Amon trudged through the forest as night began to pale into the grays of dawn. The brittle frost underfoot crunched with every step, loud against the oppressive silence. Branches hung low overhead, forming gnarled arches that seemed to trap the mist within. His breath misted in the chill air, quickening as unease crept into his chest. Somewhere ahead, hidden in the fog, lay the decrepit Old Mill—a place whispered about in uneasy tones by those in the nearby villages.
He gripped the knife he'd taken from the kitchen earlier, its weight reassuring against the unknown that awaited him. The memory of the note on his desk—its scrawled invitation to this meeting—was burned into his mind. He didn't know why he'd come, not entirely. Curiosity? A sense of duty? Fear? Perhaps all three. Each step closer to the mill seemed to amplify the questions swirling in his mind. Who had left the note? What did they want from him? And why here, of all places?
The mill came into view, breaking through the fog like a specter. Amon froze. The structure loomed like a broken sentinel, its silhouette jagged and uninviting. The windmill's blades creaked faintly in the wind, rusted and warped beyond repair. The walls, once sturdy, now sagged as if the earth beneath them had grown weary of holding their weight. The surrounding air was thick with the scent of rot and damp wood, mingling with the faint tang of mildew. It was as though the place itself had been abandoned by time.
His fingers tightened around the knife. There was no turning back now. The questions that had brought him here were far too heavy to leave unanswered.
The interior of the mill was worse than the outside. Splintered beams jutted out at precarious angles, their shadows long and threatening in the dim, mist-filtered light. The floor groaned beneath his weight, each step eliciting an ominous creak that seemed to echo far louder than it should have. Dust motes swirled in the air, illuminated by the faint rays of dawn slipping through cracks in the walls. Every sound, every shift of the structure, set Amon's nerves on edge. He felt as though the building itself was holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone.
Then came the voice.
"You're shorter than I imagined."
Amon stopped dead. The voice was deep, calm, measured—but not human. It carried an odd resonance, as though it came from everywhere at once. Amon spun, knife raised, his eyes scanning the shadows, heart pounding. He tried to pinpoint the source, but the voice seemed to drift, slipping through the air like smoke.
"And thinner. No wonder they doubt you'll survive."
"Who's there?" Amon demanded, his voice sharp, though his grip on the knife trembled. The words echoed in the hollow space, swallowed by the oppressive silence that followed.
The voice chuckled, low and almost amused. "I've been observing you for some time, Amon Grimveil. Since the beginning, you might say."
The knife felt heavier in his hand, his pulse roaring in his ears. "Show yourself."
"I would if I could. But that would require circumstances far safer than these."
"Who are you?" Amon asked, his tone faltering despite himself.
"I am one of the Watchers," the voice replied, its tone as unhurried as before. "We observe. We record. And sometimes, we intervene."
"Watchers?" The word felt foreign and familiar all at once, though he couldn't place why.
"We keep to the edges of the world, Amon. Witnessing what is to come and what must be prevented. Some of us…" The voice hesitated, as if choosing its words carefully. "…believe in aiding where we can. Others prefer elimination."
The word hung in the air like a blade, its sharpness cutting through Amon's fragile sense of safety.
"Elimination?" Amon echoed, his voice tightening with fear and defiance.
"You are an anomaly," the voice said, its tone darkening. "Something that should not exist, and yet does. A fracture in the pattern."
"What pattern? What are you talking about?" he pressed, his confusion mounting with every cryptic word.
"You wouldn't understand. Not yet." The voice softened, almost to a whisper. "But know this: some among us see you as a threat. A threat they are determined to remove."
Amon's grip on the knife tightened until his knuckles whitened. His mouth went dry, and a chill ran down his spine. "And what about you?"
There was a pause, heavy with implication. "I am not your enemy."
The words should have been comforting, but they only deepened Amon's unease. The voice spoke with an authority that left little room for doubt, yet its refusal to fully reveal its intentions made him question everything. He stood there in the cold, hollowed-out mill, surrounded by silence and shadows, feeling smaller than ever.
"You must go," the voice continued. "To a village nestled in the hills, two days' journey from here. There, we can speak again—properly."
"Why not now?" Amon shot back, frustration flaring in his chest. "If you're so interested in me, why not just answer my questions here?"
"Because we are not alone," the Stranger said simply. "And time is not on your side."
Before Amon could respond, the voice faded, its resonance dissipating into the mist that crept through the broken walls. He turned in circles, searching the shadows, but he was alone again. The silence pressed in, louder than the voice had been.
The forest swallowed him as he left the mill, the path winding through gnarled trees and thickening mist. The knife hung loose in his hand now, its earlier reassurance replaced with cold, stark doubt. His thoughts churned, replaying every sentence, every subtle inflection. Since the beginning. Observing him. An anomaly.
It was too much to process. Too much to believe.
Yet the voice had known him. Known things no one else should. It had described him in detail, down to the fraying hem of his shirt.
The chill in the air seemed to seep into his bones as he wrestled with the Stranger's words. Was he truly an anomaly? If so, what did that mean for him—and for the family he'd only just begun to reconnect with? The thought of putting them in danger gnawed at him, but so did the prospect of abandoning them again.
When Amon reached home, the house loomed before him, as cold and unwelcoming as it had been since his return. The windows glowed faintly with the light of a lantern inside, but the warmth didn't extend beyond the walls. The note's weight was still in his pocket, its edges crumpled from how tightly he'd held it.
He pushed open the door quietly, stepping into the foyer. The familiar creak of the floorboards greeted him, but the sound felt different now, like an intruder announcing itself. Amon hesitated, listening.
In the parlor, Clara sat with her back to him, her hands busy stitching the hem of a shirt. She worked with a kind of nervous precision, her fingers trembling just enough for the thread to snag occasionally. She glanced up as he entered, offering a faint, weary smile.
"You're out early," she said softly.
Amon nodded but said nothing, his chest tight. The tension between them was a living thing, stretching and coiling like an invisible thread. He wanted to speak, to explain the weight pressing on him, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he turned and climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.
His room was as he'd left it, the dim light filtering through the drawn curtains casting long shadows across the floor. Amon closed the door behind him and leaned against it, exhaling. His head throbbed with unanswered questions, his chest tight with indecision.
Then he saw it.
A folded piece of paper sat neatly on his desk.
His pulse quickened. The air seemed to grow colder, the faint flicker of the lamp casting the note in an eerie light. He crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, his breath shallow.
The paper felt heavier than it should as he picked it up, his hands trembling. He unfolded it carefully, the jagged handwriting within striking him like a physical blow.
They are coming.
The words were stark, unadorned, but their weight was crushing. Amon's mind raced. Who? The Watchers? Something else entirely? The lamp on his desk flickered weakly, the shadows in the room lengthening as though drawn toward him.
He sat down heavily, the note clutched in his hands. The walls seemed to close in, the air pressing against him like an invisible hand. The Stranger's warning echoed in his mind. Time is not on your side.
The lamp flickered once more, and then the room was plunged into near-darkness. Amon sat alone, the note still in his grasp, as the weight of the decision threatened to crush him.