With two palms casually rested against the back of his skull, the young man happily whistles a tune familiar to all; the village’s anthem.

Nothing much ever happens here, where his two feet often decide to take him.

The air is calm, and the most attention he ever gets is when girls walk by and giggle with hands pressed to their fine lips, wine-red blushes spread out beneath their eyelashes. As always, the young man takes it as a compliment. He laughs along and waves, only to have them turn away, for they are—more so often than not—too shy to go through the final act of actually speaking to him.

He finds it endearing, that people so pure still live among them, as he walks by a noticeboard. The young man pauses, traces his steps backwards, turns his head to the right, and stares right at her—the witch, the one who’s been terrorising the main village.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

His face grows stoic. He gazes back and forth, wonders if anybody could be possibly around such an empty path now that the two girls have left.

And he is right, for there are no souls to be found across the plains, the greenery.

His glare lights up. A cheeky grin makes itself known across his lips. Between sneaky fingers and a jittery palm, the young man reaches out for the wanted poster, grabs it with all his might, and shoves it into a pocket he’s had to stitch back together again for the third time this month.

He kneels to pick two dandelions which tickle his boots, before he is on his merry way.

The young man roams farther from the small town, into the forest leading up the mountainside and away from the gazes of curious strangers, who wonder where he could be going at this hour.