As the sun fell and the sky bruised purple, crimson moths filled the air. They clung to doorways and windows, silent as dusk itself. And in the night, something came. No one saw it. No one heard it. But by morning, the chests of the villagers were void, and where their hearts used to beat: nothing.
They searched for their stolen hearts in the wells, in the fields, in the hollows of trees. But it was in vain. Without their hearts, their laughter faded. Their sorrow dulled. Their anger cooled. Until they felt nothing at all.
And so, they forgot what it was to be human.
When they could no longer live among their own, they scattered into forests and caves, hiding in the world's broken parts. Laying traps. Lurking in the fog.
They still wander. They wait, silent and smiling, for those who stray too far from the firelight. And if they find you, they will try to take your heart – tear it clean from your chest – hoping it might fit the hollow space where theirs once beat.
But it never does. And it never will.
