Ban suddenly woke up, gasping for air.
Before he could even sit upright, Doran struck him on the head with a loud thump.
— "What's wrong with you, kid?!" Doran shouted. "I send you out to get me some potatoes, and you bring me back a lost child instead!"
— "M-Master! That hurts!" Ban groaned, rubbing his head.
— "Here, drink this and shut up," Doran grumbled, handing him a glass of water.
Ban took it reluctantly, glaring at the old man.
The room was dim, filled with the faint scent of herbs and ashes.
The boy who had fallen from the strange fog — the one who could not even remember his own name — was lying quietly nearby.
Doran crossed his arms.
— "You both need rest. Ban, tomorrow you'll take him around the village. That'll keep you both out of trouble."
The two obeyed silently.
They spent the rest of the day in bed, their bodies heavy, their minds still clouded by what had happened.
As night fell, the air grew colder.
Suddenly, Ban spoke into the darkness.
— "Hastur."
The other boy turned toward him.
— "Pardon?"
— "You need a name," Ban said softly. "Even if you've got no family, no money, no home… having a name gives you something to hold on to. A reason to live."
The nameless boy stared at him, confused.
— "But… why Hastur?"
Ban looked up at the ceiling, his expression distant.
— "Because it's the name of a hero my mother used to tell me stories about. I don't remember her face anymore… or the story itself. But I still remember one thing — her voice when she spoke of two names: Rastaban… and Hastur."
There was a moment of silence.
Then, for the first time, the boy smiled.
— "Hastur, huh? …Yes. I like it. I'll take that name with pride."
Ban grinned, satisfied.
Outside, the wind whispered against the wooden walls of the house, carrying with it a faint echo — a sound like laughter, or perhaps a sigh.
And thus, the nameless boy was no more.
From that night onward, the world would know him as Hastur.