Echoes of the Past

The air in the small, rented room felt thick with unspoken stories. Outside, the wind howled a lonely tune, a counterpoint to the quiet hum of anticipation that filled the space between Elara and the Traveler. They sat opposite each other, the Traveler’s form an indistinct blur in the flickering lamplight, their face perpetually shadowed by the cowl of their cloak. Elara, however, felt exposed, as if the very walls were pressing in, mirroring the way she always felt the weight of her star-shaped birthmark.

“You ask about the mark,” the Traveler’s voice was a low murmur, like pebbles shifting in a deep riverbed. “It is not an accident, Elara. It is a sigil, a whisper from a time long before your village, before even the oldest stories your elders tell.”

Elara traced the edge of the rough wooden table with a trembling finger. “But… it’s always felt like a mistake. Something to hide.”