Charon's torment did not end with the town.
The mists were unforgiving and relentless in their nature, refusing to let him go.
His next vision was that of a series of stones, built in a ritualistic circle. Locals would regularly come to worship at them, proclaiming that their memories could be restored if only they prayed hard enough.
The stones were weathered by generations of touch, each surface smoothed and grooved by countless fingers. Moss clung stubbornly to the cracks, as did various budding flowers, some planted by visitors.
The wind that moved here was different. It was cooler, almost damp, carrying the scent of earth after rain.
He was able to walk around and watch as the people laughed and played, singing their hymns and spreading the word of their faith. Children darted between the pillars, weaving through adults with mock sword fights made from fallen branches. A woman strummed a small lute, the notes tumbling through the air like bright beads on a string.
