Timothy led Dylan to an old, abandoned hut nestled deep within a forest. The structure was small and worn, with wooden walls that had seen better days and a roof that sagged in several places. Inside, the air was musty, and the remnants of past occupants were scattered about—broken furniture, tattered curtains, and a few rusted tools. The ceiling had multiple holes, allowing the moonlight to filter through in patches. They were fortunate it wasn't the rainy season, as the hut would have offered little protection from a storm.
Timothy motioned for Dylan to take a seat on an old, rickety chair, while he settled into a creaky armchair by the corner. They waited in silence, the sounds of the night filling the gaps. Dylan's mind was a whirlpool of questions, but one in particular pressed forward.
"How did your father die?" Dylan asked, his voice soft but filled with curiosity.
