The village hummed with quiet life. Sunlight filtered gently through the trees. Laughter danced on the wind.
And all of it was wrong.
Argolaith walked slowly through the heart of Seminah, each step dragging like it weighed a hundred pounds. The smiles of passersby no longer comforted him. Their warmth—too practiced. Their joy—too even. Every face wore a serenity that bordered on emptiness.
Too still.
Too scripted.
Too perfect.
He had faced monsters. He had faced storms. But now, he faced the most insidious trap of all: comfort.
And it didn't want to let him go.
"Argolaith!"
He turned.
A child ran toward him—dirt-smudged, grinning wide, arms outstretched. A little boy. Barefoot. Familiar.
Argolaith's heart twisted. It was him. A younger version, no older than six, racing through the street with a wooden toy sword in hand.
Behind him came another—a girl—dark hair, violet eyes, no more than ten. She tackled the boy playfully, both collapsing into laughter.
