He had been walking for a while, using the memories he saw to guide him home, and he noticed how time had passed. Still, he continued onwards—reflecting on what the mysterious figure said to him. he wondered if he was dead or alive, and such questions still bind into his inner self. Perhaps he was the same thing, both alive and dead, with being able to think, move, and even feel the emotions he didn't understand. He felt alive, and at the same time, the dead were within him. The dead remember he saw that through the memories of one of the souls within him; he did not know the name of that soldier, but what he had experienced in his memories is stitched into him.
The roads that follow show the remnants of the Great War, symbolizing its change in these lands. The rubble of buildings and overgrown fields all stand as silent witnesses to the destruction and upheaval that once ravaged this place. As he journeys onward, being drawn into a particular landmark. A circle of blades, as if saluting departed warriors somberly with their blades driven into the earth. A lonesome monument, its worn stone surface glinting in the setting sun, was at the heart of this dramatic spectacle.
Curiosity sparked into his mind, making him walk towards the enigmatic memorial. Each step he took echoed the weight of history, the swords that told a story of bravery, duty, and sacrifice. As he approached, he saw the intricate carvings that adorned the monument. Their lines and curves told a story all their own.
There, he stood in front of the monument. The mere presence of it was imposing and humble. He reached out his hands as he felt the rough texture of the stone, his fingers traced into the inscribed fading letters. He leaned in to read the words that had been carved there by long-gone hands despite the writing being faded from time and weather.
It said, "This monument marks the scars of the Great War, a conflict that reshaped these once bountiful land, a conflict that drove regular folk to war; it changed destinies and forged new beginnings. The swords that surround bounded into the earth are a silent testament to the sacrifices that were made. Let their lessons be a beacon for future generations, and the lands ravaged will once again heal."
The specter wondered what the Great War was; it said it drove regular folk into war, and in his mind, it made sense; he looked back through the memories, and he saw the soldier in the locket was once an ordinary person, a logger he saw, someone who help provide firewood, that server warmth for the cold nights in these harsh world. He understood it all; perhaps this will not be the first or the last time he will see such monuments. He would take a seat, honoring the dead and the sacrifices they made. To himself, it was right and just; still, he pondered upon the great war as he looked into the skies.
He would stand and depart into his journey. The back of the monument was in the side, and the specter could be seen walking away as he went over the horizon till he could not be seen. The winds would blow, carrying the fallen leaves, as flowers bloom, over the horizon, and people would begin to emerge. Groups of people returned to these lands to start new beginnings.
The specter moves onwards, facing what is ahead of him and still yearning for home. Souls that are within him burden him with a purpose: to seek memories that would guide him. This journey leads him into a path that separates him into two. He goes into the left path, which leads him into a grove, trees full of life, and nature in its natural state. The path that he followed leads him into an abandoned shack, its wooden structure worn and creaking under the weight of time. The door was slightly open, swaying gently with the wind, inviting him to enter. Inside, the air was filled with dust, and cobwebs adorned into the corners. The air was thick with the faint scent of decay, a haunting reminder of a life once vibrant, now reduced to whispers and shadows.
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He stepped inside, and His gaze was irresistibly drawn to an old, weathered chest nestled in the corner, its sturdy frame partially obscured by a moth-eaten blanket that whispered secrets of the past. He felt a strange pull towards it as if the chest held secrets clawing to be uncovered, memories whispering not just to be remembered but to be understood, each moment a fragile thread weaving together the pain of regret and the haunting echo of lost chances.
He would open the weathered chest, with dust coming out of it. It has been a while since it has been opened. Time indeed did pass, and so did the people who stayed here at some point. The chest was filled with items used in the daily lives of people, but one object caught his eye. It was a worn book, so he grabbed it and looked at how old it was. He opened it, and once again there, he saw a familiar feeling, memories entering within him.
As a soul within him began to glow, a familiar feeling of warmth, he saw visions from that soul's perspective. He has a pencil in his hands, sketching the view he sees as he is moving. He was comfortably seated on the wood platform in a carriage. As it moves down the path heading down, over the horizon, a blue lake can be seen, with green trees and grass surrounding it. He was drawing it as he writes, "A lake I've seen In my travels, will forever be in my memory, whichever road I will take, I will remember to document my journey."
A vivid vision surged through him, revealing moments of lively exchanges as he dispensed various items, each one seemingly exchanged for gold in the eyes of those around him. The specter mused that he might be a wandering merchant, weaving connections with eager customers. Just then, a figure emerged from behind—a robust man with a knowing smile. “Take a break,” he said, “I’ve got the rest of the customers covered.” With that, the specter moved to the front of their makeshift carriage, where a pop-up shop had taken shape. He settled atop a weathered barrel, ready to soak in the vibrant atmosphere of the bustling marketplace.
He would draw the atmosphere of their popup shop, trying to capture the expressions of people, such as the man who was handling the shop. He captured these happy moments. He then begins to write, "These moments, I cherish them, though it's still uncertain where life would take me. We're still struggling barely to make enough gold for our daily expenses. I wonder where the road will take us?"
The specter's vision again changed with gloomy surroundings; they were at this exact shack, but it was from a long time ago. There was a storm coming, and as dark clouds began to swallow the blue skies, it started to rain. Water would be falling as the surroundings became wet. Thank god there was a roof covering them, plus the goods they were bringing alongside the journey. He would look into the window, bringing out his journal, as he began to sketch the grove as it was raining outside.
As the specter sees the final fragments of the memories. A man in a cloak would come as he busts the doors in a hurry. He heard him say, "We must leave immediately. We were caught at the wrong time. There was a war brewing in these lands." The man would place his book into his chest, keeping it there and going to the place where the specter found it. With a surge of urgency, he hurriedly packed their belongings, shoving essential goods into the carriage as the distant sounds of horses neighing and galloping grew closer. Shouts from men pierced the air, an alarm that sent a jolt of fear through him. The leader of the merchants barked orders, his voice sharp and commanding—"Get in! We leave now!" The tension crackled like electricity as they scrambled to comply, their hearts pounding in rhythm with the approaching chaos.
They left the shack they were in, as items were left behind, scattered due to the urgency of leaving, and his journal was still on the chest in the shack where he left it. The specter would see as they left aboard into their carriage and horse, following the path out of the grove as they left over the horizon. Then, a cadre of armed men, fierce and unwavering, thundered into view, riding their gallant steeds adorned with a menacing symbol emblazoned across their backs. As the storm raged on, rain cascaded down in relentless sheets, drenching the land as the ominous riders pressed forward, shadows of dread in the stormy night. The wind slowly blew the door as it slowly closed; at the same, the rider left the view of the horizon as the door fully closed.