Deep beneath the hills, beyond a crumbling arch, lies an ancient ruin, older than our cities, older than our books. Those who dare enter must descend a thousand stone steps as their torchlight trembles and chokes, until all that's left is a pathetic ember.
At the very bottom, a wound in the world is said to await. All life seeps out of it in a steady drip.
A man obsessed with forbidden truths, gaunt from sleepless nights, yearned to see what lay beyond. But age had hollowed him, so he sent his young son instead. A child, he thought, had more life to spare.
The boy disappeared into the ruin. When he returned, he was silent. The father ran to embrace him, thrilled to see him back and carrying the knowledge he had yearned for for years, but the boy didn't say a word back. He looked up at his father with eyes dark as two bottomless pits and held his gaze captive.
They say that the boy still roams the hills, slipping into homes and pressing his small, cold hands onto warm chests. Those who survive wake up pale and trembling, their hearts echoing with an emptiness that no prayer can fill.
