Meanwhile, in one of the slightly eye-catching house of the village—where the head of the village lived—there was an entirely different atmosphere.
The space was small and cramped, the furniture worn and old—consisting of a wooden table with uneven legs, two chairs that had seen better decades, and a few other counters. The walls were weathered with age, and the floor creaked ominously with every step.
In truth, it resembled every other house in the village. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Sat on a chair by the single window was the village head himself—an old man whose frame was hunched by time and hardship. His clothes were patched and repatched, his hands trembling, and every few moments he was caught by a violent coughing that shook his entire body.
