fields had dried early this year.
He knelt near the edge of the vineyard, pruning brittle vines by hand.
The sun hung low, a golden coin slipping behind the hills. It touched the edges of his hair, but he didn't feel its warmth. He hadn't in centuries.
Still, he liked the light.
Each cut was clean, efficient. He didn't rush. He didn't need to. The vines would bear fruit or they wouldn't; he only helped them decide.
A soft rustle came from behind the stone fence.
He turned slightly.
Two young women stood there, skirts tucked under their knees, holding small baskets.
They glanced at each other, then back at him. One pushed the other forward.
"Mister," the braver one said. "We brought bread."
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"For… the help last week," she added quickly. "My father, his fever—he's better."
He stood and walked over, slow enough not to startle them.
The girl extended the basket with both hands. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she didn't back away.
He took it, nodding once.
They lingered, unsure, then gave a quick curtsy and hurried off, giggling once they thought they were out of earshot.
He didn't smile.
But he kept the basket.
That night, he didn't light candles. He sat in the darkness by the window, the warm scent of rosemary bread curling into the air.
He didn't eat it. He just let it sit, whole and untouched, a gift without strings.
Later, he walked the edges of the village.
There were always things to notice—fences that needed repair, lanterns with cracked glass, a loose shutter knocking gently in the breeze.
He fixed them all without a word. Before the rooster's first cry, everything would be mended.
No one asked him to.
No one thanked him.
And that was fine.
On the hill above, the graveyard stood quiet. He never went too close. Not anymore.
But he glanced at it each night, as if expecting something. As if measuring time by which flowers had wilted.
He didn't linger.
He walked back home, passing the river's edge where the frogs hummed. He paused briefly—just to listen.
The world still moved, even without him.
Inside, the house creaked softly. The wind played against the windows. He lit one candle and opened a thick, worn book—one of many.
No ghosts.
No battles.
No thoughts of betrayal.
Just the simple, heavy rhythm of his existence.
And for now, it was enough.
The morning was still.
A soft breeze slipped through the open window, fluttering the edge of an old page.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, back straight, the thick tome resting on a low wooden table.
Its leather cover was cracked with age, the corners rubbed to velvet from years of use.
Symbols danced across the parchment—language older than most remembered, curved like branches and etched in iron-black ink.
His finger traced the lines silently.
Outside, birdsong stirred. A cart rattled past on the road below.
Children's laughter echoed from a nearby garden. The world was moving as it always did.
And yet—
Something felt… wrong.
He stopped reading.
His eyes lifted, gaze distant, unblinking. The candle on the table flickered once—no wind.
He closed the book.
Rising, he moved to the center of the room, head tilted like a wolf catching a scent.
It wasn't a smell, exactly.
More like a presence.
A pulse.
A whisper too quiet to hear, but heavy enough to make his bones shift.
Something had entered the village.
Not human. Not ghost. Not even something quite like him.
He pulled his coat over his shoulders and stepped outside.
The morning light bathed the cobbled path in gold.
The usual scents were there—baking bread, wet soil, flowers drooping on windowsills.
But underneath it… a staleness. A quiet rot.
"Like roses sealed in a box lined with mildew—sweetness soured, something forgotten that should have stayed buried."
He walked slowly, eyes flicking from face to face. The butcher waved from across the street.
A baker's apprentice dropped a tray of buns and laughed. Children darted around him without fear.
Nothing looked out of place.
But something was.
He passed the old chapel. The bell hadn't rung in months.
He paused beside the gate, watching as a woman with graying hair lit a candle near the altar. Her hands trembled slightly. Her eyes darted to the door.
She felt it too. Not clearly. Just… unsettled.
He kept walking.
Near the market square, the fountain gurgled. People haggled, called out prices, gossiped. He watched them quietly from the shadows of a stone archway.
Someone here doesn't belong.
Something.
But it was clever—hidden in plain sight. No stench of decay.
No telltale flicker. Just a perfectly mimicked presence wearing skin like fabric.
He narrowed his eyes.
If it was what he thought… it wasn't just dangerous. It was ancient. And it didn't come by accident.
It came with a purpose.
And it was watching him too.
He turned away, letting his steps lead him deeper into the village.
Past the blacksmith. The schoolhouse. The quiet pond where ducks circled lazily.
No one noticed the way his hand brushed the edge of his coat, where he hid the sigil.
Just in case.
He would not confront it yet.
He needed to know more.
Because some evils… didn't show their face until it was far too late.