Lysander stepped cautiously into the hidden stone cottage, his boots whispering against the uneven floor. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and forgotten memories, a heady mixture that drew him deeper into the sanctuary. Dust motes swirled in the faint beams of light that filtered through cracks in the stone, as if the cottage itself had been waiting for him, holding its breath for centuries.

His golden-emerald eyes scanned the room, taking in the remnants of mortal life that surrounded him. The weight of his solitude pressed heavily upon him, yet within these walls, he found a semblance of belonging.

The cottage was small but filled to the brim with relics of a world he had once known. Shelves lined the walls, their wooden frames warped with age, each one laden with dusty tomes and peculiar artifacts.


Lysander’s fingers trailed over the spines of the books as he moved through the dimly lit space. Each volume seemed to hum faintly under his touch, as though the stories within were alive, yearning to be remembered. He paused before an ancient artifact resting on a low table, its surface etched with symbols that whispered of a time long past. The artifact was a small, circular disc, its edges worn smooth by countless hands. As he picked it up, a flood of memories washed over him—faces, places, moments he had tried to bury beneath the weight of eternity. The bittersweet ache of nostalgia tightened his chest.

He set the artifact down gently, as if afraid it might shatter, and continued his exploration.

The cottage seemed to breathe with him, its silence a companion rather than a void. In the centre of the room stood a worn armchair, its leather cracked and faded, positioned before a hearth that had long since gone cold. Lysander approached it, running his hand along the backrest. The chair creaked softly as he settled into it, the sound oddly comforting. He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the hearth, where a single candle flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The light created an intimate cocoon, shielding him from the vastness of eternity that stretched beyond the cottage’s stone walls.

On a small table beside the chair lay an open tome, its pages yellowed with age. Lysander picked it up, his fingers brushing against the delicate paper. The words were written in a flowing script, the ink faded but still legible. As he read, the musings of the long-dead author resonated within him, echoing the loneliness and longing that had become his constant companions.


The writer spoke of love lost, of dreams unfulfilled, of the fleeting nature of mortal life. Lysander’s throat tightened. He had lived centuries, yet the emotions described in the book felt as fresh as if they had been written yesterday.

He began to read aloud, his voice low and melodic, filling the silent cottage with the rhythm of poetry. The words seemed to come alive as they left his lips, weaving a tapestry of emotion that wrapped around him like a warm blanket. The cottage, though silent, seemed to listen, its walls absorbing the sound of his voice as if it were a precious gift. For a moment, Lysander forgot the weight of his immortality. Here, in this forgotten sanctuary, he was simply a man, lost in the beauty of words.

But the illusion could not last. As the night deepened, his thoughts drifted to the fragments of his mortal life that lingered in his memory. Faces and places long gone flickered in his mind’s eye—a woman with laughter like music, a child with eyes full of wonder, a village bathed in the golden light of sunset. The ache of his isolation intensified, a sharp pain that no amount of poetry could fully soothe. He closed the book and set it aside, allowing the silence to envelop him once more.

The cottage, with its dusty tomes and ancient artifacts, had become a refuge, a place where he could momentarily escape the burden of immortality. But even here, the past was inescapable. He rose from the armchair, his movements slow and deliberate, and began to explore the cottage further. Each step revealed another piece of the past, a tapestry of lives intertwined with his own. A tapestry he could never truly be a part of again.


He paused before a window, its glass clouded with grime. Outside, the moonlit ruins of an ancient garden stretched into the distance, their beauty undiminished by time. The world beyond the cottage was vast and unyielding, a reminder of the endless march of eternity. Yet within these walls, he found a fragile sense of peace. He lingered there for a moment, his breath fogging the glass, before turning away.

Returning to the hearth, Lysander knelt before the cold embers and reached for a bundle of dried kindling. With a practiced hand, he rekindled the fire, the flames springing to life with a soft crackle. The warmth was a comforting presence against the chill of the night, and he sat back on his heels, watching the flames dance. They seemed to move in harmony with his thoughts, illuminating the path of introspection he treaded. How many nights had he spent like this, alone with his memories? How many more would he endure?

As the first light of dawn began to creep into the cottage, Lysander closed his eyes, allowing the tranquillity of the moment to wash over him. Here, in this sanctuary, he could pretend, if only for a moment, that he was part of the world once more. That he was not an immortal being, cursed to walk the earth long after all he had loved had turned to dust. The thought brought a faint smile to his lips, though it was tinged with sadness.


With a final glance at the treasures that surrounded him, Lysander prepared to leave the cottage. His heart was heavy with the knowledge that this respite was only temporary, a fleeting escape from the endless expanse of his existence. Yet, as he stepped into the morning light, a flicker of hope stirred within him. The cottage had reminded him of the beauty of mortal life, of the power of words and memories to transcend time. Perhaps, somewhere in the vastness of eternity, there was a destiny yet to unfold.

The door closed softly behind him, sealing the memories within the stone walls. Lysander walked away, the echoes of his recitation lingering in the air, a testament to the enduring power of words and the solace they bring. The cottage remained, silent and still, waiting for the next wanderer to cross its threshold and breathe life into its forgotten stories. And Lysander, though he carried the weight of centuries, walked on with a newfound lightness in his step, the flicker of hope growing ever brighter.