Until he met an old man. The old man was a beggar, frail and starving, his body reduced to skin and bone. His face was pale, as though the sun and wind had devoured him for decades. His wrinkled skin resembled aged parchment, worn thin by the slow erosion of time. His cloudy eyes shimmered faintly, filled with exhaustion and the faintest flicker of hope buried deep beneath despair. The rags that clung to his body were so torn they barely resembled clothing. Their color was impossible to define—once perhaps gray or brown—but now faded into the same shade as the dust and earth beneath his feet, blending him with the street itself.
The sound of his footsteps, bare and dragging, echoed softly upon the rough stone road. Each step fell heavy, deliberate, and slow. The faint tapping of worn soles mingled with the whisper of wind that drifted through the narrow alleyway, carrying the dry scent of dust, sweat, and faint traces of smoke from nearby kitchens. It was the scent of struggle—the scent of life surviving just enough to continue another day.
He moved closer, shuffling forward with what little strength remained, until he stood before the figure who had stopped there so silently. The beggar's trembling hand reached out, thin and fragile, veins showing clearly beneath his skin like faded riverlines across ancient parchment. That hand—once strong and full of labor—now hung weakly, trembling in the air as if even gravity weighed too much. His cracked lips parted, and from his throat came a voice, hoarse and brittle, carrying the sound of both plea and surrender. "Please… some food…"
But The Creator did not move. He neither spoke nor flinched. His form stood perfectly still beneath the pale gold of the afternoon sun. The black umbrella he carried tilted ever so slightly, its shadow falling across the dusty ground. The darkness it cast cut through the sunlight like ink spilled across a page, dividing the world between brilliance and silence.
The old man remained where he stood. The space between them filled with a deep stillness, a silence so dense that even the sound of one's breath felt intrusive. The Creator's faceless gaze fell upon him, yet within that gaze there was neither kindness nor cruelty—only the still void of something beyond emotion. The light touched the edge of his form like mist upon glass, reflecting a glint of the unseen power that lingered in his presence.
Then, slowly, The Creator lifted his hand. His long, slender fingers moved with calm precision, not rushed but deliberate, like the quiet turning of time itself. Without uttering a single word, he pointed toward the grand mansion of the nobles in the distance. The motion was simple, yet it carried the weight of command.
The tip of his finger caught a faint shimmer of sunlight, forming a thin beam that seemed to trace a path toward the mansion's golden gates far beyond. The light glittered faintly, beautiful yet cold, as if guiding the way toward something inevitable. In that moment, the air itself felt charged with an invisible power—gentle, but absolute.
The old man blinked and shook his head weakly. His eyes filled with fear and disbelief. He knew well that a beggar like him had no right to approach the home of the nobles. Such places were forbidden, guarded by invisible boundaries of class and punishment. If he dared to step too close, he might be beaten or cast out—or worse, made to vanish without a trace.
Yet something in The Creator's gesture felt impossible to resist. It was not merely suggestion; it was law spoken in silence. Though no sound emerged, the old man felt the weight of the command echo within his mind, like a soft whisper from the world itself. His body began to move before his mind could refuse, as though unseen strings had taken hold of his limbs. He tried to stop, but could not. Something greater than fear compelled him forward.
He began to walk along the long stone path. His footsteps were slow but steady, scraping softly across the uneven road. The wind blew gently through the narrow streets, stirring his tattered clothes. The fabric fluttered like faded banners of forgotten wars, whispering the stories of a life that had known only hunger and endurance. The dying sun cast a dim golden light across the stones, turning the dust beneath his feet into a faint shimmer. His shadow stretched long before him, thin and lonely, like a memory that refused to fade.
From afar, The Creator watched. He stood unmoving, still as carved stone, his figure untouched by wind or dust. His faceless head tilted ever so slightly, and though he did not have eyes, his gaze pierced across distance and matter alike. He saw everything—not with sight, but with awareness that transcended vision. Every wall was transparent to him, every boundary meaningless.
The mansion loomed at the end of the path—a towering structure of white marble, gleaming coldly beneath the evening light. Its walls were flawless, polished to a mirror's sheen, reflecting the dying rays of sunlight in blinding flashes. The great gates of black iron bore intricate carvings of noble insignias—symbols of power and pride, sharp-edged and merciless. When the wind brushed against them, they groaned with a hollow, metallic whisper, like the breath of a sleeping beast waiting behind the doors.
The old man reached them and paused. His hand trembled as he lifted it, fingers hovering inches from the cold metal. The surface gleamed faintly, reflecting his withered form like a ghost. When his fingertips finally touched it, a chill ran through his entire body, seeping into his bones. He meant to pull back, but before he could, the gates opened with a slow, echoing creak, as though they had been waiting for him all along.
Inside, the air felt different—thick, still, and heavy with silence. Shadows and light twisted together, casting intricate patterns across the polished floor. The marble beneath his bare feet was smooth and cold, reflecting his distorted silhouette as he stepped inside. Before him stretched a long dining hall, filled with a feast fit for kings: loaves of bread still steaming, roasted meats glistening with fat, fruits in every color arrayed upon silver trays, and golden goblets filled with dark wine.
He froze, unable to comprehend what he saw. His eyes darted from one dish to another, disbelief and hunger clashing within him. The scent of warm bread and roasted meat filled the air, rich and intoxicating. His stomach, empty for days, clenched painfully. He hesitated for only a moment before instinct overcame fear. Step by step, he moved closer to the table, his hands shaking as he reached for a piece of bread.
When he brought it to his lips, tears welled in his eyes. The taste of warmth, of life itself, spread across his tongue—a sensation he had long forgotten. He chewed slowly, each bite awakening something fragile within him. The food was soft, gentle, and alive. He ate in silence, tears falling freely, landing upon the marble floor like drops of forgotten sorrow.
Far away, The Creator still watched. His posture remained perfectly still, his umbrella resting lightly against his shoulder. The evening sun had faded completely, and the world was now painted in the cool blue of twilight. Yet even in the deepening dark, his vision remained clear. He could see through the mansion's stone walls, see the trembling hands of the beggar as he ate, the flickering candlelight dancing upon silver plates, the faint shimmer of dust in the still air.
The Creator's presence was vast yet silent. No emotion touched him—no pity, no disdain. He was simply there, an observer between light and shadow. The last rays of the sun vanished beyond the horizon, and the city sank into the quiet breath of night.
From his distance, he continued to see everything: the crumbs upon the table, the reflection of candlelight in the tears of the old man, the faint rise and fall of his chest as the hunger inside him finally stilled. The hall grew dimmer as each candle slowly burned out, leaving only moonlight spilling through the high windows. That silver light pooled across the polished floor, cold and pure, resting against the faint shadow of the beggar's frail body.
And still, The Creator watched. The world around him quieted, the hum of voices and footsteps fading into nothing. The only sound that remained was the soft sigh of wind weaving through the city's narrow streets, brushing gently against the black fabric of his umbrella. It whispered faintly, as if carrying words too ancient to be understood.
Time itself seemed to slow beneath that gaze. The beggar, now full and weary, leaned against the cold wall of the mansion, eyes half-closed in peace. His breathing grew steady, calm, and content. The Creator did not move. He simply watched—watched as the man settled into quiet rest, watched as the shadows lengthened, watched as the night claimed the last remnants of the day.
The moon climbed higher, round and bright. Its silver light washed over The Creator's long blue hair, tied neatly behind his faceless head. The dark umbrella he held cast a perfect circle of shadow upon the stone path, merging seamlessly with the cool darkness surrounding the noble mansion.
In that stillness, the world itself seemed asleep—silent, endless, and suspended in the calm of something divine. And within that silence, only the wind remained, breathing softly across the empty city, carrying with it the faint, eternal quiet of The Creator's gaze.
The Creator watched as the old man finally grew still.
The world around him fell into silence; only a faint breeze passed through the leaves, making them tremble and rustle softly. The faint crackle of dried leaves drifting with the wind moved in rhythm with the night. He stood at a distance, far enough to see the faint glow of the dying sun reflected on the man's frail body. The old man leaned back against a rough stone wall, eyes closed, his face carved by time but strangely peaceful, as if he had laid down every burden his heart once carried. His breathing slowed gradually until no motion remained — only the shadow of life fading quietly into the stillness of the world.
The Creator did not move. No expression appeared upon the blank expanse where a face should be. The silver-blue glow of moonlight washed over his blue kimono, giving the fabric a sheen like ice, its surface catching faint light that shimmered coldly. The air around him felt unmoving, suspended in that strange stillness that followed every time he observed the end of mortal life. His faceless gaze was fixed, empty, and endless — a mirror for nothingness itself.
He ceased to pay attention.
Above him, the full moon climbed higher into the heavens, its pale halo spilling silver light over the land. His black umbrella shifted slightly as a soft wind passed by, producing a whispering fwoosh sound each time the fabric caught the air. He took a step forward, then another, his movement deliberate and slow, as if every pace was meant to place distance between himself and what had just transpired. Dust rose faintly under his sandals, catching the moonlight in a short-lived glimmer before fading back to the earth. Wherever he walked, silence trailed behind like a shadow that refused to leave.
He was leaving the kingdom.
The road that stretched before him was narrow, a dirt path bordered by crumbling stone walls covered with climbing vines that had long claimed ownership of the place. The glow of distant torches flickered on the horizon, dancing weakly against the encroaching dark. The wind threaded through cracks in the wall, its hollow whine echoing like the lament of a weary realm. Beneath his feet, the soil was cold and damp with the first dew of night, soft enough that each step sank slightly and released a muted, yielding sound, gentle as the touch of cloth.
When he crossed the gate, the sounds of human life faded completely — no chatter, no footsteps, no laughter. Only the endless symphony of the night remained: the soft call of unseen insects, the faint whisper of the wind gliding through trees. He did not stop, nor did he look back. Darkness swallowed his figure inch by inch, until the light of civilization vanished behind him like a dream fading at dawn.
He walked in the forest until he came upon a woman with long black hair.
The forest was a cathedral of silence. The leaves brushed against each other, speaking in the secret tongue of the wind. Now and then, twigs cracked under the movement of unseen animals. Moonlight pierced through the canopy in thin, delicate shafts, revealing motes of dust drifting in the air like silvery snow. His shadow moved over the mossy ground in liquid motion, flowing through bands of light and darkness as if it were part of the forest itself.
Then, at a distance, he saw something — movement.
A woman stood alone among the trees. Her hair, long and black as obsidian, flowed down her back, stirred gently by the cool breath of night. The moonlight touched her strands, painting them with fleeting silver highlights like ripples of water. Her gray eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light, quiet yet filled with something restless, as though the past clung to her gaze. She wore the simple garments of a servant — humble, slightly worn, their pale fabric dulled by time and labor. The hem brushed lightly against the ground, gathering dew.
She appeared to be around nineteen or twenty, an age poised between innocence and awareness — a time when the world still held beauty but had already revealed its pain. She stood in solitude, surrounded by the whispers of trees and the breath of wind. The night wrapped around her like a fragile veil, thin and trembling.
He walked toward her.
His footsteps made no sound. They blended into the murmur of the forest so perfectly that not even the birds stirred. The dry leaves under his feet yielded silently, then rose again as if untouched. The black umbrella behind him floated without a hand to hold it, turning slightly with the motion of the air. Its shadow, circular and soft-edged, followed him like a living echo upon the earth.
She faced away from him, unaware of his presence.
Her shoulders trembled faintly, as though she held her breath. The forest seemed to pause with her — every sound drew back, waiting. Even the insects stopped their song. The wind, too, hesitated among the branches. A single heartbeat seemed to stretch through the silence.
Then The Creator reached out and touched her shoulder lightly.
It was the gentlest of gestures, yet the air froze the moment his fingers made contact. A chill spread from that touch, subtle but deep, creeping into her body until it reached her bones. Time itself seemed to halt. The forest no longer breathed. The only sound that remained was the faint, rapid rhythm of her heartbeat, echoing against the stillness of the night.
She flinched — her body tensed, her breath caught in her throat. The sensation that touched her was not human. It carried neither warmth nor life, only the emptiness of eternity. She dared not turn immediately. Her knees trembled, and for an instant she seemed to hover between reality and nightmare.
He could see that she was running from something.
In her trembling eyes there was more than fear — there was exhaustion, the mark of someone who had fled too long from unseen chains. The faint moonlight traced the lines of strain on her face, the glisten of sweat upon her temple. Her hair, half loosened from a simple tie, shimmered like fine silk. She folded her arms against herself, as though trying to protect the warmth that still remained within. Her breath came quickly, shallow, uneven — the sound of a trapped bird unsure where to fly.
She turned and saw a faceless figure before her.
Her breath vanished.
The being before her had no eyes, no mouth, no expression — only a blank expanse, pale and smooth as frost-coated glass. It was not the face of death, nor life, but of something beyond both. The faint light caught the contours of that empty surface, making it gleam faintly in shades of gray and white. Behind him, the black umbrella floated in the air, motionless yet alive, its presence strange and mesmerizing.
She could not tell whether it was a man or a woman.
The figure's body was tall and slender, the movements measured and eerily calm. The light of the moon cast a long shadow that stretched over the forest floor, climbing the roots and trunks of the surrounding trees. Every detail of that shadow moved with fluid grace, neither entirely solid nor unreal — like smoke made tangible.
The umbrella hovered behind him, and his clothing was strange.
The umbrella's black fabric spun slowly, lazily, as if breathing in rhythm with the night. Each turn of it whispered against the quiet, sending faint ripples through the air. The moonlight reflected from its surface, producing dark waves that wove around him like mist. His blue kimono, long and flowing, shifted with every breeze, its folds catching the light in gradients of deep blue and soft silver. The motion of the cloth was serene, ghostly, beautiful in its alien stillness.
She stood frozen where she was.
The forest was utterly silent now. The world seemed to hold its breath. Only her heartbeat remained, loud and trembling in her chest. The soft fabric of his umbrella rustled faintly, the sound impossibly distant yet piercing, like the whisper of thunder from a storm beyond the horizon.
Fear. Confusion. Wonder.
All these emotions collided in her eyes, each struggling to surface above the others. The night closed around them, deep and endless, and the pale light that fell between them was the only thing left alive in the forest.