It was a stormy night in a small village located in the countryside. Few people went out because of the strong raging storm that had arrived. Families barred their doors, shops closed up, and families sat as if the stores were abandoned. The few lights that were lit and sparkling in the night were those from the pub near the entrance of the village.
At the town entrance walked a hooded figure covered in a black cloak with no umbrella. The few villagers that were outside paid the figure no mind, focusing on the storm instead of the stranger that had entered their village. The stranger looked at the sign at the entrance that read “Welcome to New Hampton” and proceeded to walk forward towards the pub. As the stranger approached the door, a man in a drenched checkered flannel came bursting out of the pub swaying side to side yelling in a drowsy manner.
“MAAAANNN, I think I wanna showerrrr,” said the drenched man running off towards the middle of the street, leaving a scent of alcohol and vomit that left a strong impression. Two men and a woman followed the man through the door and chased after him. Unfazed by this encounter, the stranger proceeded inside the pub.
Music and chatter echoed from the pub, indicating a full house; loud stomping and the sound of glasses and mugs clinking loudly imply a party or a celebration of sorts. Because of the full house, there were not many empty tables nor were there empty seats for the stranger to sit in, until another pub patron got up from the bar and left to join a singing group at the far end of the pub near the bathroom. The stranger sat down on the empty chair and put down what seemed to be a small leather bag but kept his cloak on. The stranger gained a few glances from the patrons only for a few moments and they resumed their celebration, and then the stranger gestured to the bartender.
“Give me your strongest,” said the stranger in a deep but gentle voice. The bartender nodded and proceeded to take bottles out from behind the bar and pour them into a small glass.
“New around here?” asked the bartender casually. The stranger nodded. “Kinda odd wearing a cloak out in the storm, isn’t it? Don’t you have an umbrella or… a normal jacket?” asked the bartender curiously. “A cloak usually does the job for me,” the stranger answered.
The bartender continued to look at the stranger curiously, noticing how rugged the man looked. Aside from the cloak which looked worn as it is, the man wore brown sturdy boots, a pair of black pants, and what looked like a dirt-stained white shirt with an opening down the middle of the chest tied together by a thin string.
The stranger didn’t pull down his hood, so the bartender couldn’t get a good look of his face but he saw the bottom half of the stranger’s face, only noticing a full beard. “Looking to stay the night?” asked the bartender but the stranger just shook his head.
“Well, there’s not a lot of options in this village; all the houses are taken and you’ll have to talk to the village officials for a temporary house if there are any.” And before the bartender finished his sentence, the stranger spoke. “I am only stopping by.”
Despite how rugged the stranger appeared, he spoke as if he came from high society — very well-mannered and gentle. “Are you waiting for someone?” the bartender asked, noticing the stranger subtly looking around the pub. “A friend of a friend,” the stranger answered. As curious as the bartender was, he stopped the urge to ask more questions, nodded, then attended to the other patrons.
The stranger continued to look around the bar, only seeing two singing groups of people raising glasses and toasting, a few more bar patrons deep in conversation along the bar, occasionally glancing outside the window into the stormy night. After a few more hours waiting in the same seat, another person entered the bar, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and denim jeans, with faint stubble and short brown hair. He got up to the bar and sat near the stranger, gesturing to the bartender. “Beer,” said the patron. The bartender nodded and took a bottle from behind the bar and gave it to the man.
“Odd seeing someone in a cloak at these times,” said the brown-haired man keeping his gaze in front of him. “You and everyone else in the world,” said the stranger.
“So why don’t you act like everyone else?” the man said. The stranger took a moment and answered, “I’m simply not from around here.” The man looked curiously at the stranger. “Where are you from?” the man asked.
“From another world, long past…” the stranger answered calmly. The man looked at him curiously as if he knew what he meant and responded. “I’m intrigued; what can you tell me about this place?” he asked. The stranger did not answer.
The music died down and the crowds began to mellow out, the pub becoming quieter and quieter. “Everything you need to know is in the bag,” the stranger said, pulling up the leather bag and giving it to the man. The man took the bag and opened the bag and looked inside.
The bag contained a pouch full of gold and a letter with a golden seal. “What will I do with these?” he asked. The stranger turned to him and said, “give them to Mary’s Home for Troubled Youths, and tell them to name the child…”
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The stranger whispered a name in the ear of the man. The man looked confused yet knew what he needed to do. He did not know what it was about but he knew that he had to do it. “I better be going now.” the stranger stood up, turned to the man, and said, “Give Mary my thanks.”
The man nodded at the stranger who stepped out of the pub and into the night. “You payin’ for his drink?” asked the bartender. The man snapped as if woken up from a daydream and looked at the bartender confused. “Pay for who?” the man asked. “Your friend, the one in the black cloak. He just left,” the bartender said.
The man looked around confused and dazed, then he went outside to see who had just left, but he saw no one. The sky had cleared and it was just a quiet and dark night. All the residents had gone to sleep and there was no one anywhere near the pub. He looked at his hand and found a leather bag. “Hey, are you payin’ or what?” the bartender yelled from inside the pub. The man looked around one more time and headed back in as if nothing had happened.
In the following weeks, the village of New Hampton remained ordinary and relatively peaceful, with the occasional ruckus from the village pub. The brown-haired man did not remember anything about the stranger that night, he didn’t believe the bartender, and no one seemed to remember a black-cloaked stranger walking into the pub because of the revelry and celebrations. He kept the bag but he never opened it, believing that he might have stolen it or gotten it without the owner knowing.
The occasional urge to look inside it came over him; however, he never acted on it. The man was living in a house near the orphanage Mary’s Home For Troubled Youths, a small house with a small yard in front and a tool shed in the back. The lawn had no decor compared to other residents; his lawn was bare and plain, having only a mailbox with a name: Richardson. Richardson was an average resident of the village. He was friendly to his fellow neighbors; however, he kept to himself and lived alone. Unlike the other villagers, he moved to New Hampton from another country, yet he claimed to have little to no memories of his original home. The villagers never questioned him about it, prioritizing being polite and hospitable rather than satisfying their own curiosity.
Ever since the night of the stranger's visit, Mr. Richardson felt different. He felt more drawn to the orphanage that stood right next door than he did to his own house. Every morning he woke up, he found himself walking towards his front door without changing out of his nightclothes. Every evening after spending the day outside, he would find himself at the front doors of the orphanage. He felt as if he needed to go there but he did not know why or what it was about. He felt as though someone told him to go to the orphanage but he did not remember anyone who could have told him to do that.
As another relatively quiet night came over New Hampton, the streets were nearly deserted and the pub was as rowdy as ever. Richardson decided to spend the rest of his night in the pub to gain a sense of normalcy, believing that getting away from his house and the orphanage would make his mind clearer. He gestured to the bartender for a beer and sat alone along the bar near the door.
“Heard anything from your friend?” the bartender asked. Richardson looked at him perplexed and quickly understood what he meant. “I still don’t know who you’re talking about or what they wanted,” said Richardson gloomily. “Well, did you see what he gave you?” asked the bartender.
“No, it isn’t mine and why would I mess with something that isn’t mine?” said Richardson defensively. “Well, no one just leaves a bag with someone they just met.” Richardson prepared a retort but kept it to himself to avoid further conversation about the bag.
“Did you hear what he said to me before he left?” asked Richardson with a slight eagerness to his voice, hoping for more information about the man. The bartender shrugged and said, “I was busy managing the bar, couldn’t hear a single word of your conversation.” Richardson sat down defeated.
“Just look at the bag, I’m sure there’s something inside that will remind you of something. If nothing, pass them to me. I saw a bright shine in it and I thought, y’know, you might wanna split whatever's inside.” The bartender suggested Richardson. Without finishing his drink Richardson got up, paid for his drink, and left the pub.
Richardson kept telling himself that he didn’t want to open the bag for the respect of whoever left it, but in reality, he did not want to know what was in it because of its ominous nature. “It was natural to be curious, but who would want to be curious about a bag that a stranger left them without a word?” Richardson kept asking himself.
He walked aimlessly in the empty streets of the village; without knowing or looking, he ended up in front of the orphanage. He stared at the brick building that stood before him and watched as it looked eerie yet comforting with lights lit like torches at the door and a front garden and lawn for the children to play in and the flowers to grow in.
“Why was he drawn here? Why did he have the bag? Why does none of this make any sense?” These are the questions that flooded Richardson’s mind. Succumbing to the growing curiosity and anticipation, he went to his house and got the leather bag and opened it. He found the pouch of gold and the letter with the gold seal. Confused with what he found, he proceeded to turn the letter over and look at the writing in the back. “To Miss Mary Only,” read the writing, without a return address or a sender name. Richardson looked at the gold seal and noticed that the mark was nothing he could recognize. The seal bore an insignia that looked like a bird with flames surrounding it.
More confused than ever, Richardson touched the seal to open the letter, and… He saw nothing, felt nothing, thought nothing. Everything was black.
Richardson opened his eyes and found himself back in bed, waking up to the morning rays and in his nightclothes. He looked around and everything seemed normal. He checked his closet and looked all over his room and the rest of the house and sighed in disappointment. The bag and all of its contents were missing.