Whispers of the Moonlight

The village of Elysian was a place forgotten by time, nestled between jagged mountains and ancient forests. Its cobblestone streets wove like veins through the heart of the settlement, carrying whispers of the past - and whispers of curses. The people of Elysian believed in omens, in signs from the heavens and the earth, and they feared what they didn't understand.

Aster Evernight was one of those fears.

He pulled his hood over his head as he walked through the village, avoiding eye contact with the villagers bustling about their morning routines. The air smelled of damp earth and firewood, but beneath that was the stench of fear. Fear of him.

"There he is again," a woman whispered to her companion.

"Bad luck follows him everywhere," the other muttered.

Aster kept walking, his boots clicking softly against the cobblestones. He had heard it all before. The village's whispers had followed him since he was a child, growing louder with each passing year. To them, he was cursed - born under a moon that foretold doom and misfortune. It didn't matter that he'd never harmed anyone. The mere fact of his existence was enough.

He approached a fruit stall, selecting a few apples and placing coins on the counter. The vendor, a stout man with weathered hands, snatched the coins without a word, his eyes darting around nervously as if Aster's presence might bring ruin to his livelihood.

"Thank you," Aster said softly.

The man didn't reply.

---

Back at his cottage, Aster placed the apples on the table and sat in the chair by the window. The room was small and plain, but it was the only space in the world that felt like his. Sketches covered the walls - landscapes, animals, and faces of people he didn't know. They were his escape, a way to create a world where he wasn't an outcast.

He picked up his charcoal stick and began drawing again. His hand moved automatically, forming lines and shapes until a familiar face emerged on the paper. It was a man's face, sharp and angular, with dark eyes that seemed to stare straight into Aster's soul. He didn't know who the man was or why he kept drawing him, but the image haunted his thoughts.

Setting the sketch aside, Aster leaned back and closed his eyes. The silence of the cottage was comforting, but it was also a reminder of his solitude. The only sound was the crackling of the fire, a faint, steady rhythm that seemed to mirror the beating of his heart.

He thought back to his parents - or rather, the absence of them. They had left him when he was still a child, disappearing into the night without a word of explanation. The villagers said they had fled to escape the curse of their son. Aster didn't know if that was true, but the ache of abandonment had never left him.

---

Later that day, Elijah arrived unannounced, as he often did. He pushed open the door without knocking, a grin plastered on his face.

"Aster! You're brooding again."

Aster looked up from his sketchbook. "I'm not brooding."

Elijah plopped down in the chair across from him, shaking his head. "You're always brooding. You need to get out more."

"I get out," Aster said defensively.

"Walking through the market with your hood up doesn't count." Elijah leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You can't keep hiding away in this cottage. People will always talk, but that doesn't mean you have to live your life in the shadows."

Aster sighed. "It's easier this way."

Elijah's expression softened. "You deserve more than this, Aster. You deserve to be happy."

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Aster knew Elijah meant well, but happiness felt like a distant dream - something just out of reach.

---

As night fell, Aster stood outside his cottage, gazing at the cursed moon that hung low in the sky. Its silvery light bathed the village in an eerie glow, casting long shadows that danced across the cobblestones.

He wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, feeling the chill of the night seep into his bones. The moon always made him restless, stirring something deep within him that he couldn't quite name.

"I'm tired of this," he whispered to the night. "Tired of being alone."

The wind stirred, carrying his words into the darkness.

And though Aster didn't know it yet, those words had been heard.

---

Days turned into weeks, and the whispers in the village grew louder. A bad harvest, a sick child, a broken wagon wheel - everything was blamed on Aster. He became a scapegoat for their misfortunes, a convenient target for their fears.

One morning, he ventured into the village to buy supplies. As he approached the blacksmith's forge, he heard a group of men talking in hushed tones.

"He shouldn't be allowed here," one of them said.

"He brings nothing but bad luck," another added.

Aster ignored them, keeping his head down as he placed an order for new kitchen knives. But as he turned to leave, one of the men stepped in front of him.

"You think you can just walk around like you belong here?" the man sneered.

"I'm just here to buy supplies," Aster said quietly.

The man's lip curled. "You don't belong in this village. You're a curse, nothing but a curse"

Aster's fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to fight back, to defend himself, but he knew it would only make things worse. So he walked away, leaving the man's words to echo behind him.

---

Back at his cottage, Aster sat by the fire, staring into the flames. The words of the villagers replayed in his mind, a relentless chorus of rejection.

He picked up his sketchbook and began to draw again, his hand moving in a frenzy of frustration and longing. The face of the dark-haired man appeared once more, his eyes filled with an intensity that seemed to reach out to Aster.

"Who are you?"

"Are you real?"Aster whispered.

The drawing offered no answer.

---

As the cursed moon rose once more, Aster stood outside, the cold wind biting at his skin. He looked out at the village below, at the people who would never accept him.

"I won't stay here forever," he murmured to himself. "One day, I'll find a place where I belong."

The wind carried his words into the night, and the moonlight seemed to shimmer in response.

Somewhere beyond the mountains, fate began to stir.