The boy lay sprawled on the cold, uneven cobblestones just beyond the town's archway, his slight frame curled as if shielding himself from a lingering nightmare. The dawn light seeped through the mist, painting his tousled hair with a pale, silvery glow. His clothes—worn and slightly tattered—clung to his slender body, still damp with morning dew.
His face, half-buried in the crook of his arm, was peaceful yet tense, like someone caught between sleep and awareness. A faint breeze stirred the dust around him, lifting a few brittle leaves that danced across the road. In the distance, the town began to stir—faint echoes of shutters creaking open, distant murmurs of early risers preparing for the day.
A soft, pained breath escaped his lips, and his fingers twitched as if grasping for something unseen. Then, slowly, his eyelids fluttered, heavy with the remnants of dreams, and his chest rose with a deeper, steadier breath. The world seemed to pause, waiting for him to cross the thin line between slumber and reality.
The boy stirred, his fingers curling slightly against the rough cobblestones as if testing their reality. A soft groan slipped from his lips, his brows knitting together in a brief wince. His shoulders shifted, tense and uncertain, as though his body was reminding itself how to move.
Slowly, his head lifted, revealing a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and his eyes squinted against the soft light filtering through the morning mist. He blinked once, twice—long, sluggish blinks that seemed to push away the lingering fog of sleep.
One hand pressed against the ground as he propped himself up on one elbow, his movements slow and cautious, like an animal emerging from a long, uneasy rest. His other hand moved to his temple, rubbing at the faint ache there. A shiver ran through him as the chill of the ground seeped away, replaced by the hesitant warmth of the dawn.
He glanced around, confusion flickering across his face. His gaze lingered on the town's entrance—a looming archway of weathered stone—before his eyes darted to his own hands, as if unsure they belonged to him. Taking a shaky breath, he pushed himself to a seated position, his legs drawn close, and stared down the path that led deeper into the waking town.
(Soft, weary breath. The boy rubs his temple, voice low and unsteady.)
"Where... where am I? Cold. Stones under my hands. Feels like I've been lying here forever. My head... it's buzzing—like whispers that won't quiet down. What was I dreaming about? Something important... or was it just another nightmare? It's slipping away now, just like the others."
(Pauses, looking at his hands, dirt smudged across his palm.)
"Why does everything feel so heavy? Like I'm waking up after falling from somewhere high... but there's no pain. Just this... emptiness. Did I walk here? Was someone with me? I don't remember. My legs feel stiff, like they've been stuck in place too long. Was I running before I fell? From what?"
(Turns his head slowly toward the town entrance, eyes narrowing at the distant, stirring silhouettes.)
"A town. Looks busy, just waking up. Did I come here for a reason? Feels familiar, but not quite right... like a memory from someone else's life. I should get up. Can't stay here—someone will see me, wonder why I'm just... lying on the ground like a stray dog."
(Clutches his arms, shivering slightly.)
"I have to move. Even if I don't know why. Maybe... if I walk into that town, something will click.
(He takes a deep breath, slowly pushing himself upright.)
"One step. Then another. I'll find answers. Or at least a place to rest. Either way... I can't stay here."
The boy moved cautiously, his steps hesitant and uneven as he approached the tavern. The building loomed ahead, its warped wooden sign creaking in the morning breeze—The Rusty Tankard—etched into the worn wood. From within, the sound of raucous laughter and clinking mugs spilled into the street, a stark contrast to the stillness outside.
As he reached the doorway, he paused, his hand hovering near the splintered frame. A burst of boisterous singing erupted from inside, mingled with the sharp crack of someone pounding the bar. His heart pounded, unsure whether to retreat or venture forward.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed the door open. It swung inward with a groan, revealing a sprawling room crowded with rough-hewn tables and mismatched chairs. The air was thick with the scent of ale, roasted meat, and smoke from a low, crackling fire. Men and women shouted over one another, their faces flushed from drink, slapping backs and trading tall tales.
A burly man with a booming laugh raised his mug high, foam sloshing over the rim, while a group of travelers in dusty cloaks leaned over a dice game, jeering and jostling each other. A bard strummed a lively tune in the corner, half drowned by the crowd's chatter.
The boy slipped inside, keeping close to the wall, his shoulders hunched as if to make himself smaller. Eyes darted his way briefly—a few curious glances—but most quickly lost interest, pulled back into their own revelries. He shuffled toward the edge of the room, finding an empty stool near the cracked stone hearth. The warmth prickled his skin, and he couldn't help but shiver, his body still remembering the chill outside.
A barmaid breezed past, her tray piled high with steaming bowls and foamy mugs. She shot him a quick, assessing glance, then moved on without a word. The boy let out a quiet breath, his fingers unconsciously tracing the grain of the wooden bar. Amid the chaos, he remained a quiet, uncertain presence—one more lost soul seeking shelter in the loud, unpredictable heartbeat of the tavern.
(He sits hunched on the stool, eyes flicking over the bustling room. His fingers trace the rough wood grain absentmindedly, tension coiled in his shoulders.)
"Should I... ask someone? They must know where this place is, right? Just—just one question. It's not that hard. Just lean over, tap someone's shoulder, and say... what? 'Where am I?' 'What town is this?' Sounds ridiculous. They'll think I'm some lost beggar or—"
(His gaze shifts to a group roaring with laughter over a spilled mug, their shouts drowning out the bard's melody.)
"What if they laugh at me too? Or worse... What if they get angry? People don't like being bothered, especially in places like this.
(He glances at the barmaid moving briskly between tables, balancing mugs like it's second nature.)
"Maybe I could ask her? She looks... busy. And tired. If I mess this up, she might just brush me off. Or maybe I don't have to ask. Maybe if I just listen—someone will say the name of this place, or where they're headed. I can piece it together without looking like a fool."
(He shifts on the stool, pulling his hood a bit lower.)
"But if I don't ask, I'll just sit here like a coward. No one's going to hand me answers. I have to start somewhere, right? Even if it's just one question. One answer is better than sitting here drowning in my own thoughts."
(His hand twitches, almost reaching out. He swallows hard, forcing his voice to steady.)
"Alright. I'll just... ask. Quietly. Just to know where I am. Nothing more. I can do this."
(He clears his throat softly, glancing toward the barmaid as she passes. Summoning his courage, he raises a hand slightly.)
"Uh—excuse me, ma'am?"
(The barmaid pauses, balancing her tray on her hip, eyes sharp but not unkind.)
"What'll it be?"
(His gaze flickers to the mugs on the counter, then back to her.)
"Just... a small ale, please." (He hesitates, forcing himself to meet her eyes.) "And, um... could you tell me—this town... what's it called?"
(She raises an eyebrow, pausing just a fraction longer than normal.)
"You hit your head or something?" she asks, half-joking.
(He scratches the back of his neck, giving a sheepish shrug.)
"Yeah, something like that. Everything's a bit... fuzzy. Just trying to get my bearings."
(The barmaid gives him a quick once-over, seeming to weigh his words. Finally, she nods.)
"You're in Veloria. Not much else around for miles, so I'd say you're stuck here till your head clears up."
(She sets the ale down, foam cresting over the rim.)
"That'll be two coppers."
(He digs into his pocket, but could find anything worthwhile. As his gaze dropped to the floor,he offers a faint, pitiful laugh.)
"Seems I don't got any change on me... sorry..."
The barmaid let out a long, weary sigh, her shoulders sagging just a bit as she paused by the counter. A fleeting hint of frustration crossed her face—barely noticeable, but there all the same. Brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, she set her tray down with a muted clatter, wiping her hands on her stained apron.
With a practiced, almost automatic motion, she reached for a wooden board propped against the back wall. It was well-worn, the surface scarred by countless knife marks and stained from years of use. Gripping it by the handle, she hefted it onto the counter with a solid thud, the wood groaning slightly under its own weight.
She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, exhaling once more as if bracing herself for the next rush of orders.
(The boy takes a tentative sip of the ale, the bitter taste biting at his tongue. As he sets the mug down, the barmaid turns back toward him, wiping her hands on her apron.)
"Oi," she calls, leaning slightly over the counter. "Need your name for the tab. Can't just go handing out drinks for free."
(His fingers tighten around the mug, caught off guard. A flicker of panic crosses his face as he searches his own mind, the answer just out of reach.)
"My name...?" he murmurs, almost to himself. He hesitates, trying to dredge up something, anything that feels right.
(She raises an eyebrow, giving him a look that's halfway between suspicion and mild concern.)
"You don't know your own name either? Must've been some hit to the head."
"My name..." he whispers, his voice barely audible. He grips the mug tighter, his knuckles turning white, and his heart pounds so loudly it drowns out the tavern noise.
"Huh?Why can't I remember...my own name?"