The wind was soft now —a gentle evening breeze carrying the scents of damp stone and rain-washed earth.
The man dusted off his coat, the fabric catching the last strands of sunset as he rose to his feet.He stretched, joints cracking quietly in the hush of twilight.
"Well," he said with a lazy grin in his voice, "I'll go for now. Have a good night, kid."
And just like that, he turned, beginning to walk down the rocky slope.His steps made no sound against the wet earth.
The girl watched him go —watched the space between them widen, her heart sinking with a sudden, hollow ache.
The fire was out.The warmth was fading.And it felt… unfair.
Her lips parted, her throat tightening as something inside her clawed to the surface.She wanted to say something.Anything.
A name.A word.A tether.
"I—"
The single syllable slipped out so quietly, it barely existed.A breath. A ghost.
But the man stopped.
He turned, only slightly — enough for the dying light to catch on the curve of his hood, the faintest glimpse of a grin hidden in shadow.
She swallowed hard, took in a shaking breath, and pushed the words free.
"I-I'm… Amelya."
Her voice was rough from disuse, fragile and trembling, but it was real.The first words she'd spoken aloud in what felt like years.
For a moment, silence.
Then the man chuckled softly, tipping an invisible hat with one hand.
"Nice to meet you, Amelya."A beat."You can call me… Old Man."
And with that, he turned again, walking away into the mist now returning to the mountain.
She clutched the Shinelocket tight in her hand, its warmth steady in her palm.
The wind stirred the grass.The world tilted toward night.
Two figures parting ways —waiting for the next story, the next sunset, the next name spoken in the quiet.
The mountain kept their secret.
And the tale would wait.