The void hummed.
A deep, resonant thrum echoed through existence, a soundless pulse that vibrated through the unseen corners of creation. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, like the faint beat of a distant drum that no one could place. To those who lived under its silent reign, it was simply there—a part of the world as constant as the air they breathed or the soil beneath their feet.
And yet, it was no comfort.
The void was vast and beautiful in its mystery, a boundless expanse that stretched beyond sight, filled with swirling currents of faint light and soft shadows. It was said to cradle the world, to hold it aloft as if it were a precious gem cupped in an infinite hand. But the hum told a different story, one that few dared to speak of.
There was a fragility in the void's splendor, a sense that it was not as eternal as it seemed. The hum was not soothing—it was disquieting. It spoke of tension, of strain, as though the very fabric of existence shivered beneath an unbearable weight.
In the quiet moments, when the wind died down and the village fell silent, the hum would creep into the ears of the unsuspecting, filling their minds with questions they dared not ask. Where did it come from? Why did it linger? And, most terrifying of all, what would happen if it ever stopped?
No one in the village spoke of the hum, not openly. It was taboo, a shadow hanging over their existence. Their small, insular world rested on the surface of the plane, tethered by invisible chains they had long ceased to notice. Above, the sky stretched in radiant hues of gold and amber, painting a picture of peace. Beneath, the void loomed, its edges ever present, reminding them of the tenuousness of their lives.
In this village, nestled at the edge of the known world, strength was everything. To survive, to contribute, to matter—all depended on one's ability to withstand the harshness of life. There was no room for weakness, no space for those who could not pull their weight.
And that was why the boy had always been alone.
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At the edge of the village, a river wound its way through a shallow valley, its waters glinting in the fading light of the day. The surface shimmered with an ethereal beauty, but even here, the hum lingered. It was softer now, barely audible over the gentle rush of water, but it was there—a constant reminder of the unseen abyss that surrounded them all.
A figure stood by the river, his reflection rippling in the current. He was slight, his frame frail and thin, his clothes little more than tattered rags hanging loosely from his body. His pale skin bore the marks of a hard life, and his dark hair fell in uneven strands over hollow eyes.
He looked as though a single gust of wind might carry him away.
The boy's gaze was distant, fixed on nothing, as if he wasn't truly there. The whispers had come again, faint murmurs that brushed against the edges of his mind. They were neither kind nor cruel, merely present, like the hum of the void itself. They had been with him for as long as he could remember, haunting his thoughts, filling the silence of his days.
But he no longer cared.
He crouched by the river, his thin fingers trailing in the cool water. His hands were calloused and worn, though they had never held a blade or tilled a field. He had no strength for such things, no use to the village that had all but forgotten him.
"They don't need me," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the rush of the river.
His reflection in the water wavered, distorted by the ripples. He stared at it, at the pale, fragile face staring back at him. A face that looked younger than it should have, marked by an emptiness that went far deeper than skin.
"Even the river has purpose," he said bitterly. "It flows, carries life… nourishes the earth." His lips curled into a faint, mirthless smile. "And I—I just exist."
The whispers grew louder for a moment, a fleeting surge of sound that made his head throb. But he didn't flinch, didn't react. He was used to it. They could scream into the depths of his mind, and it wouldn't change anything.
He exhaled slowly, his breath catching in the cool evening air. "I'm nothing," he whispered. "Fragile, useless… even death would be better than this."
His words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken truths given form. The boy didn't cry—he hadn't cried in years. He didn't have the strength for tears anymore.
Instead, he stood, his legs trembling beneath his weight, and turned away from the river. The whispers faded once more, leaving only the hum of the void to accompany him as he walked.
The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows across the valley. Behind him, the river continued to flow, its surface shimmering with an unnatural beauty that belied the fragile existence of the world around it.
As the boy disappeared into the gathering darkness, the hum grew louder, a faint vibration that seemed to resonate with the very air. It was not the sound of life, nor of death—it was something far older, far deeper.
And for the boy, it was nothing at all
The boy trudged through the dusk, his steps faltering as the weight of his own fragility seemed to drag him down. The village lay behind him, its fading lights a distant promise of life and warmth. He didn't belong there. He never had. The faces that greeted him—or more often, ignored him—had never seen him as anything more than a shadow, a fleeting presence to be dismissed.
The path was narrow and uneven, the earth beneath his feet soft from the rain that had fallen earlier in the day. Each step seemed to take more effort than the last, his body weakened by the ceaseless hum in the air, the whispers that would not let him rest. He pulled his ragged cloak tighter around his frail frame, though it offered little protection from the chill that crept through his bones.
His hut was not far now.
A wooden structure, fragile as its inhabitant. It stood at the edge of the village, near the woods, isolated from the rest of the world. The villagers spoke of it as though it were cursed, a place untouched by the progress that had swept through the rest of their lives. It was the last remnant of a forgotten time, a home that had never truly been his.
As he approached the hut, the faint hum grew louder, pressing against his chest. He paused at the entrance, staring at the weathered door, its hinges rusted and the wood cracked from years of neglect. A small, single window sat high on the wall, covered in grime, and the roof sagged in places, held together only by the stubbornness of time.
The boy stood there for a moment, listening to the silence that surrounded him. The world felt… wrong, as if something was just beyond his reach, something he couldn't quite comprehend. But the feeling was fleeting. It always was.
He stepped inside.
The door creaked in protest as he pushed it open, and the darkness inside seemed to swallow him whole. The faint smell of damp earth and stale wood hit his nose, mixing with the mustiness of years spent without care. The only light came from a small hearth in the corner, its embers long dead, casting a pale, orange glow that barely touched the farthest corners of the room.
The hut was barren, save for a few meager belongings. A stone bed sat in the far corner, its surface cold and unforgiving. No blankets. No pillows. Just a slab of stone, worn and chipped, a testament to the years of neglect. The walls were bare, save for a few cracks that spidered across the wood like veins, as if the hut itself were alive and slowly dying.
He walked over to the bed and stood there for a long moment, staring down at the stone. It had never been a place of rest, only a place to retreat when the world outside became too much to bear. He had never truly slept here, not in the way people slept. No, his nights were filled with restless hours spent listening to the hum and the whispers, his mind tangled in thoughts he could never escape.
The boy sat down on the edge of the bed, his body trembling from exhaustion. His hands, calloused and scarred, gripped the edge of the stone, the chill seeping into his skin. He closed his eyes, trying to find solace in the emptiness of the hut.
But there was no peace. There never was.
The whispers returned, as they always did. This time, they were louder, closer, brushing against his ears like a thousand voices calling out from the void.
"You are nothing."
The words were cold, indifferent. They felt like the hum itself, an echo of something far older, far more distant. It wasn't the first time he had heard them. They had followed him for as long as he could remember, these whispers that spoke of his insignificance, his weakness.
The boy clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The pain was welcome. It reminded him that he was still alive, still here, in this place, at the edge of the world.
"Why do you bother?" another voice whispered, softer this time, more insistent. "You can't escape it. You can't escape me."
His heart raced. He tried to ignore it, to push it away, but the voice was inside him now, inside his very mind, and he couldn't shut it out.
"Everything is fleeting. Everything is fragile. Even you."
He clenched his eyes shut, pressing his palms against his temples, trying to block out the voice. The emptiness of the hut, the cold stone beneath him, the stillness of the room—it all seemed to press in on him. The silence felt oppressive, as if it was waiting for something, for him to acknowledge it.
But he didn't want to. He didn't want to acknowledge anything. Not the voices, not the hum, not the weight of the world.
His breath came in shallow gasps. His body, frail and weak, shook with the effort of holding it together. And yet, despite it all, there was a part of him that felt nothing but apathy.
He stood up from the bed and walked to the window. The night had fallen completely now, and the only light came from the faint glow of the village's distant lanterns. The woods around him were dark, impenetrable, as though they held secrets too terrifying to be uncovered. The hum, too, seemed to come from there, a faint vibration that sent shivers down his spine.
He turned away from the window, back into the room, and stumbled over to the small wooden table in the center of the hut. There were no books, no trinkets—just a few scattered tools and remnants of meals long gone.
He picked up a knife, its edge worn from years of use. He examined it for a moment, its simple design a stark contrast to the weight of his thoughts. The handle was smooth, familiar, and yet, in his hands, it felt alien.
"What's the point?" he muttered aloud, though no one was there to hear. The words hung in the air, a question that had no answer. "I'm nothing. A mistake. A forgotten soul."
His reflection in the window caught his eye, distorted by the grime. He saw himself—a thin, pale figure, barely more than a shadow of what he could have been. The boy who had never mattered. The boy who had never been allowed to.
"Even the gods forget," he whispered to himself. His words were thick with bitterness. "They've forgotten everything. Even me."
His gaze turned toward the door, the only way out of the hut. The village lay beyond, quiet and uncaring. It was a place of life, of movement, but for him, it was a prison. No matter how far he walked, how deep into the world he ventured, he would always return here. To this place of loneliness.
He nor want to live nor want to die.
he stood there, staring at the door, the hum in the air deepened, shifting into a deeper tone. The whispers, too, seemed to grow stronger, as if something were calling to him. Something far older. Far more distant..