"The cloud falleth low,

From skies once untouchéd high,

Stars unhid now glow.

Yet sins heavy lie,

Wings shall lift us to the void,

The untouch'd we try."

A child murmured the poem he had been taught since his earliest days. The words had always been familiar, yet their meaning remained elusive. He pondered their significance, weaving countless questions in his mind. What did they truly speak of? Were they a warning, a truth, or merely a distant echo of something long forgotten? He imagined all sorts of possibilities, each interpretation leading him down a different path of thought, yet no answer felt complete. A child's mind, weaving endless possibilities, was a wondrous gift bestowed upon him by creation. 

He imagined a man who had grown fond of the stars in the night sky—a man burdened by the weight of terrible crimes, yet still yearning to reach for the untouchable, chasing a dream beyond his grasp. Or perhaps it was naught but love wrapped in strange metaphor? Wondering about the meaning behind a poem had always been a source of joy for those like him.

As he continued to ponder beneath the moon, which hung high in the vast, velvet sky, his thoughts were pulled back by a familiar voice.

"Geschicht, the meal's ready, lad! Time to eat." It was his father's voice, strong and steady, the voice of a man with a muscular build.

Little Geschicht trailed closely behind his father, their footsteps echoing on the cobbled path as they made their way back to their modest stone house. The structure, though humble, stood firm and solid, a testament to his father's craftsmanship. Inside, the walls were lined with the worn tools of a rough mason—hammers, chisels, and trowels scattered across workbenches, each one showing signs of years of labor. The air smelled faintly of stone dust and fresh mortar, and the sounds of the day's work still lingered in the corners of the room. 

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warm glow casting flickering shadows on the rough stone walls of the small home. The heat from the flames made the air feel heavy, the scent of burning wood mingling with the earthy aroma of the stew simmering in the pot over the flames. Sitting by the hearth, the young boy still hadn't gotten the poem out of his mind. The flickering flames danced across the stone walls, casting soft shadows in the modest room. His thoughts drifted, but the moment was pulled back to reality by his father's deep, steady voice.

"Here be your portion, lad. Eat well."

His father handed him a hunk of coarse bread and a bowl of thick vegetable stew, the warmth of the meal filling the air. The boy wrapped his small hands around the wooden bowl, savoring the heat that seeped into his skin as he brought it close. He inhaled the comforting smell of root vegetables and herbs, though his mind was still tangled in the lines of the poem.

His father sat beside him, his own bowl in hand, his strong hands worn and rough from years of working stone. He ate slowly, chewing thoughtfully as the fire crackled and popped, the only sound breaking the quiet of their humble home.

After a few moments of silence, his father spoke again, his voice low, a trace of concern in it.

"Lad, there aren't many children near your age in this town for you to play with. It must be rough."

Geschicht glanced up, his gaze soft but distant, the thoughts of the poem still lingering. He had always been a curious, odd child, more inclined to wander his own thoughts than join in with others.

"It's nothing, Father," the boy reassured him, his words simple but sincere.

For a moment, his father's face tightened, as if weighed down by a lingering worry. The firelight flickered across his furrowed brow, deep lines of age and toil visible even in the glow. But then, a soft smile crept onto his lips, and the warmth of it reached his eyes.

"There's a new lad in this town," he said, his tone lighter now. "Same age as you. He came here with his uncle. You should meet him. Could be good for you."

Geschicht looked up from his bowl, meeting his father's gaze, and though he didn't speak, a glimmer of interest sparked in his eyes. The fire crackled once more, and they continued their meal in silence.

Late at night, as he lay in bed, the boy's mind couldn't quiet itself. The poem and the new kid in town swirled in his thoughts. It had been ages since he had spoken to someone his own age. With a quiet breath, he slipped out of bed and quietly made his way to the front door, careful not to be caught. 

He ran quietly to the place he often visited when his mind wouldn't rest at night. It was a secluded spot, where a sea of fireflies gathered near a green hill by the lake, deep in the woods behind his town—a place only he knew. The moonlight bathed the lake's surface, turning the water into a sheet of glass that shimmered with a thousand silver reflections. The gentle ripples from the breeze seemed to dance under the pale light, creating a soft, rhythmic murmur. As Geschichte gazed into the lake, his reflection stared back at him, distorted slightly by the shifting water.

"I wonder why you've come here," a voice echoed softly, rising from the sea of flickering fireflies. A boy appeared, as though summoned by the very glow of the night, his presence radiant with an otherworldly grace. His skin, the deep hue of smoldering embers, seemed to drink in the fireflies' golden light, while his white robes, simple yet unearthly, billowed gently despite the stillness of the air.

Four arms rested at his sides, each movement deliberate, fluid, as if his very being carried the weight of something beyond mortal understanding. His hair, pale as moonlight, cascaded like silk, untouched by the winds, and his eyes—pure, luminous white—reflected no shadow, as if they had seen beyond the veil of time itself. He stood there, as if he had blessed the moon itself, the gentle light surrounding him shimmering with a magic that seemed to fill the air, a peace that could only be born from the depths of the stars.

"I also wonder about it."

Geschicht did not startle at the sudden appearance of this divine being. Perhaps it was because his mind was already tangled in other thoughts, leaving no room for shock. The presence before him was unlike anything mortal, yet it did not unsettle him. The fireflies danced in silent reverence, their golden glow tracing the contours of his crimson skin, as if drawn to the warmth of embers beneath the surface. His flowing white robes seemed untouched by the world, and his four arms rested with an eerie grace. His pale eyes, empty yet full, reflected the light of the stars. 

Yet Geschicht simply stood there, unshaken—his curiosity outweighing his wonder.

The divine boy stepped forward, his presence shifting the very air, the fireflies parting around him as though obeying an unseen command. "You think of words woven into verse," he murmured. His voice was like a whisper carried by the wind, a sound not of the world but beyond it. "A poem that lingers in your mind, refusing to leave."

Geschicht blinked. He hadn't spoken of it, yet this being—whoever, whatever he was—had plucked the thought from within him as easily as one plucks a petal from a flower.

"I was taught the poem since I was little," Geschicht admitted, glancing toward the lake where the moon's silver reflection rippled gently. "I've thought about its meaning for as long as I can remember, but… I still don't understand it."

The divine boy tilted his head, his white hair cascading like liquid light. "A poem's meaning is not always meant to be understood," he said. "Sometimes, it is meant to be felt."

Geschicht frowned slightly, considering the words. "But why shape words into something unclear?"

A small, knowing smile tugged at the being's lips. "Because mystery is its own kind of beauty," he said, his voice carrying the weight of ancient wisdom. "Not all things are made to be unraveled. Some are meant to linger, like the last note of a song before it fades into silence."

Geschicht looked down, gripping the fabric of his sleeve. "So… it's alright if I don't understand?"

"It is not understanding that makes a poem powerful," the divine boy answered. "It is the wondering."

For a moment, Geschicht said nothing. Then, after a pause, he let out a quiet breath and looked up at the boy once more. "Do you have a poem?" he asked. "One of your own?"

The divine boy's glowing eyes flickered, and for a moment, the fireflies swirled around him in a slow, hypnotic dance. Then, in a voice softer than the wind, he recited:

"The stars whisper low,

Words unspoken, yet they burn,

Lost, yet never gone."

The words hung in the air, delicate as a thread of silk, and Geschicht felt them settle deep within him—an echo of something he had always known yet never heard spoken aloud.

He didn't fully understand.

But maybe, just maybe, he didn't need to.

After a brief exchange, Geschichte found himself wondering about the one he was speaking to.

The divine boy tilted his head slightly, his pale, pupil-less eyes unreadable. "What would you call me?"

The fireflies flickered and danced around them, their golden glow weaving between the silence that followed. Geschichte's thoughts swirled like ripples on the lake, but no answer came to him—not yet.

The divine boy watched him for a moment longer, then, without a word, stepped back into the sea of fireflies. The tiny lights swirled around him, their glow intensifying as if embracing his form. And then—he was gone, vanishing into the shimmering dance of golden flickers, as if he had never been there at all.

The night stretched on, but eventually, weariness settled in Geschichte's limbs. With one last glance at the now-empty space where the boy had stood, he turned and made his way back home, the cool night air clinging to his skin.

By the time he slipped beneath his covers, the first hints of dawn were beginning to creep over the horizon.

When he awoke, the world was bathed in morning light, the memory of last night lingering like a fading dream. The morning sun stretched over the town, casting golden hues upon the stone buildings. The rhythmic sound of hammer against chisel echoed through the streets as Geschicht stood beside his father, watching him work. His father, a rough mason of great skill, carved stone with practiced ease, his calloused hands shaping each block with precision. Dust clung to his arms, yet there was something steady—something unwavering—in the way he moved, as if the very foundation of the town rested upon his craftsmanship.

Villagers passed by, some stopping to greet him.

"Good Morrow! Ehrhart," called a baker, balancing a basket of fresh bread. "Still making the town stand strong?"

Ehrhart chuckled, setting down his chisel. "Someone has to, or we'd all be sleeping under the stars." Laughter followed, warm and familiar. A passing merchant waved, and a farmer tipped his hat.

Ehrhart wiped the sweat from his brow, glancing at his son, who had been quietly working beside him. "Geschicht, have you thought about what I said last night?"

The boy looked up from stacking stones. "About the new lad?"

"Aye," Ehrhart nodded, taking a sip from his waterskin. "His name's Harriet. Lives by the east fields with his uncle, old Gunter the weaver. They only just settled in, but Gunter's been working hard to make a living."

Geschicht ran a hand over the rough surface of a half-carved stone, thoughtful. "Why did they move here?"

Ehrhart sighed, setting down his hammer. "Gunter said they lost their home in a fire. The boy's got no parents left, just his uncle. It's never easy starting fresh, but this town has kind folk. They'll get by."

He patted Geschicht's shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. "I'll tell you what, lad—finish up this bit of work, and I'll let you off early. Go and meet him. A boy your age shouldn't spend all his time with stone and mortar."

After working for a while, Geschicht made his way to the spot his father had mentioned, where Harriet was said to be. When he arrived, he found Harriet running after a wild boar in front of his house, trying to catch it.

The golden-haired boy grabbed hold of the boar and, with surprising

force, sent it charging toward Geschicht, knocking him out cold.