I've met them on the old road to Murntmur. They were two boys of about twelve.

The old road was abandoned long ago, and no one was using it nowadays. The grass and bushes almost completely covered what was originally a wide and bustling roadway; young trees were sprouting here and there. Only tracks left by wheels of the carriages were too deep and still uncovered.

It was early in the morning, and the fog which always gathered in lowlands at this time of the day was thick and heavy.

I was resting next to the old hanging tree. Not the best neighborhood I'd tell you, but when you are old like me you don't particularly care nor do you have a solid reason to change where you live.

They came out of the fog young and cheerful. In the morning air, their voices were unrestrained and chirpy.

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First came their voices and then they themselves came out of the fog.

There was nothing special about them at first glance, just a couple of boys traversing the wilds.

And there was nothing special about them at second glance.

They were average. Not too big, not too small. Not too fat, not too tall.

If not for the place I met them, I wouldn't give them a second thought.

One of them was carrying fire, and another was filled with mist.

They went past me and vanished into the fog. I heard their voices ringing.

Who I am, you ask?

That's not relevant. I'm just an old ghost. Nothing interesting about me.

I told earlier that I didn't have reasons to leave? Well, when you are as old as me, you know that not everything in the world is done by the reasons. Sometimes you do things on a whim, just like a story I'm telling you now.