After spending the entire morning harvesting potatoes, Ban and Hastur walked back toward Doran's house, their baskets full and their legs trembling.
Each counted their steps carefully — four hundred sixty-nine and a half — before finally setting foot on the porch.
Doran was already waiting for them, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
— "Good. Put the potatoes in the attic," he ordered, then tossed two small silver coins toward them. "Take a walk around the village afterward. Here—something for your trouble."
Ban caught the coins and smirked.
— "Ohh, Doran the miser, giving away money? This must be a holy day!"
The old man's brow twitched.
— "You find that funny, huh? Then you'll get half your allowance."
Ban's grin froze as Hastur chuckled quietly beside him.
— "Lesson learned," Ban muttered.
---
A few minutes later, the two boys left the house, breathing in the crisp air of the village.
The streets were lined with crooked wooden houses and pale lanterns that never seemed to fade.
Children played without laughter, merchants traded the same goods day after day, and above it all hung a sun that never moved.
Hastur's eyes wandered.
Everything looked… stuck in time.
Ban noticed his gaze and spoke, his tone quieter than usual.
— "This village," he said, "is a perfect example of what you'll find in this theater."
Hastur turned to him, curious.
Ban continued:
— "A place where time stands still, where everything repeats in an endless cycle.
The people here don't truly age — their bodies stay the same, but their minds slowly wither.
The fields stretch endlessly, the seasons never change, and even death seems frozen in place.
This theater embodies the stagnation of the soul… the illusion of peace."
Hastur shivered, though the air was still.
---
The rest of the day passed quietly.
They visited the market, watched a puppet show, and shared a strange, sweet fruit that neither had seen before.
For the first time, Hastur felt something close to warmth — a small comfort in this unmoving world.
As night fell, they returned home.
The house was dark, save for a single candle flickering on Doran's desk.
The master sat in silence, holding a sealed letter between his rough fingers.
He didn't open it.
He simply smiled, his golden teeth glinting in the dim light, and whispered to himself:
— "So… it's starting to move, is it?"
The candle flame trembled once — and went out.