A Familiar Face, A Distant Memory

The air in the small cottage was thick with the scent of dried herbs and something else, something earthy and ancient. Elara sat on a worn rug, the silence pressing in on her, a familiar ache behind her eyes. She’d followed the whispers, the hushed tales of a hermit who lived on the outskirts of the Whispering Woods, a man rumored to know the secrets of the night. And here he was, Silas, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, his eyes sharp and knowing.

“You seek rest,” Silas said, his voice a low rumble, like stones shifting in a deep riverbed. He didn’t ask. He stated it, a simple truth that hung in the air between them.

Elara nodded, her throat tight. “I can’t… I haven’t slept properly in so long.”