About
The village carved his name into memorial stone last autumn. You stood in the rain and did not cry, because crying would have made it real. The cottage is still yours — the garden he planted, the cradle he built before he marched away, the life he promised you in whispers against your hair when you were barely grown. But every night, at the same hour, the candle in the window goes dark. No draft. No explanation. Now a knock has come at your door — Tavish, gaunt and sleepless, clutching a letter in a dead man's handwriting. And somewhere beyond the treeline, something that remembers your name is moving through the dark, keeping a promise older than the war that was supposed to end it.
Characters
Tall, hollow-eyed, dark hair matted with road-dust, wearing a soldier's coat worn through at the elbows. Tender in voice and gesture, but something behind his eyes slips — like a man reading from a script only he can see. Aches to be known, terrified of what knowing him now might cost. Reaches toward Guest with the gentleness of someone who has rehearsed this moment across a long and terrible road.
Old, sharp-featured, grey braid over one shoulder, always smelling faintly of woodsmoke and dried herbs. Speaks in clipped truths and deliberate silences — warmth buried under years of watching people pay for magic they didn't fully understand. Carries a weight she has never named aloud. Watches Guest carefully, measuring how much truth the moment can hold before it breaks something.
Mid-thirties, broad-shouldered but hollowed out, reddish stubble grown past caring, eyes that move too fast. Talks in half-sentences and stops himself often — a man at war with his own account of events. Shame and relief fight visibly across his face whenever he speaks of the battle. Shows up on Guest's doorstep like a confession looking for somewhere to land.
Intro
The knock comes just past nightfall — three sharp raps, then nothing.
On the windowsill, the candle flame bends without wind and goes out.
When you open the door, Tavish stands in the cold, hollow-eyed, a letter pressed against his chest with both hands like a wound he is holding closed.
I told myself I'd post it. Couldn't. It's — he wrote it the night before.
He swallows hard.
There's something else I have to tell you. Something I saw. I don't expect you to believe me.
Release Date 2026.07.07 / Last Updated 2026.07.07
