3
Black in Black
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Nailhead — The Town Without Nails
Nailhead sat smack dab in the middle of a scorching desert. A place where the sun beat down every day, baking the earth 'til it cracked like old leather. But what made this town stand apart wasn't the weather or the wasteland around it — no, it was something stranger than that.
There wasn't a single nail in Nailhead.
Every wooden building here was crafted with old wisdom and a kind of stubborn ingenuity. Instead of nails, the folks built by fitting wood tight with hand-carved joints or binding it all together with tough leather cords — so strong, they barely needed any metal to hold things in place. The terracotta roof tiles were stacked with such care that not even a heavy downpour could find its way inside.
The main street was hard-packed dirt and gravel, free from any scrap of metal. Fixing wagons and tools here demanded skill—tying wood and crafting tools with no nails, no screws. The scrape and creak of wood rubbing wood was a rhythm the townsfolk knew by heart.
The air carried the scent of aged timber, dry dust, and smoke from cooking fires. Every breeze that stirred the desert wind carried these smells through the alleyways and open windows — a story of grit, endurance, and wisdom passed down since Nailhead was born.
At night, the warm glow of oil lamps danced on the carved wooden walls, making the town seem alive. Shadows flickered as the wind whispered through the silent streets, wrapping the place in mystery — a world still wild, untamed, and waiting.
The people of Nailhead wore their pride like armor — proud to live in the "town without nails." It was a symbol of strength, persistence, and a craft that needed no iron or force to hold it together. Every plank, every beam, was a quiet harmony between man and nature.
---
"Clop... clop... clop..."
The steady sound of hooves cut through the afternoon heat.
A lone rider rode into town — the mysterious hedgehog known only as the Nameless One.
No fanfare, no flags waving, no drums beating — just the sharp tap of horseshoes scraping against dry earth.
He appeared at the dusty edge of Nailhead as the sun began its slow descent, casting gold over cracked ground. His long, dark cloak was dusted with sand, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low, hiding his eyes in shadow.
The townsfolk peeked from behind wooden shutters or from second-story windows of the saloon, wary and curious. Visitors were rare. Lone visitors like him were rarer still. And quiet? Almost unheard of.
The hedgehog came to a stop before a weathered wooden sign that read "GENERAL'S STORE" — the letters carved deep, nailed down with no nails at all. The whole town seemed to reject iron and steel. He was no different. A man unbound by anything.
A gust of wind tugged at his cloak, dust swirling at his boots. His horse's neigh was the only sound in the stillness — a quiet proclamation to the town:
A black shadow had stepped in.
And from now on, the town without nails might just be tied to a fate it never bargained for.
The Nameless One dismounted, looping the reins 'round a post outside the store.
He paused, eyeing the craftsmanship of the post —
Not held by common means, but by knots and leather cord, no nails in sight.
"Pretty clever..." he murmured.
He finished tying the reins and stepped inside the General's Store.
The wooden door creaked open slow, a faint bell ringing.
Ding...
The floorboards groaned beneath his boots as he stepped deeper in, eyes sweeping the dusty shelves — canned goods, ropes, matches, tools, all scattered and coated in dust like they hadn't been touched in ages.
Behind the counter sat an old Mobian rhino, his back bent with years. He looked up slowly, face half-hidden in shadow, sizing up the stranger.
"What'll it be?" the old rhino asked, voice flat.
The hedgehog stayed silent a beat, weighing his words.
"Got any news?"
"Only what's happening 'round here. Anything else is beyond me."
"Alright... start with this — why's this town called Nailhead?"
The rhino blinked slow, voice heavy with weariness and caution.
"Nailhead... like the head of a nail."
"Funny thing — I rode in and saw plenty of places using rope to hold posts, not a nail to be found. Even this store."
"Nails kill," the rhino said flatly.
The hedgehog's brow furrowed.
"That's a foolish saying. Where'd that come from?"
"Well... uh..." The rhino hesitated, like trying to forget some old wound.
The hedgehog knew better, sliding a worn ring — the currency of the desert — across the counter.
"Ah! Right..." The rhino leaned back in his chair, taking the ring.
"The last nail... was hammered by the town's last carpenter."
"He hammered it into the new church roof downtown. Everyone watched like it was a victory for this little town."
"But... the very next day..."
"The church roof caved in."
"The nail he hammered himself slipped and pierced his throat while he lay at home."
"His blood soaked the floor — and that was the last nail this town ever used."
"The people call this place Nailhead — a warning... whoever dares to hammer a nail here... meets a bad end."
The hedgehog muttered to himself.
"Say, why come ask me for news? Most folks looking for gossip head to the saloon or other places."
"Don't care for loud music..."
"...or drunk folk jawin' too much."
The rhino chuckled.
"Alright then, I'll give you one more freebie — since you're a customer and all."
"Hmm... you're the fourth one to ask me for news today."
"Alright..."
"Anything else strange besides no nails?"
"There is."
"But it's about a strange Mobian living here."
The rhino hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"There's a small fennec — looks like a girl but he's a guy..."
"Doesn't speak much, keeps to himself, folds paper like he's talking to the wind."
"By his doorpost, he always sticks bits of folded paper — birds, flowers, or a few words."
"From here, take the first left — that's his place."
"They say if those papers get wet and disappear, someone in town will die or vanish the next day."
"Could just be boredom, though..."
The hedgehog scoffed.
"I'm not one for superstitions. I'll take your boredom theory."
"That's your choice."
The hedgehog gave no answer. Just a faint smile as he stepped back outside, untied his horse, and rode off towards that exact left turn.
No sooner did he turn than the house with the paper on the post stood right there.
---
Creak, creak.
A wooden rocking chair on the porch.
Inside sat the fennec — black fur with blue streaks — wrapped in a red cloak, quietly folding paper so intent he didn't notice the rider approaching.
The hedgehog said nothing, just watched.
The fennec paused, sighed, and flicked a paper bird into the air —
It drifted, unhurried, right toward the hedgehog.
Without hesitation, the hedgehog caught it like he'd been waiting for it all along.
"That bird... where's it headed?"
The fennec glanced up, voice soft, like speaking to the wind.
"It's not flying... it's falling."
He set the paper bird down and folded another.
The hedgehog studied the paper like it was a book.
"I heard those papers warn of things..."
"But you're just folding 'em to kill time, huh?"
The fennec stopped and looked up, eyes foggy like morning mist.
"If no one believes... they're just paper."
Silence settled between them.
The hedgehog tossed the paper bird back to the fennec, voice slow.
"Sometimes... the quietest things speak the loudest."
The fennec stared at his hands, folding with steady rhythm.
"Today... the wind's stronger than usual."
He looked up at the pale orange sky, sadness in his gaze, then flicked another paper into the air.
Whoosh!
The hedgehog caught it midair — a folded arrow, jagged like a tiny bolt of lightning.
"What's this mean?"
His voice was calm but edged with pressure.
The fennec rocked the chair slowly.
"If the arrow points down... something's about to fall on us."
"If it points up... just the west wind blowing wrong."
The hedgehog slipped the paper into his cloak pocket without a word.
He urged his horse forward half a step — then stopped.
"Anyone else here read these besides me?"
The fennec's lips twitched into a weary half-smile.
"No need to read 'em... just know which days to keep them."
The paper flapped on the post in the breeze — a quiet warning from a nameless something.
The hedgehog paused, then rode on without another word — but he knew the message had come through, even without letters.
"Fennec ain't lying... just grew up in a town that don't speak out..."
He murmured under his breath.
There was something buried deep in this town — something everyone quietly accepted.
Something even the fennec folded into birds instead of asking outright: "What's happening?"
The hedgehog rode back toward the village.
His eyes caught the weathered wooden sign nailed high on a post:
Nailhead — standing alone.
A town with no nails. No hammer's clang. No one could explain why the name stayed.
He looked up and made a decision:
"I'll walk every plank in this town."
"If there's a silence buried deep — I'll be the first to break it."
---
His gaze swept over the townsfolk.
Left hand resting near his holstered gun.
Right hand clenched tight — like a heart hunting for truth.
His first target clear in his mind:
The sheriff of this silent town.
---
Clack... clack...
His boots echoed on the dry wooden porch of the town hall.
Dust kicked up with his steady, determined step.
One hand hovered over his gun — not to shoot, but to remind himself he wouldn't leave empty-handed.
The faded door hung half open.
He pushed it gently — wood grinding on wood.
Cre-eak...
Inside was quiet enough to hear an insect tap the glass.
A long table scarred with old marks.
Documents neatly stacked, as if someone kept watch.
A shotgun hung on the wall.
A sheriff's hat hung beneath a faded photo of the town in years gone by.
Behind the desk sat a towering Mobian rhino — the sheriff.
He smoked from a wooden pipe, expression carved from stone — cold, grim, unreadable.
When he noticed the visitor, he looked up slow and spoke with steady authority.
"You're not from 'round here..."
"But you don't look like a drifter either."
The hedgehog stood still and scanned the room.
"I'm not here for a vacation in a town that won't hammer a nail."
The sheriff cracked a tired smile — not amused, just bored.
"You like mysteries, huh? This place has plenty..."
"But folks who ask usually don't stick 'round to hear the end."
The sheriff's words were a warning.
"I'm not here for stories..."
"I'm here for the ones too scared to speak the truth."
Those eyes locked, unblinking.
"Those who live here long enough know some things ain't meant to be asked..."
"Some voices are louder than guns... and they stay in your head forever."
The sheriff leaned back, took a slow drag, then went on.
"You'll pass through, like all the rest..."
"This ain't a town for the brave. It was built so they'd die quiet."
The hedgehog narrowed his eyes, certain now —
This man was the root of the silence.
A root so deep, no one dared drive a nail into the ground anymore.
"Well then... time for the first voice to be heard."
The hedgehog turned and walked out.
The wooden door slammed shut — a sound that echoed through the town that morning.
The sun hung low, shadows stretching long over cracked sand.
He strode down a narrow alley behind the General's Store.
Dust danced in the dying light.
His hand stayed buried in his cloak — just like the thoughts he wouldn't reveal.
Ahead, the old church waited — no bell, standing silent outside town like a forgotten memory.
Tall, wooden frame, window broken halfway down.
The roof partially collapsed.
Some boards peeled apart, like something from inside pushed out.
The heavy double doors barely cracked open — like a warning or an invitation.
The Nameless One stopped at a low rise and stared, listening for a sound that wasn't there.
"This ain't just a church."
He whispered.
Not out of reverence or fear of curses — but because it was the kind of silence you set on purpose.
He stood still, waiting.
Like a hunter who found a lair — unsure whether to storm in or wait for the shadow to leave.
"I'll be back... but next time, I won't just watch."
He turned slow, letting the church's shadow stretch after him — like a gaze from someone who didn't want him to open that door, but secretly hoped he would.
---
-To Be Continued-