The adventurer arrived at the edge of a village just as the sun was climbing toward its peak.
He looked down at his hand.
The red ribbon was still there, tied gently around his wrist.
It swayed with the breeze, soft, quiet, like a memory that refused to fade.
The village was small, yet lively. Colorful banners hung between wooden poles, and distant laughter echoed from somewhere in the square. People moved about with baskets, carts, and cheerful voices.
A wooden sign greeted him at the entrance: Thimvell.
He walked slowly through the streets.
Children ran past him playing tag. One nearly bumped into his leg, but just giggled and kept going. The scent of baked bread and roasted meat drifted from a nearby tavern. Somewhere, someone was playing a stringed instrument, its notes wandering through the air like dancing fireflies.
He passed a shop shaped like a boot, selling only socks of strange designs. One had tiny bells sewn into the heels.
He didn't know why.
But he smiled.
Another stand sold fruits with impossible colors, blue apples, orange grapes, square bananas. The seller insisted they "only taste weird on Tuesdays."
He continued walking, his steps slow. A man on stilts walked past him, balancing a basket of eggs on his head while singing a lullaby.
In another corner, he saw two elderly women arguing whether a fish they caught was a sign of good luck or a warning from the river spirits.
He chuckled softly.
This place was strange.
But it felt alive.
At the tavern, he ate warm stew and bread soaked in honey. A young woman with freckles asked if he was a traveler. He said yes. She gave him an extra piece of meat and said, "Then eat well. The road is always hungry."
He left a single coin on the table.
Outside, he helped an old man carry firewood to his porch. The man offered him a cup of tea in return. They sat quietly, watching the clouds move.
He played catch with children who didn't ask for his name.
And for a moment, just a small one, he felt like someone who had always lived here.
Like a person who had a home.
Later, as he wandered further, he found himself in a quiet part of the village where the houses were smaller, and the roads turned into stone paths.
He passed by a garden where a woman was trimming bright yellow flowers. She smiled and nodded at him. There was no need for words.
Further down the road, he came across a small wooden bridge built over a shallow stream. He stopped, leaning on the railing, listening to the sound of the water flowing beneath. The sky above shimmered with a soft orange hue as the sun began its slow descent.
As he stood there, a group of children danced past, waving cloth ribbons, laughing and spinning in circles. One of them tripped and fell, and he gently helped her up.
"Thank you, mister!" she said with a grin missing two teeth.
He only nodded.
And then he moved again, walking without a destination.
He passed a strange little house that looked more like a round teapot than a home. Smoke puffed from its crooked chimney, and wind chimes hung from every window, singing softly as the breeze passed. Outside, an old woman with enormous glasses waved at him and offered him a handful of candied nuts "for the road." He accepted them silently, unsure of the taste, but appreciating the gesture.
In the square, a wooden stage had been set up. A puppet show was beginning. Curious villagers gathered, children tugging their parents by the hand. He stayed at the back and watched. The puppets told a tale of a bird that forgot how to fly, who wandered the world looking for its wings. He watched silently, eyes reflecting the stage's dancing shadows.
Later, a baker invited him to try a freshly baked tart, shaped like a star and filled with something sweet and soft. He nodded, took a bite, and paused.
It was warm.
Not just the food.
But the feeling.
As evening approached, he stood at the edge of the village and looked at the sky.
Two children ran up to him, grinning wide. One held out a small yellow flower. "For you, mister!"
"…Why?"
"Because you look like someone who needs one," the child beamed, and the other gave a proud nod before they ran off, laughing.
He looked at the flower.
It was simple. Yellow. Probably picked from the side of the road.
But to him, it felt like something more.
He sat down on a stone bench near the well, the same kind he'd once rested at in another village.
The red ribbon on his wrist fluttered in the wind.
He didn't know how long he'd stay in Thimvell.
Maybe just one day. Maybe a little longer.
But for now, as the stars began to peek out above, the adventurer whispered:
"I think… this is what it means to be alive."